A little slice of memoir
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I was five when my dad bought the house where I grew up.
There were good things about the house. A Big Bathroom and a Little Bathroom. Having two seemed luxurious to me, a child accustomed to apartments. Cloud-like swirls on the ceiling that my mother said were made by twisting a broom in the plaster while it was wet. A huge picture window in the living room, through which I could see a very tall tree behind the neighbors’ house. To me, the tiptop of the trunk appeared to be a lady sitting and gazing across the earth like some kind of woodland princess. Day in and day out, she sat there atop of her tall tree-throne, a regal silhouette, never moving.
There were things I didn’t like about the house. The red switch plate on the utility room wall that my father said to never ever touch. I believed that if anyone touched this switch, the furnace would explode and blow us all to smithereens. Even after I outgrew my terror, I steered well clear of that red plate. I didn’t like the thick gray accordion doors on the bedroom and hall closets. Bulky, cumbersome, and stiff, they didn’t really fold. They came off their tracks easily. These hateful doors eventually disappeared; one by one, they were discarded. Our closets were just open places.
The linen closet stood directly across from my bedroom door in the narrow hall leading to the Big Bathroom.
It wasn’t a true closet, just a recessed place with wooden shelves. I don’t remember an accordion door ever being there.
What I do remember is that one of those linen closet shelves had a terrible gash along its edge.
It looked like a raw wound that might start oozing at any moment. A gaping slit. When I pored over pictures of how to do an appendectomy in my parents’ set of medical encyclopedias (and why did we have these—? An exceptionally persuasive door-to-door salesman—?) the pulled-back human flesh and tissue made me think of the wound in the linen closet shelf.
This shiny-pink raw place bothered me. It was ugly. Almost…embarrassing. Something that shouldn’t be seen, shouldn’t be exposed…why had the builders done this? Couldn’t they have turned the shelf around so the wound wouldn’t show? It was an affront to me as a child, before I knew what taking affront meant.
I know now that the flaw is a bark-encased scar. The shelf came from a tree (maple?) that was injured, somehow. Maybe by a cut or fire. An online search produces this AI-generated explanation:
The tree’s cambium layer, which is responsible for producing new bark and wood, starts to grow new cells around the wound, forming a protective layer of tissue called callus.
As the tree continues to grow, the callus tissue can expand and eventually cover the original wound, creating a scar that is encased within the new bark.
In short: The scar is evidence that the tree worked to prevent inner decay and heal itself after being wounded, and that it went on living for a good while before it ended up as the shelf holding our towels and washcloths beside the Big Bathroom.
I never touched that raw-looking wound in the wood. I averted my eyes from it, even hated it for existing.
Now, when I return in my mind to the rooms and halls of my childhood home, they are always empty, and that old scar in the shelf is the thing I want most to see.
How strange.
Maybe I am drawn to it out of kinship. I do not know the story of the tree’s life, only that this remnant is testimony to its suffering and ability to overcome. I could liken the scar to the ways adults damage children, having been damaged as children. I could see it as a symbol for my mother, whose early wounds festered long, the extent of which would eventually be revealed in addiction.
That’s the real red switch, for it blew us all apart.
Maybe I just want to place my fingers on the old raw place at last, tenderly, in benediction. I would say that I understand now about layers of callus tissue expanding, covering, and absorbing the deepest of cuts over a long, long time…it is always there, but it hurts no more, and I am no longer ashamed to see it or to let it be seen.
In the shelf or in myself.
Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge
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lit bits and pieces 
a sweet look into a very specific memory. Thanks for sharing the vivid scene and raw cut.
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Fran, such a prophetic metaphor of this wood and the wound and the scars you would come to brave and bear. It’s broken and beautiful all at the same time, because those tender places and the way you see the world came from that woodgrain of your childhood and of your life – and what a gift, as your writing daily reveals. You see the rough edges now and reckon with them with grace and mercy – and I love that you shared this with us today! I need more of your perspective in my life.
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I so appreciate your words, Kim. These types of posts are so deeply personal and I am so guarded and private that I almost talk myself out of writing them. Yet I feel there’s value in doing so – know that you are a blessing to me!
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Your brought me back to that moment in time and the raw wound, at the time. I felt like I was with you in the house and then you brought me back to your real life today and how the memory, like an old friend, bring you back in time and kinship to those days and those people and that house. This is a lovely piece of writing that I will think about all day.
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Thank you for your gracious words, Anita – they mean much.
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Fran, how we view things changes as we age. We all have scars be they physical or emotional that are signs of our healing process.
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Oh, Fran, your post’s raw honesty is powerful and moving. My heart aches thinking of your mother’s addiction. I loved this line from your post: “That’s the real red switch, for it blew us all apart.” You connected a personal fear with the trauma that impacted your entire family. I also appreciated your title and how you weave the images of the wood and your childhood home. I could easily visualize the closet doors! Hugs!
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Barb, I so appreciate your words. I’d been wanting to write about this “wound in the wood” a long time. So symbolic. I didn’t even think about the red switch as another metaphor until the revisions. Writing is magical that way – as are people, like you, who offer word-healing balm… thank you.
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From the title right to the very end, you’re vivid description created a picture I’ll long remember. Even the picture you posted along with this slice, enhance the emotions inherent in this piece. Although I savored the fine writing, my heart broke for the little girl who felt wounded. I am glad you have found a way to heal that childhood wound that addiction causes. This piece should be out in the world. Blessings, Fran. You are a talented writer.
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Thank you for your gracious words, Rita. The situation with my mom was a slow unraveling – I was grown before the worst happened. And I almost talked myself out of writing this post…yet I cannot shake the image of that scar in the wood, and it’s an odd thing to remember so vividly. Therefore I write, to see why it pulls so. Your words are a blessing to me – please know that!
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Glad to hear that, Fran. Take care of yourself and hone that writing talent.
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Such an interesting slice of memoir with the intriguing story about the wound in the wood and what it represented then and now. Wounds and scars are part of life and growing stronger, but sometimes the pain and the hurt can still feel so raw. What happens in families has such far reaching consequences.
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Such powerful writing, Fran. You draw us in to survey the house with childhood eyes. Then you reflect on how the shelf scar relates to life-“In short: The scar is evidence that the tree worked to prevent inner decay and heal itself after being wounded.“ The line about the real red switch is a novel in and of itself. Thank you for sharing this piece.
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