One of my earliest memories is of my dad at the kitchen table,
arms cradling his head on the table. He was crying. He was
loudly sobbing, Why? Why? Why?”
I was five years old. I did not understand what was happening. All I knew was that my big brother, Vic, went to a hospital
and did not return. I missed him, this funny blonde 14-year-old
who read me the Sunday comics and carried me on his shoulders
and taught me how to sing, “You are my Sunshine.” But no one
would tell me where he was. Time went by. One day, while mom
was sweeping the kitchen floor, I finally asked outright, “Where
is Vic?” I can still see her clutching her broom, and bursting
into tears. There still were no answers for me. After a time I stopped asking.
I think that is about the time that my daddy’s drinking took
hold or increased. Always a hard worker, a man who was known
for his expertise in sheet metal work (he owned his own little
shop) dad was also an excellent photographer. But Henry K. Carlbom
seemed now to have lost all interest in life.
When I was older I learned that Vic was the second child that my
parents lost. Their first, a daughter named Carol, died at the
age of seven from complications of measles. Their second daughter,
Janice, is six-years older than I, and my big sister.
When I began school, my friends talked about going to something
called Sunday School. This didn’t sound good at all. Wasn’t five
days of school a week enough? As my horizons expanded, through
radio and other sources I heard about someone very important named
God. When I asked dad about it he said that God was just someone
old people wanted to believe in before they died. Mom said
“there might be something out there…but nobody knows what.” When I was older yet, Mom told me that her parents had left
the Swedish Lutheran Church because they only wanted your money.
In the meantime, this person, God, seemed to be taboo in my
home. Observation of my aunts, uncles, cousins and my grandmother
apprised me that, if he was real, they, too, were not interested.
However - although he did not speak of him - my grandfather Carlbom (on my dad’s side) copied a poem once, how in the quiet
he did know God.
But early on, a tiny seed was planted in me. Beyond any
theological reasoning or doctrinal tenets, regardless of
what I heard at home, the tiny seed told me that this God
was real, and that He was interested in me. And I believed.
My growing up years held a plethora of confusion. There were
good times; family picnics, homemade root beer in summer,
walking to the corner movie theater with Mom and Dad and
bringing home hot fresh doughnuts afterward. And Mom was a
good mom. She made childhood fun with Halloween costumes and
Easter egg dying and Christmas traditions. She would improvise
games for my birthday parties. There was a time she hammered
large nails into a board on which she had painted squares, and
handed out rubber jar rings for us to toss! Ever loving and
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caring, she spoiled me a bit as the “baby” of the family.
Dad had a great sense of humor and went around the house
belting out songs such as, “The Stars Are Going to Twinkle
and Shine.” One day I saw him going through the dining room
while down on all fours. “What are you doing?” I asked. He
told me he just wanted to see the house from Skippy’s
viewpoint. Skippy was our little Pomeranian. Dad made the
best butterscotch candy. Dad was also a very compassionate
person who brought home strangers from a tavern because they
had a hard luck story.
Now, some folks when drunk simply act silly and then pass out. Others turn into someone they are not; bursting with rage,
angry at the world. Dad was the latter, and sad to say Mom
was the brunt of his anger. He yelled at her and tossed things
while I, with knotted stomach, trembled in fear. Looking back,
I think dad’s behavior was not totally due to alcohol. Today,
he would have been called bipolar, for he would be either
very happy or very angry; leaving me on edge when we were
in the same room as I never knew which would take hold. He
became physically abusive to my mom (and me, just once that
I recall.) But on a particular night when his anger was out
of control, the terrible turned into good. ) Was I in my
early teens? I don’t remember.)
Awakened by the sounds of my parents yelling at one another
in the downstairs kitchen, I crept down the stairs and peered
into where they were. What I saw was a chair that had been
thrown across the room and my mom picking herself up off the
floor. I sat on the stairs and squeezed my eyes tight,
praying that the God whom I believed in but no one had introduced
me to, would have a neighbor hear and call the police. Then I raced to my room and flung myself onto the bed, silently
screaming, “I hate him. I hate him. Oh God I hate him!” And
something very strange happened. God suddenly was there, in
my room with me. What He whispered was in no way rationalizing
dad’s behavior, but it went something like, “He can’t help it,
Karen. He can’t help it.” Then the most awesome peace filled
the room and filled my heart. The comfort I felt went far
beyond my earlier hatred. I fell calmly, wonderfully asleep.
Life returned to what normal was for us, but I seemed unable
to hang onto that sweet presence that had been revealed to me. By now I felt resentful that some school friends had daddies
who were kind and helpful and never scared the wits out of them.
I felt so different. My home was different. When I entered high
school I did not feel that I fit in with friends who had “normal”
lives. I found acceptance, instead, with what we used to call
“the wrong crowd.” While other kids were listening to Rock ‘n’Roll
with Bill Haley and the Comets, we were caught up with Rhythm ‘n’ Blues with
seedier lyrics, and buying cheap loganberry wine (we called it
“logy”) while the guys showed off their switchblades and talked
about the next rumble. We were tough, man. We wanted to be tough.
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