Can A Line Tell A Story?

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2022 by Sharon Matusiak

My paintings and drawings were always figurative, reflecting my life. During the pandemic I gave myself permission to experiment, painting and drawing both landscapes and figurative pieces without any conscious theme or message. Rather it was a quest to discover  the elements of my own visual language. It came as quite a revelation to find that the work that is most satisfying to me harked back to my childhood spent at the piano and in the dance studio. The mark making on paper and canvas that has rhythm and movement is what I’m finding most intriguing. This  has resulted in a series of small abstract works on paper and canvas, some in black and white others in color, titled “Storyline”. I’m proud to be flexible enough in my fifth decade of creating visual art, to evolve into abstraction and the freedom it gives me to explore.the mystery of transformation through rhythmic, moving lines. Aside from this there has been a surprising connection to my writing. The move into abstraction has impacted my memoir writing. For the past three years I’ve struggled with the desire to present my life story in an unconventional way. Making abstract drawings this year has helped me to visualize my writing, my storytelling, in a manner that’s not confined to chronology. I like the freedom to forge my own path. In this way I want to meld the toxic relationships and painful events of my life with the art I’ve made to heal myself. The following are some of my abstract drawings of 2021.

Finding Balance In A Troubled Life

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , , , , on September 9, 2021 by Sharon Matusiak

Creating has been my life. It has been my constant source for surviving depression, heartbreak and tragedy. Now that I’ve entered my eighth decade I’m still painting, drawing and writing. I’ve been working on my memoir for 15 years, having finished my first draft over 4 years ago. That first attempt was more or less a complete chronological telling of my life events and my relationships that culminated in the death of my Mom. The situation in my biological family became so volatile and ugly at the hands of one of my sisters, that I swelled with frustration, anger and hurt. Few outside our immediate family saw or understood Mom’s low self esteem and her manipulative behaviors that ultimately contributed to her demise. I had worked all of my life to develop a peaceful, loving relationship with our Mom. She trusted me and always depended on me to help her. Hellion became my nickname for one of my sisters and she lived up to that name, wreaking havoc upon us all. She systematically destroyed my relationship with my Mom. I’ve come to understand that manipulation of the elderly is quite easy, for one that has the stomach for it. The elderly in their weakened physical condition become more insecure and can easily be frightened and then persuaded to do things that otherwise wouldn’t be possible. Hellion was a master of deceit, compelling Mom to fear both myself and our other sister. The goal for her was twofold. First she satiated her anger towards Mom for not protecting her as a child. And the second goal was satisfying her greed. She accomplished both. Hellion succeeded in persuading Mom to change her will leaving us out. Because she knew Mom might come to realize how she had been manipulated ,she wanted her dead as soon as possible.. It was actually rather a simple thing for her to accomplish. She is a soulless wretch. For a number of years I was full of anger and hurt, but my writing and creativity helped that fade away. Am I regretful of the searing things I wrote several years ago in this blog? No. Not at all. She got away with murder for profit. She deserves to go to prison. But instead she will most likely suffer the same fate that she inflicted on Mom. After all, she enlisted her grown children’s help in accomplishing her goals. She taught them through example to mistreat the elderly.

But I’ve let go of that hurt and anger. I’ve turned that energy into beautiful art once again. And so my first draft has been severely edited and revised. My focus for it has changed dramatically. I’m working on a series of short stories that together fall under the theme of memoir. Where I once thought I needed to include evidence of her guilt, of which there is plenty, I now see the important story has far less to do with Hellion. The real story is about how I managed to create a happy, rewarding life after the death of one teenage daughter and how I’ve held it together through the fear and anxiety of my surviving daughter’s odyssey with a heart condition. The real story, the one that is more than a cautionary tale, is about how being an artist has been my saving grace. It’s a story about how finding a creative outlet can help anyone to survive the difficulties of life.

Follow my journey and see the art I created in the past, what I’m making now and on into the future.

Wound Up

Wound Up is an oil painting on cradled wood. Details on my website www.SharonMatusiak.com/paintings

Wondering Where I Went?

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on May 23, 2021 by Sharon Matusiak

I know it’s been a very long time since I posted. I’m writing, just not publishing. I finished the first draft of my memoir, but it read more like an autobiography. Boring timeline, even though the events of my life have been far from boring. The new draft I’m working on is more poetic as the theme has changed from what I’ve been through to how I survived. That might not seem like much of a change, but it is critical. Also, I’ve been painting and drawing furiously the past year, and the results are quite satisfying. Check out my web-site, www.SharonMatusiak.com Stay tuned…

Perspective

Posted in Journey of the Mind, The Book of August with tags , , , , , , , on August 31, 2020 by Sharon Matusiak

A girlfriend recently wrote about her birthday and spoke of her aches and pains with a broken bone and having to sleep on the sofa to prop her arm up to alleviate some discomfort.  She ended by saying she felt she shouldn’t gripe because she knew things could be worse acknowledging that she feels for all of her friends with their own private struggles. She cited me saying I just had cheesecake in honor of my daughter’s 47th birthday, though she died at age 16.

There’s no disgrace in sharing ones complaints.  It’s the perspective of your own situation that matters because it determines how well you survive the inevitable train wrecks you encounter in life.  And my friend hit on one of the most powerful of techniques, that of realizing that your situation could be worse.

When my daughter fell into the propeller of a boat, I wanted to die.  The anguish was so bad that I contemplated suicide for quite some time and the only reason I didn’t act upon it was because I had another extraordinary daughter, Mary, that I had to live for; and so I wallowed, cussed, screamed, got up and fell down more times than I care to remember.  The pain of Debra’s loss was immense for both of us and it was only intensified by the circumstances of her death.  The brutality and the unexpected nature of it seemed more than I could possibly bear.

A few weeks after her death I was in the shower, most likely crying like I did almost constantly; with the water running over me I was reminded once again of the thought of the fish eating on the open wounds of her body during the 20 or so hours it took the rescue squad to find her.  Each time I had thought of that I ached more, but that time it was different.  Debra had been planning her life out since she was in the fifth grade and she was determined to be a marine biologist.  She understood the circle of life and it suddenly occurred to me that she would appreciate nourishing the animals with the communion of her body.  That gave me some immediate peace and it helped me to get out of that horrible stuck place because it was then that I also realized that her death could have been much worse.  She could have been kidnapped, tortured and raped and that would have been infinitely more horrible for her and us.

Lake Barkley eventually empties into the Mississippi and then flows into the open sea.  Debra’s blood made that trip and it is good.  It’s not what I wanted, but there is good to be found in the worst situations if you look hard enough.  And it is easy to look around and see how many suffer more than you.  Some parents have lost multiple children, like my friend Roxann.  Others have lost their homes and entire families to war.

It pays to be grateful for what we have, rather than sorrowing all of your life for what you lost.  I try to remember that and also I look for symbolism in the pain of sorrow.  That symbolism can shape my perspective and help me find new paths.

“The Book of August” was a short story I wrote several years ago about the anniversaries of important events in that tragic month.  The last time I saw Debra was the 20th, she died on the 26th, the rescue squad with the help of a scent dog found her body in the shallow water the next day;  the 28th I demanded to see her body at the funeral home and was turned away, the funeral director fearing for my memories; the 29th I held her hand and identified her by the birthmark on her leg. The 31st was her funeral and burial.  And finally in 2012 I had a nervous breakdown on August 2nd and voluntarily admitted myself to a psychiatric hospital for 10 days and while there my Mary had another heart surgery.  All day I was in anxiety, waiting for the call that she was safe.  So as you can see, it’s a tumultuous month for me.

August was once a time of lake swims, horseback rides and a celebration of Debra’s birth.  We’ve always had cheesecake for her birthday after she passed, because it was her favorite dessert.  It’s hard to celebrate and be happy when it weighs so heavily on the heart and mind that she’s gone, permanently from this place and time. Gone from our lives, a memory, never to be in the “real” again.  Like a beautiful, joyful soap bubble floating on the air, it bursts and the breath falls, and hope is hard to keep alive.  So, I try when I can, to do something really special for her day so the focus can be on life, joy and the future.  For example on 08-08-2008, an auspicious date in some calendars, we brought home our Bullmastiff pup Harley and he gave us 10 years of joy and love.

So this year we made plans to pick up our new German Shepherd Pup from her breeder on , Debra’s birthday and then returned to Mary’s home for the celebration. Thanks to Mary for finding the kennel for us because I would say this new pup, probably the last we will ever have due to our age, is perfect.  We named her Maya, a name with immense global symbolism.  Maya means love; she is the mother of Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha; in Sanskrit she is the Goddess of Illusion; in Greek it means Good Mother.

So this month began with the auspicious choice to bring Maya into the family on August 8. We brought her home to an 11 month old male Bullmastiff pup.  Our rush, was because he was so miserable with no one to play with but us old folks.  Because of the pandemic, we had to stop taking him weekly to doggie daycare to rolic with other dogs. The two youngsters became fast friends, and it has made this month lighter, more bearable.  And to complete the symbolic bookend, Buddha’s birthday is August 31st.  So on Debra’s birthday we brought Maya home and on the anniversary of Debra’s burial, Buddha was born to close The Book of August, bringing us joy, laughter and focus on the right path ahead.  Perspective is everything.

The End of Times

Posted in As the World Turns with tags , , , , , , on July 7, 2020 by Sharon Matusiak

We find ourselves living a dystopian existence marked by a deadly viral pandemic, economic ruin, global warming, bio-diversity collapse, rising white nationalism and police brutality. The failures of the current administration led by a corrupt and insensitive president assures that the situation will only get worse before reform and healing can take place.  This seems a far cry from the America I grew up in.  I was born in 1950, a time of great hope and prosperity.  The greatest battle was over, or so America thought. Fueled by wartime manufacturing, the nation’s economy rode the wave of Victory and roared into the building of modern America.  The interstate highway system, bridges, public schools, pipelines and the suburbs were built, moving and accommodating the burgeoning middle class.  The GI bill brought newly found opportunities to many that otherwise would have never been able to attend college. The land of opportunity was perfect from my white middle class viewpoint.

The face of America was getting a lift as we moved into the decade of the ‘60s. The Civil Rights Movement gained ground and stature and won victories as we patted ourselves on the back for a job well done.  We faltered with an assassination and stumbled from that to a long, bloody war in a jungle on the other side of the world.  We watched the nightly news of the deaths of our young men, the bombing of villages and the napalming of the jungle; none of that ever seemed authentic.  What was the purpose?  Surely the Communists weren’t going to topple people and buildings all the way around the globe to us.  But those that can weave stories of ‘the others’ were teaching us to be afraid. It worked for a while, to get us more deeply entrenched in a war without purpose, without validity, without hope of winning or ending.  And so it came to be that the people rose up in protest to say, “enough”.  Young people, unwilling to die for some vague threat made their voices heard and they were eventually followed by others.  The fists raised in the streets ended the war, but never addressed the inequity of the deaths of black soldiers.

The same method of marginalizing the enemy in Asia was the one that had been used since our Civil War against blacks. I grew up in a small college town of rural Southern Illinois.  The messaging about people of color was subtle but persistent. Blacks couldn’t be trusted; they were to be feared; they were inferior intellectually; they were confined to the neighborhood east of the railroad tracks; a girl’s reputation was permanently marred by a relationship with a black man. There were three high schools in town: the public Carbondale Community High School for whites, the public Attucks High School for blacks and the University High School. Outside of our town, the racism was more ardent. Crosses were sometimes burned as warnings, other times black families were burned out of their homes.  I’m sure there were other egregious acts that I wasn’t aware of in my beautiful bubble of white privilege. The race riots of the ‘60s were quelled with force and empty promises. It was easy as a white person to give a sigh of relief.

The only time I’ve ever been stopped by an officer I was treated politely and I had no fear of violence, jailing or disrespect.  I was immune.  I lived wherever I could afford accommodations, attended the Universities of my choice, was welcomed in private clubs and shopped wherever I liked.  Literally having no personal experience with racism, it was easy for me to believe I also didn’t have any responsibility to push for change.

By the time I was a mother I was broadening my world outlook, or so I thought. Still though, I could hear the whispering voices from childhood warning against allowing blacks to integrate white neighborhoods and schools for fear of property values tanking. It may not seem like much progress, but I learned to ignore those voices of repression so that I could come to welcome the changing tide. Being self-absorbed I didn’t task myself with reading about black history or the civil rights movement.  My voting changed though and became more progressive over the years. I became ever more worried about the environment, not the growth of the brown minority.

And so it was that our country marched into the twenty first century with a swelling middle class consuming at an ever increasing rate. Consumerism was growing the economy and ignoring the environment. Life was good for most because the voice of America was white; ‘the others’, the black and brown people and their grievances, forgotten as always.

When Obama was elected I believed the world would be different.  In my naiveté I thought the tide had turned and bigots were dying out, LGBTQ rights would be secured, there would be prison reform and finally the fossil fuel industry would be taxed.  But that day of reckoning didn’t come and the system didn’t change much. The backlash to our black president was so ugly, I was literally ashamed.  As right-wing conservatives garnered power to block reform, corporate control in America grew out of control with the Supreme Court ruling on Citizens United.  In its wake, the corporate hijacking of our government was complete and the progressive agenda that had benefited Middle America was crippled.

By the time Black Lives Matter was born, I was awakening to a clearer understanding of the world.  It was obvious that the comeback “all lives matter” was a cover. Imagine the outrage from those that find BLM an affront, if there were the same frequency of deaths of white men at the hands of black law enforcement.  The Tea Party agenda of non-governance and white nationalism grew and festered and then Trump happened and the mask of bigotry was off, and everything started unraveling.

As we hear of police brutality against persons of color, it has become increasingly more difficult to look away. The video of a black man being murdered by a city cop is a reflection of the systemic bigotry in our culture, but some people are bigger than life. As a youth George Floyd said, “I want to touch the world” and he has. His grizzly death must be catalyst for change.

George Floyd’s voice holds our collective cries for deliverance from the nightmare we find ourselves in.  In this time and place a lot of people are expendable; old people, nurses, meat packers, people of color, the poor. That’s what we’re seeing whether we like it or not.  People don’t matter anymore.  Corporations matter.  Billionaires matter.  What kind of world do we want? Surely not this one.  I see no path to building a better, more compassionate world for everyone until we face the systematic shackling of black people. Black Lives Matter! We cannot turn away this time. The images are too stark. The consequences too dire.  Turning away would be choosing evil over good, profit over life, power over justice.

We are living through a perfect storm.  Dynamic forces from several fronts are intersecting right now in 2020.  As our nation struggles with violence against blacks and protestors by law enforcement, we are also witnessing the collapse of the United States as a primary leader on the world stage because our president is a Russian asset.  Our democracy has morphed into a plutocracy that cares only for profits. White nationalism is on the rise and threatens a fascist takeover. The climate change crisis is bearing down upon us as we are witnessing environmental collapse of plant and animal species.  All these forces have intersected while we are struggling to survive the virus that is bringing both death and financial ruin.

And so now in the year of the pandemic we all live with anxiety.  I am filled with despair. Despair because the voice of truth, reason and the rule of law has been drowned out by chants of “Lock her up.” Despair because this administration has tossed aside the Paris Accord. Despair because we have concentration camps for children.  Despair because the agencies of governing are being hollowed out and dismantled. Despair because there is no federal plan to protect our citizens from a ravaging virus. Despair because the wake of Covid-19 is the economic ruin of the middle class while the one percent profit from our loss.  Despair because science is denigrated and therefore, so few willingly don the crucial mask. Despair because our allies have been abandoned. Despair because peaceful protest, a hallmark of democracy is under attack by the present administration.  Surely, we can do better than this.

My entire life, making art has saved me from hurt, from loneliness, from aimless wandering.  After nearly 70 years of this pattern, it’s the only way I’ve found to survive the anguish that life often holds and to celebrate the miracle and joy of the Cosmos.  And so I hold a mirror for you.  Every crisis has the seed for change.  What do you want to grow? What weeds do you want to remove? What structure do you want to build in our garden?

Note:  Recently I had the opportunity to participate in a writing challenge with three other amazing writers. We were given the task of writing our perspectives regarding the global pandemic and the racial tension in the United States after the murder of George Floyd. This essay was my submission to the project.  All the essays can be read here: FromBehindMyMask.wordpress.com

Moving Out Of ‘Dale

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , on February 5, 2019 by Sharon Matusiak

The dance and music lessons, the horses;  they weren’t meant to teach me something, broaden my horizons or give me a form of expression.  Dad made them possible for another reason.  He was obsessed with keeping me from making the same mistakes Carole and Helen made.  He called them boy crazy, and that wouldn’t end well.  He made it clear early on what his intentions for us were.  We were to get a college education so we wouldn’t be dependent on a man, and we were to get us a rich man, or at least a college-educated man as added security.  He was that straightforward.  Their early pregnancies were a disappointment to him and so bringing up baby was going to be different.  I was to have so many passionate interests that I wouldn’t have the time or inclination for boys.  I’m not at all sure just how well that worked out for him.

As I approached high school and my teen years, the danger-time, Dad concocted another chapter of his plan.  After noticing that there were a lot of boys at the stables where we kept Spirit, he went searching and found a ranch house with 16 acres in rural Williamson County.  After Mom had complained for so many years about living behind the railroad track berm outside of DeSoto, he was happy to announce that this place sat right on Route 13, across from the airport.  He excitedly told Mom and I as we made the drive there, that someday there would be businesses stretching non-stop from Marion right through to Carbondale.  He further said that someday we three girls would be wealthy from the sale of that land.  I’m sure he turned over in his grave when he knew how that turned out.

So in 1964 we three misfits moved out-of-town and Dad started buying horses.  I left Carbondale with mixed feelings.  I was till to continue at University high, with a daily commute and I be closer to my horse.  I liked the idea of living in the country, but this location seemed like living in a fish bowl. It turned into a miserable life.   I quit taking ballet lessons, after my long-time teacher Lin Schimick left Southern Illinois.  I studied for a while with another dance instructor, but she wasn’t inspiring and Dad made it clear that he wouldn’t provide any funds for me to study dance in college.  “You’ll move to New York and starve or get into trouble.” was what he told me more than once.  Eventually I quit taking piano lessons too.  Though I enjoyed playing I had reached a point where I wasn’t improving and so that felt like a dead-end to me and besides it was obvious that Mom didn’t like driving me 15 miles to piano and ballet lessons.  

As for here, I don’t really remember what she thought of the idea, but I definitely remember how it changed our relationship.  In town Mom had a friend that she spent time with, but  there was practically no one out there.  Inevitably, we spent more and more time together.  Weather permitting, we often went swimming together at Crab Orchard Lake.  We frequently went to see movies at the drive-in theatre.  In time she related stories about how she and Dad grew up.  While she taught me that Dad had a miserable childhood which accounted for his paranoia and disagreeable temper, we felt a bond in surviving him.  He had a way of ruining everything he touched.  He loved his daughters fiercely, but drove them away with his strangling demeanor.

He made having fun with a horse into a competition and then a mission.  It ceased to be any fun at all the day he came home with mustard oil.  Back then people who showed Tennessee Walkers often used the irritating oil to sore the horses ankles so that they would lift their hooves higher in their beautiful running walk gate.  It was a gorgeous sight to watch, but it was wickedly cruel.  That quickly brought on my rebellion.  I ratcheted up my nerve to refuse him and our days of showing horses was brought to a quick end.  

I was afraid to socialize and afraid to bring anyone home.  You never knew when Mom and Dad would start yelling at each other.  Mom constantly goaded him with her sarcasm.   Dad got drunk every night and the house was always dirty and junked up unless I did the cleaning.  I had a girlfriend spend the night one time and I regretted that.

Always tense, I was fearful of what would happen next.  I looked forward to the day when I could escape.  Mom kept telling me, “just bide your time Baby and your time will come”.  He wanted me to live at home and go to SIU when I graduated high school, but one way or another I wasn’t going to continue to live at home.  

I couldn’t study dance or music in college, so what was I going to do?  Dad was the first, I believe to suggest that I become a veterinarian.  It didn’t seem like a bad idea since I loved animals.  After a little research, I found out that the U of I was the only vet school in the state.  Only because of that major would he allow me to go away to school.  That didn’t turn out well either, but at least it was an escape from a home life that literally made me sick.

Our Tattered Lives

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , , on November 1, 2018 by Sharon Matusiak

I had no real social life, but I didn’t really care because I felt so awkward around people and my life was busy with music, dance and horses.  Carole and Helen on the other hand were quite active socially.  They always had weekend dates, often dancing at Teen Town, a place I never in my life entered.    I was the ugly duckling that watched from the sidelines as they shopped for formals and shoes, spent long hours doing their hair and proudly put on the corsage that their dates brought them before Mom took their photo and they rushed off to the ball.  Carole was homecoming queen and snowball queen.  She and Helen were both attendants several times for these high school extravaganzas.  I thought they were so beautiful and in the beginning I expected that it would be my turn someday, but that was not to be.

Carole was like living with a stranger.  She came and went and had this self-confident, mature air about her.  I don’t recall having a single conversation with her the entire time we grew up together.   She was quiet and withdrawn at home.  But she was very popular and flowered I think, with her girlfriends.  I remember visions of her smiling, after her teeth were “fixed”, and laughing with her friends, so much at ease and very comfortable apparently.

On several occasions she and Helen had large slumber parties together.  Peering around corners, I saw how Dad, more than once touched one of their girlfriends on the lower back, and then nonchalantly let his hand slide down their rump.  He did that often with waitresses too.   I couldn’t understand how Carole and Helen could suffer that humiliation and ever have anyone over again, though maybe they didn’t observe what I saw from my vantage point.    Between seeing that and my 8th birthday party experience, I had no inclination to invite girlfriends to the house.

When Carole left home  I have to admit that I didn’t miss her.  With seven years between us we rarely spent any time together.  She was little more than a stranger to me but I did know that she was thrilled to have escaped and I understood.   Secretly I was glad she was leaving for I was to get her bedroom.  The day I finally got to take my clothes from the bathroom closet and my worldly possessions from the utility room cupboards and store them away in my own private closet and dresser was like an enchanted dream.  That tiny bedroom seemed so spacious.  It was the first time in my life that I had my own space.  I was nearly 12.  It felt safe and good.  Mom couldn’t tell me to “go lie down with your daddy anymore” either.

 

 

Spirited Away

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , , on October 30, 2018 by Sharon Matusiak

Dad had such a love for horses, unlike Mom who was afraid of them.  He had a gelding named Tony when we lived on the dairy farm.  Carole had a black and white pony named Silver and no surprise Helen’s Shetland was named Trigger.  Silver had drowned in a flooded stream after becoming entangled in barb wire.  That haunted me and I’m sure Carole and the others for a long time.  Helen’s pony had a mean streak.  He was always anxious to step on your foot, and I was afraid of him of course.  I tried riding him once by myself when Helen saddled him and helped me atop.  She forgot to close the driveway gate and he bolted over the railroad tracks and took off running down the highway towards town.  Mom had to chase us in the car, finally catching him when he tired.  Naturally I was sobbing and Helen was doubled over with laughter and  I never got on him again.

I don’t even remember just how it came about, maybe Dad suggested it.  When I was about 10 he said we were going to an auction to look at horses.  I was nervous, with words always stuck in my throat.  It wasn’t my first time at an auction having lived my first 7 years on a farm.  There’s an air of excitement to the event, elevated by the auctioneer’s rapid-fire banter.  Dad had a good eye for horseflesh, so he let a lot of ponies and horses come and go from the ring without bidding.  My fear of the horses was mirrored by the terror in their eyes as they were herded singly through the gate into the ring.  One man would stand at each end of the ring raising his hands to scare the steed back the other direction.  Back and forth the poor creatures would run, terrified by the squawking microphone, the large crowd and the herders.  Occasionally a mounted horse would enter and the rider would show is mount, otherwise the ringmaster would just call off what little information available—approximate age, sex, etc.,

And then it was 159’s turn.  A glossy black gelding with a powerful arched neck came prancing into the ring.  He was 4-5 years old, full of spirit and confidence and amazingly beautiful.  The 2 young men showed how they could ride him standing up, jump on and off his hips and even demonstrated him at a dead run down the hall to the ring.  He was simply breathtaking.  Of course Dad had to have him.  He won the bid and I was speechless from both excitement and fear.  When he was delivered to Colp Stables in Carbondale the next day, I could hardly believe he was mine.  Helen came to see him but surprisingly she didn’t want to ride.  We hadn’t been told his name which seemed so sad to me.  We were talking about how spirited he was and she suggested that I should name him that.  I instantly knew it was right that he should be called Spirit.  Falling in love with him immediately, I would have been satisfied for some time to just lead him around with the halter, feed and brush him.  But Dad came out to the stables with a brand new bridle, breast plate and saddle.  It was a Mexican style parade saddle, black with silver colored plates all over it. The other kids that also boarded horses there got quite a laugh from it.  Dad showed me how to saddle him and told me to take him for a ride.  I was so scared I could hardly breathe, but it was all but impossible to say no to my Dad.  A lot of horses will take advantage of that fear, like Trigger.  Some will rear-up, others will try to brush you off on a tree or fence or just generally balk.  Amazingly he didn’t.  Maybe he had so much soul that he felt sorry for me.  Maybe after being taken from whatever situation he had been in and auctioned off he recognized another ungrounded soul.  Whatever it was we became friends.  I learned how to ride quickly, though it took me some while to learn how to care for a horse.  I made some mistakes out of ignorance and Spirit paid the price for that.  Before long I put aside the saddle for bareback riding and soon found myself flying over the landscape astride my black beauty.  We had many years of companionship but that came to an end when he became lame.  Dad didn’t have any loyalty to animals like he did to family, so he just sold him to a rendering company rather than allow him to live out his days in the pasture.  It haunts me still.

The Dreamworld of Music

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , , on October 28, 2018 by Sharon Matusiak

While playing at a friend’s house I tinkered on her piano.  I immediately began to dream that I could learn to play beautiful music like that Maria played on the hi-fi in ballet class.   But asking  Mom for piano lessons, much less a piano was out of the question.  Dad however might say yes.  And if he did, it was over.  Mom could shout and cuss all she wanted, but he held the purse strings.  He made all financial decisions.  He ruled. And now that he was making so much money selling insurance, how could it hurt I wondered?

I developed a habit early on, of thinking about how what I might say would be received, so as to avoid angering Dad or Mom.  So each morning before I made my own cold cereal breakfast of Cheerios, I would try to work up the nerve to ask him.  It took about two weeks and with a lump in my throat I crept up to the open bathroom door and watched momentarily while he scraped the growth from his face.  He saw me out of the corner of his eye and said his usual, “Hi baby.”  He called me that all of my life.

“Hi.” I said weakly, my voice cracking.  After a deadly silence, I spoke. “I was wondering…Marcia has a piano…and I was playing it…er messing around on it…and”

“You wanting to take lessons?” he asked, much to my surprise.

“Yes!”  I blurted out.

“Okay.  Saturday we’ll go shopping.” He said, nonchalantly.

I was stunned at how easy that was after all.  However, my elation over that was short lived, because the inevitable happened.  Every night the rest of the week, there were shouts and screaming back and forth between Mom and Dad over the music lessons, most of which didn’t make any logical sense.  Mom complained that they had a piano on the farm and Carole and Helen took lessons for a while because Dad wanted them to but then he sold the piano in the auction when they moved.  So what was the use in spending more money on a piano?    He shouted “they refused to  practice so why keep the piano?”  Mom shouted that why would they want to practice when the damn piano was always out of tune.  To which he accused her of spending the household money on other things and that’s why she no longer had a check book.  Mom slung back a remark about his spending money in taverns on women.

I hung back in the shadows wishing I had never worked up the nerve to ask for the piano .  I wasn’t used to them fighting over me or something I wanted.  But it was too late.  It would have been easier to make a river flow upstream.

On Saturday he took me shopping, but we didn’t come home with a piano.  Not that time.  In the showroom of the Baldwin Music Store in Herrin, Ralph Jolly fell in love.  He’d always had a musical inclination himself.  He owned two guitars, an electric Hawaiian one and a large, mellow Spanish style.  He played a little and could also play a few tunes on the piano, although his short, thick, stout fingers weren’t made for the piano or guitar.  He also played the harmonica and I loved listening to him.  He even liked to sing,  although he didn’t have a good voice.  Forty years later when Karaoke was popular, I would think  about how much  Dad could enjoy that, especially after he’d had a couple of shots of Wild Turkey.

After looking briefly at the pianos, the electric organs caught his eye and he was sold the instant the salesman started playing.  He loved that it could imitate the sounds of so many instruments and it never needed to be tuned!  The two coaxed me into sitting down to try it out, and I had to admit it was fun.  Of course, I knew it wouldn’t have mattered much what I thought because Dad’s mind was made up, and as he was fond of saying, “You’re just a kid, you don’t know your own mind.”  What I thought but couldn’t put into words, was that it seemed somehow fake to me.  It didn’t have the purity of the piano.

So a new Baldwin electric organ was delivered to our home that very afternoon.  Impatient Ralph being the hard bargainer that he was, told the salesmen after they agreed on the price, that there was no deal if they didn’t deliver that day.  “If we have to wait ‘til next week, we’ll just go to St. Louis.” he threatened.

Mom, bitter over the loss of yet another argument, made her displeasure known at having to make a place for the organ in her living room.  I played with it the rest of the weekend.  Dad wanted Carole and Helen to take lessons too, but Carole wasn’t really interested.  Helen took lessons for a while, but quickly lost interest.  However for me it became another wonderful escape to world’s beyond.  I practiced with dedication and quickly advanced, so quickly in fact that Dad soon bought me a parlour grand piano.  Now that really took up a lot of space in the living room!  Years later Mom would tell me that she could always tell my mood by how I played the piano.  She did come to enjoy the music as I developed skill. She especially liked hearing the big band era music of the 40’s that I played.  It reminded her of the times she and Dad would go dancing in Herrin at what I think was called The Starlight Ballroom.

I didn’t feel I needed friends.  Or maybe I just told myself that so I could ignore the pain of awkwardness and isolation.  I had my music and ballet and my dog.  What could be better than that?

Blessed Are My Feet

Posted in Journey of the Mind with tags , , , , , , on October 20, 2018 by Sharon Matusiak

Mom was always impatient and irritable, but keeping out of trouble with her was not difficult as long as it didn’t concern money.  I was cursed with weak ankles, causing me to pronate, ruining my shoes.  The solution was corrective shoes with built-in arch supports.  I hated them for being the clunky, brown ugly things that they were.  Of course they became the source of some teasing from other kids.  But what was much worse was the anger they provoked in Mom because they were so expensive.  She rarely if ever resorted to spanking any of us, preferring sharp criticism, a quick unexpected slap or a yank on the hair.  However those shoes caused the worse spanking I ever got.  Out playing after a rainstorm, I stepped in the mud and sank up over the top of one of them.  Crying before I even got home, I knew Mom would be furious and she was.  “What the hell’s the matter with you?  God damn don’t you know what those damn shoes cost?  I didn’t work at the dress factory to throw away money on you!”  When a neighbor suggested that ballet lessons might strengthen my defective ankles Mom thought money spent for a while on ballet lessons would be better than expensive shoes for years to come.  And that’s how I became grateful for my “defective” ankles.  Those ballet lessons opened up a brand new world to me into which I gladly escaped.

Even though  almost 60 years have passed I’ve never forgotten my first class.  Maria was my first dance teacher and she might as well have been an angel sent from God as far as I was concerned.  She was elegant, soft-spoken, feminine but strong and beautiful.  When I first laid eyes on her it was like seeing through a soft-focus lens.  Slim and lean, she moved with such grace.  She wore the softest creamy pale pink leotard and tights, with a sheer softly-flowing wrap around dance mini-skirt which fluttered at the edge as she moved.  Cascading over her shoulders were her dark, thick, softly waving locks.  She smiled down at me, the shy newcomer and warmly welcomed me into the class.  She was undoubtedly the most beautiful, graceful, elegant woman I had ever met.  My fears of my own awkwardness melted away in those first few lessons.  It was like being set free after having always been caged.  Even though ballet is a discipline of strict movement, discovering the luscious feeling of moving with the music was something so powerful that it would stay with me the rest of my life.  I loved everything about those classes; the discipline, the classical music, the peace, the challenge, the beauty.  It was everything that my home life wasn’t.  It had a richness that changed my life.  It also gave me a hunger for more.

 

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