Memories of California

I can’t remember much about living in California. I know that father was in the Marines and stationed at Twenty Nine Palms military base. I remember the desert, my Mexican baby sitter and tortillas for breakfast.  But beyond those small details, everything else is a blur. I have always seen pictures of me standing in front of my childhood home, playing with the neighborhood kids and I think that I remember those moments. I close my eyes, try to feel the sun that is shining brightly in all of the photos, but there is nothing. 

I can’t remember my one trip to Disneyland as a child. I remember being afraid of Goofy, but I did take a picture with him. I know I took the picture because my mother has it in the family photo album. It was strange that I had this fear of Goofy because he was my favorite Disney character.  I watched him on TV and he was the one my mother said I spoke of most frequently. But the fear that came over me when I was asked to stand close to Goofy still registers with me to this day. Maybe it was the larger than life plastic head on an adult sized body that caused my anxiety.  Beyond that, I only have the photo as a memory of that event.  I am not interested in revisiting the anxious feeling that came along with occasion, so I never try and recall.

I can’t remember the cross country drive that brought my family from California back to my home state of Virginia. The trip probably took more than a week but it felt like two days to four year old Tamara. On my mother’s dresser, there is a child’s turquoise and silver ring that my parents bought on an Indian reservation.  It was a ring that was given to me by a Native American vendor.  My mother says he thought I was a cute kid and wanted me to have the small piece of jewelry. In my mind, I can see his face. He was an older gentle man, very wrinkled with small eyes and long white hair.  At least I think it’s his face and not that of a movie character.  The only reminder I have is that very small ring.  I think when I have a daughter; I will give it to her.

I can’t remember what started the fight my parents had in the car during that trip.  I was asleep at first and then I heard yelling. The yelling was normal, but we were in a moving vehicle and it was moving fast. I do remember my mother wanting to get out of the car and my father pulling over so she could.  But the events that happened in the next two minutes are vague.  I know there were squealing tires and my mother screaming “the baby”.  But beyond that the story that I know and retell as often as possible came from my mother.  There was no accident that day but the car tire did blow out after my father slowed down.  I always remember my mother’s face when she tells the story and how it ends with the line: “He could have killed us that day, the crazy way he was driving.”  That memory is not mine, but it is one I won’t ever forget. 

Shortly after the trip across the country and the birth of my younger sister, my parents separated. I remember that. My sister, only a year old, doesn’t have a recollection of that time. She doesn’t have childhood memories of my father like I do. There aren’t even any photos that include my father and sister or any photos that I could use to tell her stories about my father.  What my mother does have in her photo album are hundreds of pictures of my sister and me.  And those stories are happy and funny; at least that is how I remember them.