Fireworks to Celebrate
Today, the 1st of August, is the Swiss national holiday, when the nation gathers together for festive brunches and an annual excuse to down tools and partake in a jolly tete-à-tete. Now the original Swiss populace are not known for their tilt towards unbridled frolics, for fear of what the neighbours will say. However, after dusk, and with the help of a tipple or two celebrations with fireworks lend a jovial finale to the event. But not everyone needs fireworks to animate themselves, particularly dog-owners, and it can prompt us unwillingly to recall certain incidents in the past. In the UK, a similar annual celebration is held on 5th of November, to commemorate the failure of a certain Mr Guy Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament, in 1605. (Certain politically frustrated citizens would applaud such an attempt currently).
When I was about five years old, I had to walk a considerable stretch to school and back each day. On November 5th, I happened to be slightly delayed on my way home, while I attempted to fold up a ridiculous plastic rain hat and wedge it into my pocket. I have no idea why it took me so long – let’s put it down to small fingers, big hat and a tiny pocket. When I arrived at home, one might have thought I had robbed the local sweet shop. The Evil Elsie, my adoptive mother, exploded in a cloud of incandescent fury, that I had taken five minutes longer than usual to reach home. I was forthwith propelled upstairs, into the bedroom, without any tea. I remember taking off my school uniform and sitting on the bed, sad and hungry, with no clear idea what transgression I had actually committed. However, the setting was fairly familiar when Elsie threw a hissy. Looking forward to a small firework session at dusk, I hoped she would atypically calm down and reassess her verdict and my punishment.
Alas, as twilight fell, there appeared to be no remorse on her part and I observed from my upstairs window that she and my brother John were preparing for an evening of fireworks together. We had previously collected arms full of dried, autumn leaves from the garden to fill an old sack as the body of Guy Fawkes. A second smaller sack was similarly filled to represent the head, which was adorned with an old hat. Soon Elsie lit the bonfire on which the Guy was plonked, and there were oodles of mirth while they watched the bonfire grow stronger. Still, in my naïve mind I was convinced I would be invited to the party. Soon it was dark and 8-year-old John was prancing around the garden with undiluted joy, waving sparklers in both hands, remembering to look up at me from time to time, to be assured that I was taking it all in. Soon the bigger fireworks began, and Elsie took a nail and hammer and attached a Catherine Wheel to the post of the washing line. Suddenly she disappeared without setting light to it. While I was speculating what little bonbon would be appearing next, she suddenly stormed into my bedroom, yanked me away from the window gave me a hefty slap around the face and steered me unceremoniously onto my bed. With a parting command not to get up again, or else, I was left to wallow in my own befuddled emotions about the obvious hatred this ‘mother’ felt towards me, and not for the first time. I remember feeling very cold, lonely and unloved. It set the tone for the first 21 years of my life, submerged in obedient, silent submission.
There’s been an intense issue invading my mind all my life. How is it that women who hate females adopt female babies, without the least intention of bonding with them? If you adopt a dog from a rescue centre and he doesn’t fit in with you or your family, you can take him back and with no particular formalities, you are rid of him. What prevents people from being honest with themselves and those in their surroundings and dealing with any given situation. I could addle your brain for hours on end, recounting incidents perpetrated by the Evil Elsie, that left me hurt and horrified during my entire childhood and youth, and no one intervened. Her husband, my adoptive father was her proverbial doormat and never ventured outside his zone of impartial silence. I left their house when I finally reached adulthood at the age of twenty-one, extremely damaged and left to my own resources to heal the scars of two decades of pure tyrannical abuse. It’s taken me a lifetime to find myself and who I should have been in the first place. I wonder what Elsie actually got out of it, other than malicious glee.
Photo: pexels / Magda Ehlers