Where I Grew Up

K-E-N-N-E-W-I-C-K. I learned to spell Kennewick when I went to Kennewick High School's football game with my sister once. I was about 6 years old. I had a thing for cheerleading.
I lived in a stained wood house, with brown trim. Looking back I know it was obviously the seventies because we had different colored carpets in each room: Parent's room-white, Den- cum-little brother's room- yellow, older brother's room -orange, older sister's room-blue, and my room-purple. I loved those carpets. The fibers were shorter than shag, but definitely longer than today's contemporary carpets. I loved the way the eastern light would stream in and make my room even brighter. My poodle Nickie tried to sprawl out in the sun, in my messy, toy-filled room whenever possible. For such a dark childhood, it was the brightest room. I learned to love the sun in that room.
The rest of the house was similarly designed with that seventies style in mind. It was split level and the living room upstairs could look right into the kitchen. No one cuts walls out like that anymore. The stove faced the eating area, which I have always liked. The cook should be part of the goings on. The sink faced a window out onto the backyard down below.
My dad had his own shop and I believe that's part of the reason my parents bought the house. The shop could only be accessed through the garage.
It had this distinct smell of sawdust, metal, WD-40, and machinist's oil. My dad had this florescent desk lamp. It was essentially an extension of him, in my mind. I loved the lamp and the smells and all the little weird tools in that shop. There were staples and nails everywhere. I loved to go in there and spend time alone. I didn't do anything but pretend and sometimes it felt like my shop too.
Our house was big enough for a family of six. We had our own rooms, and plenty of space to do whatever we wanted. The backyard had a small orchard with cherry , plum, apple, pear, and apricot trees. Our garden had corn, peas, strawberries, and probably other things that I don't recall. We had an above ground pool that we placed underground and built a deck around. I loved living there. We lived at the end of the street, in a nicely sized culdesac and our home was easily the biggest, until a Mormon family came and built on the open lot next to us. They had three stories and a mother-in-law apartment.
I used to climb our front tree all the time, and when I was tired of that, I laid on the ground and watched the clouds float by, guessing what their formations reminded me of. Even now when I see a tree like that one, I can feel the texture of the trunk beneath my hands and I remember pulling leaves off and slicing them along their veins with my fingernail.
I learned to ride my bike at that house. My dad had been running alongside me with a belt tied around his waist (this could not have been safe) while I attempted to stay up with my own momentum. I recall thinking the training wheels were poorly designed because they didn't touch the ground evenly. Only recently did I realize that was the whole point. One morning, determined to keep my balance, I actually rode my bike by myself. It was early yet and I couldn't wake my parents up to tell them. But I felt so proud of myself. I kept riding around until I got the hang of it and wouldn't forget how I did it.
Even though my dad was probably sick by then, I had no idea. As I look back, I know I didn't feel like it was a dark time. There were things I didn't understand, and things that maybe felt a bit weird, but overall, my essential nature was the same as it is now. I was a bright kid, with an insatiable curiosity.
My dad passed away eight days before my seventh birthday. I had an early birthday party that year in the park. I don't think I knew he was dying. It was my first surprise birthday.
Kennewick represents the before time. Before my dad died, before we moved, before I lost my innocence, before I was sexually abused. Even though those things happened when I lived there, most of my memories are good ones, about normal kid things, and not about surviving traumatic events. I guess I didn't know they were even traumatic. I knew I just had to remember things so that I wouldn't forget about them.
My dad gave me a stethescope one time. He told me he got it from a friend. He didn't tell me that friend was probably working hard to try to save his life. He didn't tell me that a stethescope is used to see if the heart has been affected by cancerous cells. He was a good dad. Maybe the best.
I also remember being sick a lot. A symptom of child sexual abuse is severe constipation. I never knew why my stomach hurt as much as it did, but I went to the doctor a lot, and had to eat special cereal (Corn Bran, which to this day I love). One time it hurt so bad I had to go to the hospital so they could give me nutrients to flush it out. That was scary. I remember thinking I didn't want my family to see me this way, with an IV, too weak to care for myself. I wanted to be this strong little girl. I was DETERMINED to be strong. I did not even cry at my dad's funeral until the last possible moment, but even then it was reserved.
At Jewish funerals, the mirrors are supposed to be covered so you can't watch yourself cry. I was more interested in what happens at funerals than I was at the fact the funeral was for my dad. I remember being taken out of school and not crying. Not saying anything. Just getting in the car like a good little soldier. No one told me to be strong. No one said I wasn't supposed to cry. It was almost like I knew it would happen and therefore wasn't shocked or sad.
I was more sad when we had to move away from Kennewick. At least, I remember being sad about it. Now I can see how psychologically, I could have replaced my sadness about my dad with sadness about leaving the only place I had known. But I didn't think that at the time.

Kennewick was hot in the summer. I played outside a lot, ate summer fruit, went to the brand new waterpark occasionally. I liked the smell of air-conditioning. I liked the smell of Coppertone sunscreen. I liked the smell of chlorine in pools. I liked the smell of heat.

I wanted to go back to Kennewick a lot after we moved. We still had family there and they were renting the house, so it was an easier transition. Once we sold the house I didn't want to go back as much. I didn't like thinking about someone else's stuff in our house, about what they changed. I didn't want to picture the new carpets (the ones we had were really outdated and a few rooms it needed to be replaced, but we didn't). I didn't want to see my friends grown up or worse, not there at all. I didn't want to see people I didn't recognize. I never thought I'd enjoy life in a small town, but now, after living in the big city for almost ten years, I miss that life a lot. Maybe I miss being a kid. Maybe I miss my dad.

I don't often think about Kennewick. I'm afraid if I dig too deep, I'll find memories I tried to forget. I feel like I have a split personality or just a different childhood disk that I can insert and type RUN and see my life back then. I don't feel like I was that kid with a dying dad, and a traumatic sexual experience, and a confusing and quiet childhood. It's like I have access to someone else's memories. I have a very good long term memory. I remember when I was 3 years old. Tastes and smells still come to me loud and clear. I wonder if I had a good memory before I needed it. Now I'm just thankful for it. I remember my dad really well. Although my memories are limited, I remember how he used to say my prayers with me. I remember him explaining things to me that I didn't learn in school. When I was learning math, he created a computer program to run like flash cards (I hated paper flash cards). He charted my progress so I could see my improvement. Even the hum of a dot matrix printer is soothing in a way.

I have a completely different relationship to my dad now. I can hear his advice or his congratulations in my head. I picture him still tall and lumbering, but the haircut he had when the operated on his brain has the bald part filled in. I have imaginary conversations about Judaism and Zionism and God. I ask him about major life decisions and sometimes I ignore him like a kid would do to a still living father. Although I never hear his voice, I even like to argue with him.

My wedding is coming up. We've taken out a lot of things that allude to a more traditional ceremony. No dad walking me down the aisle. No dance with the father. But it doesn't mean he won't be there. We're going to use his kiddush cup. And he's been here, with me, the whole time. I wish I could feel his hug, or hear him singing to me, but at least I still feel him close as ever.