Capturing powerful memories of growing up in a large, remarkable, and sometimes surreal household, Objects in Mirror Are Closer than They Appear provides a glimpse of what life was like for author Pauline A.G. Johansen, one of twelve children in an immigrant, Catholic family. In this memoir, Johansen presents a collection of stories gleaned from living in a large family, where nothing is sacred and the unusual is seen as typical. The story "Getting to Know the Virgin" describes growing up Catholic in the 1950s and '60s. "Once Upon a Time" tells how house fires became a way of life. "Poor is a Four-Letter World" shares tales of camping trips that went very wrong. Both heartbreaking and humorous, the stories in Objects in Mirror Are Closer than They Appear are remembrances of events that occurred, an attempt to make sense of why they happened, and a family's responses to both the tragic and the mundane. It explores the past with a view to answering the question, "How did I get here?" It also demonstrates there are many ways to be family.

Objects in Mirror Are Closer than They Appear

A MemoirBy Pauline A.G. Johansen

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Pauline A.G. Johansen
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7305-3

Contents

Chapter One Getting to Know the Virgin............................1Chapter Two What Have You Done For Me Lately?.....................10Chapter Three But Can You Clean?..................................26Chapter Four Jack-of-All-Trades...................................33Chapter Five Once Upon A Time.....................................41Chapter Six You Are What You Eat..................................57Chapter Seven What Doesn't Kill You...............................64Chapter Eight Poor Is A Four Letter Word..........................69Chapter Nine This Way Home........................................74Chapter Ten Just Like Everyone Else...............................87Chapter Eleven Driving Crazy......................................93Chapter Twelve Surprise!..........................................97Chapter Thirteen Gone Cruisin'....................................105Chapter Fourteen It's A Long Way To Tipperary.....................124

Chapter One

Getting to Know the Virgin

Our Lady of Sorrows lived in an alcove on the second floor of my elementary school. Taller than any woman I knew, she wore a long blue gown over a white shift and held baby Jesus in her stiff, unmotherly arms. Her gold-crowned head was slightly tilted, looking down in abject acceptance of her lot. Her tight-lipped smile spoke of all the pain she had suffered. Standing there greeting us every day, her unspoken message was, "You did this; you broke my heart." And everything we heard and were taught every day reminded us we were dirty, filthy little sinners who broke Mary's heart and we could never make it better. But we damn well better try.

Sometimes I used to just stand and stare up at her in her tiny home and wonder what happened at night. Did she put down that chubby old man/baby, stretch her arms high above her head, sit down on the edge of her alcove, dangle her legs back and forth, sigh and wish for a different fate? Did she wish herself away from there? I did, every day—to anywhere else.

I began biting my nails shortly after starting school. I bit hard and often, and none of the usual remedies helped. My mom tried pepper, disgusting clear liquids "guaranteed to stop the urge," socks tied on my hands and the usual round of threats. There were no bribes; our family didn't believe in bribes. I was made of strong stuff, though, and I bit anyway until they bled. I bit the nail and the skin around the nail, and I continued to bite even when there was nothing left to bite.

I had a reason to bite. I had to go to school. This instilled stomach-churning, cramping fear, because I knew that what lay ahead would make me feel stupid and worthless and that there would be no way out.

Home, on the other hand, was loud and confusing and a constant swirl of busyness. Before my school days, I often hid behind a couch or in a cupboard. Even though I was only five, Mom would find me something to do, like holding the bottle in the baby-of-the-moment's mouth, or drying the dishes. But I wanted to talk and sing all day. I danced around in my socks and spun around on the linoleum floor on my bum in my flannel pyjamas. Mostly I sat and did nothing. I got hugged, and yelled at. I got fed and I slept. I didn't know it, but that was as good as it was going to get, because then school began. I was not prepared for what today we might call the lifestyle change.

I started Grade 1 when I was five, but I was more like a three-year-old. In addition to biting my nails I still sucked the two fingers on my right hand at night. I had thick, raised calluses there. The sound drove my sister Anita crazy. I never heard myself, but she told me it was a bit like wet nails on a blackboard. Poor Anita; because she was closest to me in age she always got to sleep with me. My eldest sister, Helena, and Eileen, the youngest girl for the moment, at least slept together. They listened to Anita's complaints with smug smiles.

The anxiety began the moment I woke up and realized I had another school day ahead of me. When you're five years old, one day seems forever, a school year an unimaginable length of time stretching ahead farther than you can see. Like thinking about infinity, it gave me a terrible headache. The one or two moments of grace before I got up in the morning were squandered on a prayer to have a truck run over my thumb. This would be painful, yes—debilitating, even—but not life-threatening. It would guarantee I could stay home.

I pictured my thumb hugely bandaged, throbbing; the pity I would receive and the soup and tea in bed. It would be a terrific way to avoid the yelling, humiliation and fear that came with school. Getting your thumb run over made a lot more sense than, say, your toe. Sure, you would get some sympathy for that, but let's face it: they would still send you to school and you would still be expected to do your work. There would still be the big, fat pencil, the paper so thin it ripped the first time you erased, creating a big hole. No, it had to be the thumb. No other body part would do.

If I was scared I couldn't control my bladder. Most of the time I just wanted to have a nap. But it was true I could read and my mother had other babies around, and so I went to school. Beyond being able to read I had absolutely no school-ready skills. I had no idea how to hold a pencil, use a pair of scissors or any notion at all about what a number was or what you did with it.

Then came Our Lady of Sorrows Parents' Open House. The idea was for parents to accept the nuns' invitation to drop in any time during the day and witness the stellar learning experiences their children were having. For many parents it was probably also a chance to see their kid shine at something. The plan was that when a parent knocked on the door, someone would jump up and invite them in. Then the lesson that was being taught would be used as an excuse to call on the parent's child.

Mom knocked. We were doing math.

"Welcome, Mrs. Go-jev-ik. Pauline, stand up and count backwards from forty-nine," she said sweetly.

I was confused. She didn't talk like that. I stalled. I looked around the room. I opened my eyes wide.

"Me? You mean me?"

I gave a look that was meant to signal surprise and great, good humour. Then I glanced over my shoulder and all around the room, pretending there was another Pauline in the room and another Mrs. Gojevic. I was hoping she would get frustrated or bored and call on someone else. Right.

"Stand up, Pauline. Count backwards from forty-nine," she repeated just a bit more loudly and a bit more in the voice I recognized. I stood up.

What's a forty-nine? We could have been talking quantum physics. I launched into a stream of numbers I did know.

"Uh, seventy-seven, twenty-nine, thirty-one?"

I tried as many numbers as I could, hoping I might just hit on it by accident. I didn't, but she wasn't going to let me off.

"Come on, dear. I know you can try harder than that," she commanded.

"Dear?" Is she talking to me? And, no, I couldn't try harder. The effort was already making me want to throw up.

So I continued. "Fifty, forty-six, eleven?"

I didn't look at the nun or my mom. I stared hard at the floor, hoping for inspiration. My mom put an end to the agony.

"Oh, that's all right,...