Last night Dave, Maddie and I watched "It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown". Who can resist the yearly treasure of seeing former Sonoma County legend Charles Shultz's first animated cartoon? It has become a classic in every language and still seems new after 40 years. It was a warm fuzzy feeling last night for me as Dave and I shared it with our last baby. Being the fat girl I am, I was thinking about Dolly Madison snack cakes. Dolly Madison was the original sponsor of the 30 minute prime time cartoon. Of course, I was never allowed such a treat in growing up, but that doesn't mean I didn't use my lunch money in Jr. High. Mom would buy them and hide them for lunches for the "boys". They were the ultimate snack cake...sort of a Little Debbie's kicked up a notch. Perhaps they are still around in certain areas; hell, they may be available at Safeway for all I know. I don't shop that isle much myself probably because I hear the voice of Mary Frances saying "That's for your brother's lunch. You can't have that!". I hate it when she's right. I didn't need them and my kids don't either. It's a "Shasta Food" at best. (Food we eat in Shasta is everything we're not supposed to, washed down with the most alcoholic beverage you can find!).Last night, however, we were huddled in our Tempurpedic, Sparkey snuggled at my feet, Maddie at the foot of the Cal King, and Dave enjoying the familiarity of Linus and Sally between deep snore-like breaths. Maddie asked her almost sleeping Dad, "Do you remember the first time you watched this, Daddy?".
Dave started the litany of his "first time" with Lucy and friends and my warm and fuzzy immediately went to a dark place. The first time I saw "It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown", I was in a dingey claustrophobic, little-box house for enlisted men and their families on Hamilton Air Force Base. It was October 27, 1966. On that foggy morning, my life had been tragically altered because my brother, Gary Clementino, age 22, was killed in an early morning crash on Highway 101 at the (then new) Washington Street On ramp. He and his passenger, friend, colleague and father of 2, (with number three on the way) Leonart Heartman, were hit by a speeding car. According to the newspaper clipping, their truck was hit by a small car coming off the on ramp. The small car (which we later learned was a Corvair) spun out of control, broadsided the truck with Len and Gary in it, sending them into the concrete pillar which held up the overpass. The CHP said that from the position of the bodies, he was unable to determine who was driving.
That morning in which my childhood changed began quite normally. I was dressed and ready for school. Mom was having her second cup of coffee and her first cigarette of the day. I played with a new kitten. I was wearing a green jumper and it was before my mother had cut off all my beautiful, thick hair. The phone ringing in our Fifth Street house was a commonplace, at all hours, because it was an extension of my father's business. Phone number TW2-9373 was answered 24/7 from home or the shop. I heard Mom pick up the phone "Clementino's" and after a brief silence there was a scream and a slam of the phone. Dad had called, I think it was Dad, and Mom was told that there had been a terrible accident and that Gary was being taken to Petaluma General Hospital. Dad was one of the few people in 1966 who had a "mobile" phone. It was far from the pocket gems we use today. This sucker was physically mounted to the floorboard of the truck, had a rotary dial, a hand-set which was connected to the base with a spiral cord (just like a land line) and an antenna. He paid premium dollars for that luxury, but he had work from San Rafael to Eureka and he was in the car a lot. It was not a luxury, rather a necessity.
Mom, who was terrified and distracted interrupted my play and told me that Gary had been in an auto accident. She said I needed to come immediately with her as I was being dropped off at the Stinson's and Joe would take me to school. I was in the Second grade and Joanne Stone was my teacher. I did as I was told and when Dad arrived we all squished into his new white El Camino. It was a tight squeeze, Mom, Dad (in his prime) me and that HUGE phone! The Stinson's house was only 2 blocks away. Jo greeted me and fed me pancakes and packed me a lunch. It was a big deal to get a "homemade" lunch as my Mom's idea of making lunches was "Hell". She was sick and tired of the routine by the time I started school and I was always sent to school with lunch money. A hot breakfast and a homemade lunch made me feel special. I was sure that my brother was bruised, and assured myself he'd be fine and off to school I went with Jo's daughters.
It wasn't until I saw my brother, Michael, arrive at school sometime mid-morning that I knew things was terribly wrong. Marion Elementary School was only three blocks from our house and he had walked there to retrieve me. He broke the news to me as we walked up Vallejo Avenue, long before there was a sidewalk, curb and gutter. What a difficult task for a 16 year-old! I knew the impact of the news he delivered because while walking, he let me hold his two fingers. He never let me hold his hand in public and although I had turned 7 earlier that year, he was already a Sophomore in High School. Public displays of affection weren't cool--especially with your little sister. I never quite understood why they took me out of school only to arrive home to see my mother screaming and out of her head with grief. The house was full of people and everyone was witnessing my mother's breakdown. Why did I have to be there? Were I the parent in this situation, I would have left my child at school to enjoy the last few hours of normal she would experience for a long time. That generation of parents, however loving, smoked, drank, made our formula out of Carnation milk and Karo syrup and didn't think a lot about things which psychologically affected their kids. Sometimes I'm amazed that we fared as well as we did (at least from my house) given the parenting mistakes which were made.
Make no mistake. I'm not whining about my childhood or about the mistakes of my Mother. I have long forgiven her for her shortcomings as a Mom and loved her in spite of her selfishness and mental illness. What coping skills she had (which weren't great to begin with) were seriously compromised when she accepted the fact that her first born was taken from her. She spent the rest of her life believing that God took Gary from her as punishment for her sins. Had she any grasp on faith, maybe the fact that God sacrificed his ONLY son for our eternal life could have been a comfort. It wasn't. She took Gary's death personally.It was tremendously sad how much she suffered! It is my absolute belief that a parent should NEVER have to bury a child. I witnessed, first hand, the sorrow and grief which follow a tragedy of that kind. For several years following the accident, my Mom looked a lot like Vivi in the "Secret Lives of the YaYa Sisterhood", just before they sent her to the Bin. She was that pretty, too. She stopped eating. She threatened to kill herself. She even told a friend she would kill her remaining children as to not leave them behind. She spent hours at the cemetery, fists pounding on the wall of Gary's crypt. It was like a bad Lana Turner movie.
Of that pivotal day in October, so long ago, there is a lot of which I don't remember. I do, however, remember Charlie Brown. For 30 minutes that night I was in that pumpkin patch with Linus. As I sat crossed legged on the grey military housing tile floor and watched the characters come to life, I fell in love with Vince Giraldi's incredible music. I don't remember the names of the people with whom I shared that experience. They were virtual strangers to me, but had offered to take me and away I was sent. After the program, when they put me to bed in the strange smelly house and I longed for my family. I desperately wanted to be anywhere but in a shitty (asbestos-filled) house on the Base. It started out to be a normal Thursday morning and the events which occurred scarred our family for the rest of our lives.
For many years following the accident, my mother wouldn't allow herself to be in the same room as the Charlaie Brown Halloween special. In fact, Halloweens, in general, were pretty awful for the remainder of my childhood. Late October always brought the anniversary of Gary's accident and my mother's dreadful depression which forever haunted her. There was a time in my life when I resented the fact that my Mom couldn't "mother" us after Gary's death. She was too consumed in her own grief to realize what was happening to her remaining children. Looking back as an adult, I considered that selfish. When you are a mother, you should never let your own sadness enable your ability to comfort your children. I didn't realize that other Mom's were capable of this until well into my 30's. There were even women we knew who suffered the same loss who didn't seem as full of dispair as my Mom did. If nothing else, my mother's mistakes hopefully were an example of what "not" to do. Once I got over myself, I realized that she did (as she always had done) the best with what she had. In hindsight, it was easy to identify and say the proverbially phrase "I'll never do that to my kids...". Every parent on the planet has said this at least once. Of course, I pray with all my might and wish with all my wishes that I'm never tested in my mothering skills like my Mom was. Anyone who has lost a child to a cemetery knows it is loss you never overcome.
I don't know who will read this blog. Hopefully, at some point my children will. The reason I tell this story is so they'll know from where I came. My history greatly affects their history...and so on. Although I cannot make my children's mistakes for them, as much as I'd like, they have to know the tragedies of life, however devastating they are, can be overcome. You can never have perfect joy without experiencing terrible sadness. There has to be markers in your life. If you believe this you will be able to recognize on your darkest days, that there will be light and joy again. Like the song says, "The sun will come out tomorrow...."
I love Charlie Brown and Co. Frankly, I think it is unAmerican not to. The fact that over the many years of the comic strip Charlie and Co never grew into adults appeals to me. I love the fact that in the later cartoons the few adults who were depicted sounded like "wa wa wa". I still hear like that somedays. And like many people, when I hear the music, I'm still the seven year old girl I was when I discovered Charlie Brown. Arn't we all?
