The only correct perception of any situation was his. Disagreement sparked emotional combat and verbal abuse. It was incumbent upon his family to listen to him, agree with him, admire him, and give him attention bordering on awe. If Dad was enthralled by something—a movie, reincarnation, a book on UFOs, ancient Rome—we needed to be, too. Any disagreement was perceived as a terrible threat, and his response was swift and powerful: massive retaliation of a verbal nature. He never struck us or our mother, but we feared his anger, his belittling comments and inflictions of guilt.
My brother-in-law once remarked that it was amazing Dad lived as long as he did without getting punched out. I hadn’t considered it before, but he was right. The reason was Dad’s careful structuring of his life—he resisted entering any situation that he couldn’t control. No one ever hit him because he avoided conflict with anyone who could fight back.
Dad’s work isolated him by necessity, and as the years passed, he left the house on fewer and fewer occasions, often staying indoors for weeks at a time. During these times his volatility was at its greatest. The presence of another person interfered with the imaginary realities he constructed twelve hours a day. He ate supper with the family, then returned to his office, venturing downstairs when we went to bed. In the morning he rose after we left for school. He created a solitary existence through avoidance.
The nearest bathroom to my attic bedroom was across the hall from his office. One afternoon I quietly descended the steps to the bathroom and left the door slightly ajar, wary of banging it and disturbing Dad’s work. I lifted the commode lid and leaned it quietly against the tank. My goal was to maintain a stream of urine in the middle of the toilet, following Mom’s instructions to prevent it from spraying the floor. The door slammed open and bounced against the sink. Dad yelled from the doorway, his face red with anger, “Are you deliberately aiming in the center of the toilet to maximize sound and irritate me?”
I didn’t say anything, recognizing a familiar verbal trap. Yes, I was deliberately aiming in the middle of the water. But no, it was not to irritate him. If I told the truth, it might get my mother in trouble. My silence infuriated Dad. He accused me of being deaf, stupid, or disrespectful, then asked which one it was. His voice reverberated around the small bathroom. I still didn’t answer. I refused to look at him, because meeting his eye would only draw further wrath. Finally Dad turned away. “Don’t flush it!” he yelled. After that, I began going to the woods to take care of my personal business.
The majority of Americans grow up in cities and suburbs and are afraid of the woods. Horror movies exploit this fear: the person alone in the forest, the sounds of unknown nocturnal animals, the sheer panic of being lost at night. My childhood was the opposite. The house scared me, but the woods were a source of solace and peace. Traipsing the woods alone, I learned to see and listen. I began to understand the overlapping cycles of nature, seasons clearly delineated by the gradual activity of bud and flower, falling leaves, rain and snow, mud and sun, the eager optimism of spring, and the dense heat of summer. I discovered the location of lady slipper and the silky jack-in-the-pulpit. I learned where trilliums grew, mayapples, ginseng, and wild blackberries. I taught myself to identify animal tracks. Upturned leaves, darker from proximity to the earth, indicated how recently an animal had traveled by. I knew where snakes and bobcats lived, that cardinals nested low to the ground and hawks quite high. I found the dens of fox and rabbit. Groundhog homes had a main entrance and two or three smaller back doors for escape. I envied their ability to come and go as they pleased through their clandestine exits.