Mom paused and looked out the window at the gray day.

“That was a long time ago. 1928.”

This was news to me, but not surprising. I already knew that when she was young Barb had made money parachuting out of biplanes at county fairs.

We were sitting at the Formica table in the kitchen of the little house on Pearl. Dad had died a week earlier, not unexpectedly. We were preparing for the funeral. Barb and her partner Cynthia were flying up. Mom and I were about to leave for the airport.

Barb’s decisiveness, her power to act, her rejection of convention — none of that surprised me. It was always fully on display, along with a gentle caring nature that was how she was with me.

Sometimes I craved it. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to be as articulate and persuasive as she was.

But I was also desperate to belong to the establishment.

Barb had a deep impact on me. And yet, over the fifty-five years we shared — from 1945 until her death in 2000 — I probably saw her only twenty times. I don’t remember a single Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner together.

What I do remember is that when she focused on me, she was fully there.

The First Dance

I’m four. It’s 1949.

Barb has just come into our living room after work. She says a few words to Mom and Dad, then turns to me.

“Let’s play Ring Around the Rosie.”

She takes my hands and begins to sing.

“Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies…”

We go round and round until —

“…we all fall down.”

Down I go onto the soft rug, giggling with the happiness of it all. I’m in love.

And we danced and danced.

I didn’t know the song. But Barb did.

It was late on that winter day. Dark in the living room. Only the small lamp on Dad’s desk was on. Barb was wearing her Traveler’s Aid uniform. Dark blue.

Mom broke the moment.

“Teddy, it’s long past your bedtime. Kiss Aunt Barbara and off to bed.”

Barb was staying in the downstairs bedroom. The same room Mom and Dad had painted pale blue when we moved in.

We’d moved to the new house, as Mom said, “So you can have your own bedroom, Teddy.” Mom went on to explain that the adoption agency required that I have a separate bedroom. It was in the contract.

Heading up the stairs, I was already thinking about the drawing I could show Barb.

She always asked questions about my drawings.

The Drawing

“Where is the horse going, Teddy?”

“He’s going home,” I said. “And he’s a doggie. Not a horse.”

“Well…” Barb always spoke with these long, wonderful pauses. “I thought she was a horse because you drew a saddle. Is that a saddle?”

“It’s a coat. It’s winter and she’s cold.”

I felt a little shame that my doggie looked like a horse.

“Arlene puts coats on the doggies when they go outside.”

Arlene was Barb’s closest friend.

“That’s right,” Barb said. “You’re right, Teddy. It was freezing the day you visited the kennel.”

I asked if I could ride in the back of the van with the dogs again.

I loved it there — my face pressed against the mesh screen, the dogs wiggling and squealing and pushing against me, competing for the biscuits Barb passed through.

I didn’t know then that Arlene had been Barb’s lover.

Soon Barb was gone again.

She had met Marge.

The Rescue

Mom explained what would happen next.

“You’ll be taking the train to Monterey with Grandmother. It’s warm there.”

Grandmother used a cane to walk, to threaten, and sometimes to poke. Once when she poked me, I ran away and climbed a chestnut tree, hiding there most of the day.

Seeing my expression, Mom said carefully: “I know she can be harsh. But she loves you.”

Dad had already left by then after what Mom called a “mental breakdown.” Mom had gone back to school to renew her teaching certificate and had taken a job in Olympia. I couldn’t go with her.

So, I lived in Monterey with Grandmother for a year.

Kindergarten. Rain. Loneliness.

Then, when school ended, Barb arrived.

Barb and Marge drove down in their Plymouth wagon, which they had named Meg.

I had been waiting and waiting for them.

Not sure they would really come.

But they did.

Grandmother packed my things. Marge loaded the car.

And suddenly we were heading north.

Back to Seattle. Back to my room. Back to safety.

I sat between Barb and Marge on the broad front seat. It was warm and comfortable. Their voices, the sound of the motor, the movement of the road — it all felt safe.

I was with them.

Years later Barb told me something I hadn’t known.

“Teddy, every time we stopped for gas, I worried about the men’s room.

“I kept a big wrench in the back.

“I’d walk you to the door, open it to see if anyone was inside.

“Then I’d wait outside holding the wrench.”

Barb had been protecting me the whole way home.

She was my hero.

The Boat

When I was seven or eight, we visited Barb and Marge at Lake Chelan.

They had a long narrow boat called The Russler.

Chelan is fifty-five miles long and squeezed between steep mountains. In the afternoons the wind pushes hard rollers down the lake.

The Russler was designed to cut through those waves. In theory.

In practice we never got a chance to test her; the engine broke down almost every trip.

“Shit,” Barb would say, lifting the engine cover.

Gasoline smell filled the air.

She’d check her watch, thinking about the wind, then start adjusting things with a screwdriver Marge handed her.

“Okay, hit the starter.”

The engine sputtered.

“Hold it,” she’d say. “Let me try something else.”

This went on for a while until finally Barb wiped her hands on a rag and said calmly:

“We better flag down the ferry.”

Watching her I saw something I never forgot.

Barb didn’t panic. She didn’t rage.

She simply worked the problem until it was time to change the plan.

She always knew what to do.

The Break

“She’s strange.”

I was fifteen.

Dad said it after I’d been talking about Barb and how powerful she was. I was trying to place myself in her camp — the strong one — not his.

He continued. “She’s queer. A dyke. A lesbian. You don’t want to associate with people like that.”

It hit me hard.

By then I had already had a couple of men come on to me. It was confusing, embarrassing, frightening. A place I didn’t want to go.

And suddenly my Barb was part of that world.

In that moment I deserted her.

I stayed away for years.

The Return

In my twenties the shame of that decision finally caught up with me.

I went back.

Barb greeted me with a huge hug.

No lecture. No distance.

Just Barb.

The power was still there.

And the love.

The post Becoming: Barb Was the Power appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

I stopped for a moment to picture what the airport must have been like in 1950. Then, remembering Barb’s telling, I went on with…

“They carried her up the stairs. One in front holding the footrests and backing. The other, holding the handles. Grandmother, tipped way back, enduring the moment, teeth clenched, pressed her Sunday hat and her oak cane to her chest.”

Mom put down the iron, and I wondered if it was a tear I was seeing in her eye.

I was on a roll. Not gonna stop now.

“Then Barb said, ‘Gone, damn it. Gone. Chair, cane and all.’”

Mom, having picked up the iron, seemed to be pressing dad’s pants with more rigor now. I had to say the final words. Couldn’t stop.

“Mom, Barb was so proud of you and herself, too. After years of meanness, manipulation, abuse, and violence, you were rid of her. Barb said, ‘We did it! We really did it.’”

Mom picked up shirt from the basket and began to smooth it on the ironing board. It was warm in the kitchen. I don’t know why I was so brazen that winter afternoon. Must have only been sixteen. I was leaning against the fridge as I did when talking to Mom, while she ironed. Somehow, ironing –– when Mom was ironing –– was when we had our best talks.

Dad not yet home from work, the warmth –– something on the stove or in the oven giving off those homey cooking smells –– together contribute to the possibility of conversation, the kind where real stuff can at least be approached.

We always avoided talking about anything uncomfortable, anything real or intimate in our house. But somehow on that rainy winter day, I was able to stretch the rules. I must have just gotten home from school. Dad –– still at work, he wouldn’t be home for a couple hours.

So, I asked, “Why was Grandmother so mean? Why were you and Barb so afraid of her?”

Mom put the iron down on its heel, turned the shirt over to get to the collar, and said, “Reverend Wyatt was a huge help. He’d helped us get Dad committed when he had the mental breakdown and felt Grandmother had contributed.”

She paused and looked up for a moment before continuing with, “And, Barb, with her welfare role, knew how to work the system. Barb picked Hawaii. I don’t think we’d have been able to convince Grandmother if it hadn’t been Hawaii. She’d never been there but knew it was warm and beautiful.”

Shifting my weight on the fridge, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get any more from her on Grandmother. Mom would hide in the facts, perhaps unable to speak of the pain and raw fear that was the story she and her sister Barbara had lived.

Even so, I had to push on.

“You know, I hated my time in California with Grandma. She was mean.”

“Teddy, I’m sorry we had to do that. With your dad in the hospital, I had to get my teaching certificate updated so I could work. That, and I had to find a job. Overwhelmed. I simply couldn’t manage all that and take care of you.”

Putting the shirt on a hanger, she concluded the conversation with, “Could you iron the rest of these? I need to finish up making dinner.”

I liked ironing. I liked the smell of the fresh, clean laundry just off the line, and the scent cotton released when the hot iron smoothed it. I especially liked ironing my Levi’s and getting the seams perfectly aligned. The kitchen, with its swing-down ironing board, tiled counter, and the grid pattern of the linoleum floor, felt safe.

Mom opened the oven and used a fork to test the meat.

As I ironed, my thoughts turned back to the conversation. I hadn’t been able to press Mom on why she didn’t take me with her to Olympia. I was afraid to ask her to tell me more. Afraid that I’d hurt her, that she’d get angry and go silent, or maybe cry. I was afraid that if I pressed her, an emotional rift between us would grow, and I needed her as an ally.

She was my buttress against Dad, at least most of the time.

Dad would be home from work soon. Mom and I swung into the roles we adopted to make everything right. I imagined it must have been like the emotional management of Grandmother Mom and Barb had learned as girls.

Now, decades later, I’m beginning to understand why I pressed further on what happened, and how it shaped me. I think I learned to mimic Mom’s careful emotional management of Dad, a skill she probably learned from managing her mother. From our conversations, I learned when to ask and when not to. When to press forward, and when not. Most of all, how to not step over that invisible but very real line between everything being okay and rage.

Mom and her sister Barb showed me how to be professionally conversant. Both were college graduates, Barb with a master’s in social welfare, and Mom with a teaching degree and a minor in English.

Decades later, Barb’s partner, Cynthia, gave me a copy of their unpublished memoir. In one passage, Barb describes Grandmother, in a rage, swinging Betty (my mother) and herself around the room by their hair.

In Barb’s telling, she and Mom lived under the constant threat of Grandmother’s violent outbursts. Barbara left home on a motorcycle when she was fifteen, never to return. Betty was the perfect student, graduating cum laude, only leaving home in her early thirties to marry.

At five months, I was adopted into this family and grew up in the wake of these three women: Grandmother, Barbara, and my mother.

I sorted the freshly ironed clothes, raised the ironing board, and closed it into its cabinet, thinking: Mom, Barb and Grandmother shaped me; then there’s Dad.

Born into poverty, his parents died early in his life. His sisters raised him, and as a young man he survived the Depression by riding the rails, finding only occasional work. He was then sent to the Pacific war as a Seabee, a time he never talked about.

Maybe, I thought, picking up the basket of folded clothes, being quick to violence had kept him alive. Shit.

Looking back, it seems the war could certainly have resulted in PTSD and the mental breakdown that happened when I was four. He could be violent. But it was mostly the threat of violence that kept Mom and me attentive to maintaining the emotional equilibrium.

Now I think of this as a management training course… named childhood.

The post Becoming: Reading the Room appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

Here I was awakening late a couple of weeks before Christmas with snow out the window. Beautiful. All I needed was a brown fedora, leather work boots, a heavy duck work coat, and a vintage station wagon, with a tree on top, to complete my fantasy. I had all those.

Here I am in my late fifties creating make believe, just as I’d done as a child.

I also needed happy workers at the tree lot and an adoring family to welcome me home with the beautiful tree. That would complete my little drama, and my childhood vision of what made the perfect Christmas. An image from magazines in the sixties.

My costume, the car, and the tree are perfect. The light snow is perfect, too.

I knew my family and the people at the tree lot wouldn’t complete my imaginary image. They weren’t actors that I’d hired for a client shoot. I knew the concept was flawed.

Flawed? No, not flawed; it was my own need I had to fill, whether or not others participated.

I knew all this as I pulled on my heavy leather work boots and felt the texture of my wool socks pressing against my ankles. Then down the stairs to the kitchen, where I announced, “I’m off to get the tree,” and “I’m taking the Dodge.”

Without waiting for a reply, I pass through the dining room to the vestibule for my coat and to wrap my old green scarf. Then out the door, down the steps to the garage where my 1949 Dodge waited.

Seeing the old car pushed away my doubts. I feel proud to own her as I open the garage door and see the blue cast from the snowy light reflected on her rear fender — a nice contrast with the warm sienna of her wood-framed sides.

Pushing the pleasure aside for a moment, I needed focus now. One must plan carefully to start and drive an old car; they’re always tricky. As I slip into the front seat, I remember the steps.

Pull the choke all the way out — two pumps of the gas pedal. Key turned on, press the starter button, and hope.

She catches on the first try. I push the choke in halfway to keep her on fast idle, slip the gear lever into reverse, and back her out onto the apron to warm up. Set the heater to defrost and turn on the fan. All okay, I open the door and step out to let her warm a bit, the vapor from the exhaust circles up into the lightly falling snow. Snow that’s just barely covering the streets.

Must be just below freezing here.

The tree lot isn’t far. Just over the hill and down in the valley. Only one stop sign between here and there. That stop is tricky, being on a hill. With the danger of spinning the wheels on the slippery surface, or worse, stalling and, in panic, flooding the engine, clearly in mind, I set out.

These thoughts, which I enjoy, keep my head out of the inevitable disappointment I know is guaranteed. Operating the car. Knowing its quirks. Feeling the accomplishment and the sense of mastery. Appreciating its beauty, style, and the craftsmanship that went into making her are all part of my pleasure.

The tree lot is jammed with people and cars. It’s slightly warmer here, and the lot is a sea of mud. The workers are tired, cold, and wet. Working for minimum wage. Hoping for tips.

No one notices the Dodge –– as expected.

I pick out the best tree I can, and with the help of a worker, tie it to the top of the car and give her a big tip. She smiles not at me but at the hundred-dollar bill.

My imagined image of happy people at the lot gathered around the car to admire and congratulate me on my good fortune remains a fantasy.

I get back in the car, praying she’ll start. My now-wet, muddy boots drip onto the floor mat. The pleasure of the experience pushed aside for the moment, replaced by anxiety at my overwrought display.

Again, I focus on the steps to start the car, and put the key in the slot. Turn it on. Press the gas pedal halfway and push the starter button. She fires. Hope lightens my chest. She dies.

I feel my face flush.

I look around. No one seems to notice. Not daring to wiggle the gas pedal, I keep my foot steady, holding it at the halfway point, knowing that too much gas will flood her and too little will starve her. I press the starter button again. She fires. I give her a small squirt of gas with the pedal. She revs a bit, and I hold her steady at a slightly high idle. As my fear of stalling fades, I slowly release pressure on the gas pedal, letting the engine slow to idle, I pull the lever into first, let out the clutch, and pull slowly out of the lot.

Now the final act of my little drama approaches. In the ads where this scene originates, family and friends greet my return and joyfully help me remove the tree from the top of the car after taking a photo with smiles and hugs all around –– thank you, Norman Rockwell.

But I knew this wouldn’t happen. I knew it when I pulled on my work boots and felt the wool against my ankles. No, the family would stay inside, not wanting to be a part of my drama.

I didn’t know then why people liked me. I thought it was my style and the things I did and acquired that people admired. I didn’t know that people appreciated me because I listened; because I was deeply interested in them, because I mostly only wanted to help. I didn’t know that stuff like that was what drew people to me.

The forty-nine Dodge was beautiful, but it wasn’t why people who loved me did so. Maybe the opposite. I now think Dodge was an obnoxious display that repelled people.

It was a beautiful car, though. And I do miss her.

The post Becoming: Christmas Fantasy appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

At fifteen, I was a fair bit taller.

I don’t remember how the argument started. But it did. Right there in the kitchen. Mom was putting dinner on the table in the nook. I’d just come down from my room, called to dinner.

I must have said something that challenged him.

Did I mean to piss him off?

No, I don’t think so. I must have crossed some line I hadn’t seen. Usually, I’m aware, very aware. I’d spent most of my life being aware of his edge, the edge between ‘everything is okay,’ and he’s pulling out his belt.

He hadn’t used his belt on me since fifth grade. Maybe I’d lost my sense of the edge with the passing years.

As I stepped into the kitchen from the hall doorway, he turned, faced me, and I noticed his face, usually without much color, turning red. I took a step back into the hall, still facing him. He took a step towards me as I backed further, now adjacent to the bathroom with its octagonal tile floor. For some reason, to escape this escalating moment, perhaps, I notice the wear on the runner at the base of the stairs, thinking, “Of course, that’s where all the traffic is.”

Dad’s lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I took another couple of steps back, watching Dad take off his apron and wad it with his hands.

He threw it on the floor.

I thought about my boxing experience. I’d been boxing at the Y and had had a couple of official bouts at this point. I knew how to hit.

I continued backing up, passing the built-in vanity where the “sharp things” drawer was, where Mom stored the sheets in the drawers below, for the downstairs bedroom.

I could see that Dad was continuing to talk, but I couldn’t make out his words. Now I was at the threshold of the downstairs bedroom. I continued to back up as Dad rolled up his sleeves, like he used to do when I was little, and he was about to pull his belt out from the loops of his pants.

Now I was backed up against the bed. And I could hear him say, “You’ll never, never, speak to me like that again.”

And he pushed my chest with both hands, hard. And I fell back on the bed.

Back on my feet in a flash. Fists more than ready.

I took a breath and looked him in the eye.

And he asked, “Are you sure you want to go there?”

I didn’t.

We stood facing each other. He shook his head, as if he knew the balance of his power and my weakness had changed in that moment. His color faded. He turned and headed back down the hall to the kitchen, stooping to pick up the apron.

I didn’t stay for dinner.

Sometimes I wished I’d hit him. Sometimes I thank wisdom for keeping me in check.

But then, I’m sure Mom would have called the cops if we’d actually come to blows. I’d been in jail a few months earlier for spending a wild night with Tom, stealing cigarettes out of parked cars, and shooting our zip guns at streetlights. Ah, the exhilaration when we actually hit one, and it shattered, bits flying everywhere.

“He’s just a regular juvenile delinquent,” Dad had said to the cop as he picked me up from the precinct, just before dawn.

If I’d hit him, I imagined jail was a real possibility.

But I know deep down, wisdom didn’t restrain me.

Fear did. Fear of him.

That was the last time he threatened me.

The post Becoming: Pushing Back appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

We waited alone, beside a train not yet ready to be boarded, Mom, Dad, and me. We were early.

Suddenly, Dad’s hands gripped my waist, and he lifted me high into the air. I must have been three. I remember the surprise of it, the rush of cold air against my face, and then I was in the hands of a stranger standing at the top of the mail car steps — a man in a nickel gray uniform, his cap tilted, his arms strong, but unfamiliar.

He laughed and said something cheerful. My father laughed too. The train jerked, couplers crunched, and we rolled forward. I screamed.

I knew — I knew — I was being given away again.

That certainty, I’m sure, came from somewhere deeper than memory. Nancy Verrier called it a Primal Wound in her book by that name — a reflex reaction built in long before words. I’d been handed off many times by then, though I couldn’t have counted them. But my body remembered. The panic, the sudden heat under my skin, the sense that my world could vanish in an instant. The train only moved a few feet before stopping, and my father reached out to take me back, concerned at my distress, although not knowing what he’d done. But something inside me had already shut tight.

Now, when I think about that day, I see how well I learned the lesson: don’t trust the arms that hold you — they might not be there when the train starts to move.

My skin spoke the language of distress before I could. Red, inflamed, erupting whenever threatened. The doctors called it dermatitis, an allergy, maybe nerves. Whatever it’s called, it’s my body’s way of saying what I couldn’t: I’m terror-stricken. Don’t give me away again. Don’t make me start over again.

That rash first showed up when I was just a few days old, according to the social worker’s report. A full-body eruption. Angry red blotches that made me look burned. It cleared up after a few weeks, once I’d settled in with the foster mother who kept notes on me — her small observations written in a looping hand: “Smiles when I smile. Likes to be held. Laughs easily; he’s a very smart boy.”

Reading her prose decades later, I could feel her love. Did I seduce her with my smile? Maybe.

Fostered and adopted children often develop winning smiles to gain favor, to survive.

Five months after birth, I was given away again — this time I was given to the Leonhardts. Adopted, and the rash came roaring back. My new mother, Betty, wrote in her diary that I couldn’t keep my milk down, that my skin was raw and red. She worried, she soothed, she did her best, reached out to the neighbor ladies for help and support. She was trying her best, but my body was screaming at the loss of the security I’d found with my foster mother.

After a time, I settled, and I remember the sounds and smells of my new Dad cutting the lawn, and I still find those sensations comforting.

Then the train trip to the east to show me off to Dad’s relatives, with the terrifying mail car experience in Chicago. I must have been on guard throughout that trip, although it couldn’t have been all bad; I’ve loved trains ever since.

The following year, when I was four, Dad broke down, mentally and emotionally. I remember the terrifying night he began throwing plates. Mom had him “committed” as they used to say. With the plate-breaking incident, my feelings of closeness with Dad and Mom tailed off. I was sent to live with Mom’s mother –– grandmother –– first in Seattle, and later in Monterey. Grandmother is mean.

Tap, tap, tap, I can hear grandmother approaching, her cane tapping. “Teddy, Teddy, where are you?” Then louder, demanding. “Don’t hide from me.”

I’m playing under the dining room table. It’s warmer there. Grandmother saves money by keeping the heat low. I’m not hiding. But I want to be hiding. Seeing the small throw rug she’ll have to cross, I imagine grabbing one corner of the rug tight and tugging it hard, the exact moment she puts her bearing foot on it, and down she goes, crashing down on the hardwood floor where the small rug used to be.

I don’t do it. The memory of that fantasy is still strong after all these years.

I do kindergarten in Monterey. The cycle began again: separation, fear, my skin erupts.

Returning from California, I entered first grade in Seattle. Now Dad is out of the institution, but Mom keeps her teaching position in Olympia. So, I’m sent to live with the McCoubreys in Seattle during the school year. They were a retired couple Mom met through church. Nice enough, but not mine. I went back to my adoptive parents for the summers, then off again, first with the McCoubreys and later a woman named Mimi, for school.

By the time I was nine, I’d been taken from and placed with new people eight times.

In protest — or maybe defiance — I flunked fourth grade. Mom had been teaching fourth.

With my being sent back, Mom left her teaching position to be a full-time mom. I think she was ashamed, as a fourth-grade teacher herself, that her son had flunked the grade.

And with my shame and embarrassment at not going into fifth grade, I was hospitalized with another full-body rash. I remember the red baths, the soothing ointment, scratchy sheets, the way the nurses looked at me — like I was contagious. Maybe I was, in a way. The stigma of being damaged goods can spread like a fever.

The hospital was terrific. Removed from my classmates and the shame of flunking, I sat in my bed, drew pictures, and read comic books like Blackhawk, Superman… and one of the young male nurses slipped me a copy of Mad Magazine. Mad showed how ridiculous the world really was.

Mom visited me every day, bringing new supplies and treats. Sometimes she would read to me. This is how I was introduced to Robin Hood and the tales of King Arthur. She’d sit by my bed, sometimes reading out loud and other times telling me interesting things from her own reading. She loved The Reader’s Digest. And I discovered the beauty of the grown-up illustrated stories through that magazine. I loved the drama and power of the comics, but I wanted to escape into the adult world. The adult illustrations showed the way.

After a week or so, my rash had reduced, and I was released from the hospital.

I didn’t have words for what was shaping me beyond the discussions Mom and I had about what she was reading and shaping the world. An interest she kindled in me, I still have. These talks helped me feel closer to her and see extended conversations as a form of love. These talks were never about anything intimate. They were about politics, wars, important people, history, social movements, stuff happening in the world.

I learned it was safest to stay quiet about feelings and anything about our family life. Mom would quickly change the subject or end the conversation if I brought up a “sensitive subject,” as Mom called anything off-limits.

I was trying to build something that looked like a life. With the Mom talks, I learned all kinds of stuff. With the adventures in the comics, I invented adventures. From magazines, I saw what my adult life could be. And what to do to be on my way there. Every school morning, I put on my smile and began dressing for what I saw as the look of cool. First, any jeans and a plaid shirt, later only Levi’s and a t-shirt, under a light jacket, with the influence of James Dean. Telling myself this was what growing up was supposed to look like. I’d already learned the standoff pose that Dean adopted. That pose was my default safe place.

Always watchful, I learned how to fade into the background, to be good, to wait until the adults were ready for me again. I learned to separate in place — to withdraw without moving, to make a hidden room inside myself where I could sit and wait until the danger passed, reading comics, or pretending to be a Blackhawk, Robin Hood, Sir Lancelot, or, later still, James Dean.

That trick became a habit, then a skill, then a way of being.

Later, in boardrooms and studios, I could be the calm one. The one who could hold the tension, who didn’t flinch when others were uncomfortable. People mistook that stillness for confidence. But it wasn’t confidence. It was survival.

Even now, when someone I care about says something sharp — not cruel, just careless — I can feel the child in me retreating to that inner room. The walls go up. My skin tightens. I go quiet. Robin, my wife, knows that look. She’s patient with it. But I can sense her concern. She grew up in a family that stayed close, a family with a deep love for each other. Her connection with her parents is strong and loving, even though they are long gone. I envy that. Sometimes I feel guilty for not feeling the same toward mine.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to understand what it means to be given away — not once, but repeatedly — and still become someone who belongs. I’ve built a career helping brands define who they are, what they stand for, and what they mean to the world — finding the through-line in the chaos. Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing for myself all along: trying to find the story that holds all the broken pieces together.

Looking back, I can trace the pattern in my skin like a map: each rash marking a time when connection failed. My body remembers what my mind tried to forget. It’s as if my skin has been the narrator all along — telling the story in raised red script.

I used to think healing meant erasing those marks. Now I think it’s more about reading them — learning what they have to say. Maybe that’s what this memoir is: my attempt to read my own skin, to understand what the body remembers when the mind can’t bear.

The Chicago train platform is long gone, but I still feel the motion of that moment — the lift, their laughter, the short, terrifying ride. The certainty that I was being given up again. Dad’s arms taking me back, not knowing he’d just confirmed that love is temporary, home is transient.

That moment set the routine — the leaving and returning, the trusting and retreating. It also gave me a way to watch closely, to see the subtle behavior shifts, to read the emotional weather. It’s helped me be better at my work later in life. As a child, I learned to read the danger. As a man, I learned to read the room.

I’ve lived a life I’m mostly proud of. I built a career, traveled the world, raised a son I adore, who gave me two grandsons. From the outside, you may not know how many times I’ve had to coax myself out of that inner hiding place. The difference now is that I know what it is. I know where it began. And I’m learning that I don’t have to disappear when I’m hurt.

I still get the rashes, sometimes. They flare when I’m under pressure, when something important feels at risk. They’re quieter now, though maybe because I’m finally listening, maybe because the child on the train has begun to trust that this time, no one’s letting me go.

The post Becoming: Given Up appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

We were having Dad’s nephew and family over for Thanksgiving.

At times like this, I usually disappear. Outside, if the weather allowed, the basement or my room, if not. But today was special. I was required to be available. So, I went to my alternate, but not-so-distant place, under the dining room table. Shielded from view. Close enough to leap into action. With its oversized chocolate-brown tablecloth hanging over all four sides, it was a pretty good sanctuary. Although today, given that it was T-day, the dining room table was the focus of the action. Given the day, playing with my little men on the darkly polished, curving supports of the table, with its brass toe-protecting caps, wasn’t nearly as satisfying. In fact, it was nerve-racking.

I heard the toilet flush and knew Mom would take her time washing her hands.

Dad was making more noise than necessary in the kitchen. A sign that ‘things’ were not right. A sign that ‘things’ would soon get worse.

I knew without looking that Mom’s eyes would still be watery, given the outburst that had sent her to the bathroom.

“Betty, where are our best carving knife and fork?”

“Ted, I’ll find them. I put them in a safe place.”

“Can you find that safe place?” Said with as much irony as he could pile into it. Usually, according to Dad, Mom’s “safe places’ were unfindable.

“I’ll find them. They’re in the cedar chest. I put them there when we started having the holidays at the Sklorenko’s.”

Walter Sklorenko was Dad’s nephew. Walter was married to Artell. Together, they had six children. The two oldest, Leslie Carol and Connie, were closest in age to me. Leslie was in her senior year of high school, and Connie, a year or so younger than me, was in her last year of middle school.

Now, with the ongoing search for the Cedar Chest for the carving set, I was between Mom and Dad. Not good. Dad in the kitchen on one side, and Mom kneeling by the Cedar Chest on the other. Dad banging pots and pans. Mom, in her nylon’s, sensible high-heeled blocky shoes, best dress, holiday apron, was on the other side of the table, carefully removing things from the chest in search of the carving tools.

Wondering if I could get away with going to the basement, I began to gather up my little men to escape when Mom asked, “Teddy, would you go to the downstairs bedroom and get the holiday napkins and table topper out of the bottom drawer of the dresser?”

“Betty,” Dad in his correcting voice, “we don’t want to use those. They’re Christmassy. This is Thanksgiving.” He paused for a moment, and I heard the signature creak of the oven door opening. Then slam shut. The spring on the oven door always did that. “Have you found those carving tools yet? The turkey is almost done. They’ll be here any minute.”

I waited. Go to the downstairs bedroom? Or…

Mom continued, “The Christmas napkins and table topper need to be washed. Please put them in the dirty clothes hamper. That way I’ll remember to get at least that done before Christmas.”

Dad, overhearing this, in his corrective voice, said, “The last time we used them, they smelled awful.” My hope of escape dimmed when Dad, after further thought, said, “Teddy, don’t do that now, I need you in the kitchen.”

Now I’m stuck, pulled into the center of the wildly fluctuating feelings swirling about the room that were steadily moving towards critical mass.

Dad, now with his projecting voice, “Betty, have you found the carving set? I could use some help in here.” It dawned on me that the Cedar Chest, like the bathroom, was Mom’s small escape place. A tiny bit of safety during escalating turmoil.

Mom found the set, and she found the other quality napkins, the ones appropriate for fancy dinners, and was now carefully repacking the Cedar Chest when I decided it was safe to support Mom’s request to put the Christmas napkins in the wash, ‘cause moving fast, I could do that and report to the kitchen in less than a heartbeat.

“Where, ya going, Teddy?”

Oops, wrong choice. Dad must have caught me out of the corner of his eye as I’d started down the hall. Without a word, I turned and entered the kitchen. “How can I help?”

Now, Mom had the Turkey half out of the oven and was checking the temperature. Dad leaning over, checking the temp himself. Mom said, “I think it needs another half hour.”

I could see the turkey barely fit. It was big. With eleven of us for dinner, Dad had worried that there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. Mom assured him that with all the other dishes, there would be plenty. Plus, Artell and the older girls were bringing sweet potatoes, a salad, pecan, and pumpkin pies.

Mom said, “Teddy, start mashing the potatoes,” as she poured the water off, placed the pot on the drain board, and handed me the masher.

Dad checked his watch and, in his demanding voice, said, “They should have been here an hour ago.” As if by saying it, they would magically appear. I focused on the potatoes and made myself small.

Then it happened.

Holding the pot of boiling green beans, Dad turned quickly, hitting Mom. The pot went flying. Mom went down.

“Betty, you gotta stay outa my way when I’m cooking.”

On the floor, clearly crying silently, Mom was picking up beans as fast as possible. Her right arm red where the pot had hit.

Dad, on repeat now, to make sure we all know who was at fault, says, “God damn it, Betty, you gotta stay outa the way.”

Just then, the Sklorenkos were pouring through the front door with all the hubbub of a happy arrival. I darted into the front room to escape, connect with the girls, relieved with the distraction.

Walter and Artell went to the kitchen, where Artell instantly figured out the scene. Walt took a look and retreated to the living room, grabbing the newspaper as he passed the desk. Artell helped Mom to her feet and got her arm under the facet, cold water running. Leslie Carol wrapped ice in a dish towel.

Dad said to all of us in his voice of logical explanation, “I don’t know how anything gets done around here, Betty’s just so damned clumsy.”

Connie looked at me with teen wisdom and whispered, “Let’s listen to your West Side Story album.” Thirteen and knowing this drama well, she headed up the stairs to my bedroom, leaving the crashing of utensils and soothing voices of Artell and Mom trying to calm Dad behind. I followed Connie up the stairs, feeling the relief that always comes with exiting.

We both know the ‘blame the mothers’ game.

We were midway through the album when Leslie Carol called us down to dinner.

The post Becoming: A Perfect Holiday appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

I was six that August. I’d be seven in a month and back living with the McCoubreys for the school year.

Our cabin counselor was all over us as we prepared to leave. He, like all the other counselors, started the morning with us standing at attention in front of our cabin, where he gave us our assignments. I imagined this was like being in the army. We each had cleaning duties in addition to packing up all our stuff. Mine was sweeping half the cabin. The floor’s broad boards were wide and dirty yellow where we walked, and a dark mud-color under the bunk beds that lined the sides. We did our cleaning duties first, with all our belongings stacked on our beds.

“Okay, men, get those sleeping bags rolled tight. There’s only so much room in the truck, so make ‘em small!” Our counselor was mainly absent. Only around for official duties, like making sure we got to sleep at night, off to breakfast in the mornings, and packing up to go home.

The word was that he spent most of his time hanging with the girl counselors.

I was happy to be going home. I’d been horribly lonely at camp and desperate to go home. Mom must have known; I got a letter from her almost every day. She wrote about home things like picking raspberries, weekend car trips, and the weather. The letters made me sad. I don’t remember getting letters from her when I was living with Grandmother.

There were things I liked at camp, like the storytelling at the nightly bonfires, the hike to Wallace Falls, and the indoor crafts when it rained, but I didn’t have any friends.

So, I spent free time with the camp goat, who was tethered to a tree on the other side of the big field from our cabins. I liked petting him and telling him things I’d discovered, though he wasn’t soft like a kitty. His body hard, his coat tight.

There were nine of us in each of the rustic cabins, plus the counselor. The walls were only one board thick. You could see through the boards where the knots had fallen out of the knot holes. The side walls had large rectangular openings with swing-down board covers we could close if it got too cold or rainy, like last night. No glass. No screens. Rustic.

There were five bunk beds in our cabin, each with musky-smelling, old feather tick mattresses –– indigo blue striped, with cotton ticking fabric –– held together with large cloth-covered buttons and thick roped edging. We slept in sleeping bags on top.

Being going home day, rolling up our sleeping bags was required. I had no idea how to roll mine. It had been rolled tight when I got it. Watching the other boys, I pushed, folded, and rolled mine as best I could, hoping it would make the cut and knowing it probably wouldn’t.

When the luggage truck arrived, we gathered around and lifted our gear up to the counselor, arranging the load. Looking at my poorly rolled bag, noting the tag, he asked, “Teddy, Teddy..?” I raised my hand, “This will not do. Roll it tight, please.” And he handed back my big, bundled, floppy mess of a sleeping bag.

Just then, one of the other counselors squeezed my shoulder and said, “Let’s see what we can do about that, Teddy. You’re Teddy, right?”

“Yes,” I said, hoping he’d roll my bag for me.

“Teddy, I’m Tom,” he said, holding out his hand. We shook.

Grabbing another bag off the truck, he led me back inside the cabin, where he untied the bag and rolled it out on the floor. “Teddy, I’m not going to roll your bag for you. I’m going to show you exactly how to do it so you can do it on your own. Okay, roll yours out next to mine.”

And I rolled out my bag onto the wide boards of the cabin floor.

“Okay, straighten it out like this, then fold it in half.” He waited while I managed to get mine folded in half, lengthwise like he had.

“Okay, tug just there, and there, so the sides align…” He demonstrated, and I copied.

Over the next few minutes, Tom showed me, step by step, how to straighten and align the bag so it was ready to roll — then, using knees and hands, how to get each turn of the bag tight. And how to get the cover and the cord ties to fit just perfectly so the bag is as small and tight as possible, with the cover leaving small circles at each end, held tight with the cords tied across and around the center of the bag.

After a few tries, my bag, though not as perfect as his, was far tighter and, probably, better than most.

Tom checked his watch. “We’re late! Let’s run.”

The truck was long gone now, so we broke into a run, each carrying our newly rolled bags, past the long row of cabins, down the little hill to the main lodge, where the truck with the luggage and the bus to the station waited.

Throwing our bags onto the truck, Tom turned to me and said, “Come back again next year, Teddy.”

And with his hand on my shoulder, he directed me to the bus. I boarded after a counselor checked my name off on her clipboard. I felt a deep comfort, a warming happiness, maybe from the lesson and the moment of shared learning. A lesson that stuck.

I’ve rolled tight sleeping bags ever since, seeing Tom’s strong hands, in memory, form each roll of the bag, then hold it with his knees until it’s safely secured with the cords drawn tight.

But there was far more to that moment than the lesson.

Tom showed me how to be a kind man. A man who knew how to do things, but knew far more than those things.

He showed how to teach with care, not ridicule and blame, or threats and coercion.

The post Becoming: Camp appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

Pushing the drying stamps on the dining room table aside, Mom sorted the mail. She and Dad were stamp collectors. I hated the clutter. Endless mail from stamp dealers and collectors added to the mess daily. The table, with its dark chocolate tablecloth, was always covered with postage stamps, bowls of water for soaking stamps off their backing, stamps drying once they floated free from the corners of envelopes, magnifying glasses, scissors, tongs, and little translucent envelopes holding various categories of stamps. To me, the whole mess of it was another example of what misfits Mom and Dad were with modern life.

Finding the official-looking manila envelope, Mom got Dad’s sharp letter opener from the desk to carefully slit open the envelope without harming the contents.

Removing a letter and brochure, she glanced at the brochure before handing it to me. Then, adjusting her glasses, she began to quote from the letter, “With this machine, you can work carnivals, circuses, and maybe county fairs.”

I took the brochure, but I imagined another world. A world of circus wagons, the big tent, a row of carnival booths, men dressed in bowler hats, with boldly striped shirts, and red bow ties with white spots. Tigers jumped through flaming hoops. Elephants trumpeted. Women with theatrical makeup flew through the air. Muscular men performed feats of strength. The smell of fresh straw and animals floated through.

This could be my life. A life I could escape to. These circus people could be my people.

Then the dream, a vivid daydream, a dream driven by my need to escape, evaporated, and I was back standing in the dining room, with its cluttered table. It was summer. And the event I most wanted to escape from came screaming back in full. I’d just flunked fourth grade.

The weight of it, crushing.

I looked at the brochure. It showed a machine with a large gear and a crank sitting on a table. The brochure said the machine was a portable, fully manual hand-crank souvenir penny press, made from robust cast iron and heavy steel. Designed to last.

Mom continued at pace, “I discovered it in a magazine. It’s a perfect income producer at outdoor events, fairs, and even boat shows. You love boats, Teddy.” Taking a breath, she went on with, “I read that this machine is perfect for making a living at popular tourist spots and attractions across the country. You’ll get to travel!” Her voice rose.

She took another deep breath and said, “I can order the machine now so you can practice using it. Dad has already agreed to loan the money.” That meant the cost of the machine would go onto the ledger where Dad kept track of the money I owed.

Mom rarely got this excited. I knew my flunking fourth was really bad. Mom had been teaching fourth grade in Olympia for the last few years, while I was boarded with a neighbor and attending school in Seattle. She and Dad had decided that it was time for her to quit and for us to live together. “Together as a family,” Mom said.

My flunking had upset everything.

“He’s stupid,” Dad said, shaking his head in disgust. “Retarded.”

He was angry, slamming doors, stomping around the house. He didn’t hit me, but he said all the expected stuff about how useless I was.

Mom, coming to my defense, said, “Don’t say ‘retarded;’ he’s just a little slow.”

I got it that Mom had been on a quest to find a way for me to make a living. Getting a job –– the fact that I was probably too stupid, maybe too slow to get a job –– had been shouted at me and Mom, mostly Mom, routinely. I stayed outside or in my room as much as possible when Dad erupted in anger and frustration over my failings.

It never occurred me –– I was only nine at the time –– that this focus on getting a job was a little weird. Preparing me “to be able to make a living” was a consistent message from both Mom and Dad.

Mom took the brochure from me and, pointing at one of the photos, said, “Look, all you have to do, Teddy, is turn the handle to press the penny for the customer and, as the brochure says, ‘ring the profits out of every sale.’

“It’s perfect for a boy with a wonderful smile, and relates well to adults, but has trouble reading.”

I felt that one. The shame swept over. Tears I didn’t want. I left the brochure on the table and went upstairs to my room, where I found the comfort of my pillow and the heavy wool Navajo blanket.

The dream of the circus was grand, but I knew I wasn’t going to spend my life turning the handle of a penny-smashing machine.

I’d flunked fourth, but my drawing had been chosen as the winner of the school safety poster contest that same year.

I knew I had a future.

The post Becoming: The Penny-Crushing Machine appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

Embraced in the warm interior, glowing gauges say all is well. Feeling safe and in control in my comforting cocoon.

It’s two AM.

Still. Dead quiet, except for the low hum of the idling engine and the tapping of the solid lifters.

Window down, I breathe in, smell the night, feel the cool air pass through me, countering the warmth of the heater, and I taste metal as though I’m part of the machine. Light sweat on my hands as my heart slips into quick time.

No one in sight. I push in the clutch. Move the shifter into first.

The light turns green. I push the gas pedal to the floor and dump the clutch. The car leaps sideways for a moment. Both rear tires scream, then catch and throw us forward. Tach hits six grand. I slam the lever into second. Sideways again for a moment as torque meets pavement. Feeling the adrenaline now as the tach sweeps to redline. There! I whip the lever into third, smelling the abuse on the tires. The hood rises again as they grip, throwing me back into the seat again. God, I love that feeling. The mechanical howl of the small block. The violence of barely muffled exhaust. Bam. I pull the shifter hard into fourth. Only small complaint from the rubber this time, as the torque falls off. Gas pedal still hard on the floor. We’re flying now, eating blacktop whole, like a shark swallows its prey. Well past a hundred.

Adrenaline lessening now. Too much fun. I let off the gas. Wind and compression take over, and we slow.

Escape. Power. Control.

Intoxicating.

~

I had some of that exhilaration –– that feeling of raw power –– in my work life. But only occasionally did the rush I get in a conference room approach the feeling of an old Corvette flat out in the middle of the night.

I suspect that my lack of control over my early life –– my fear of not having a safe place or a secure relationship with my adoptive parents –– lead me to things I could have control over. Things that returned strong feelings. Cars did that, and they were something I could control. And better yet –– they offered a way to escape.

Fast was fun, but cars were far more to me than that. Cars were style and pose. Warmth and security. They made arriving and departing events worth noting. They hinted at something more. Suggested strength, or a taste for style and perhaps, with cars, some saw my desperate need to stand apart.

~

I’m maybe eleven, playing in the yard, when I hear Wally downshift into second and his big Merc play its compression tune out the dual exhaust as he approaches. The low rumble speaks of the power of a hopped-up flathead under the Merc’s long hood. Wally chirps the tires as he double-clutches into first and turns into the alley that borders my yard.

A tall hedge separates me from Wally and his Mercury as the tires crunch on the gravel and the beast lumbers past. I barely make out the movement through the hedge, but I know Wally’s thick form is hunched over the wheel as he guides the big car down the dirt drive into the garage his mother rents from Mr. Varriano. Lingering smells of exhaust and unburnt fuel mark the passage.

Then, gone.

Wally was a bad boy who learned the pose in juvie. They said he couldn’t read. Made his money in the midnight sourcing of auto parts. Was wicked in a fight. But I never saw him fight. I expect the black leather jacket and the motorcycle boots he stole from James Dean were enough to keep anyone from seeing if he could back the pose. But with the car and the pose combined, Wally had style and the potential of violence on his side.

I didn’t have the guts to cop a pose like Wally. Dad would have knocked it out of me, literally. And I knew I didn’t really want to be Wally. But I admired his copping a style that worked for him.

~

At eleven, probably earlier, I saw cars and clothes as a big part of enabling my escape into a future where I had some control.

At twenty-nine, I bought that old corvette. That car made me feel strong.

My love of cars hung on for most of my life. It’s much diminished now, but I understand more about why and how cars have shaped me. Now I get nearly the same visceral pleasure from writing about a wild night-ride as I did from the ride itself.

Cars, clothes and attitude are all ingredients of style. They helped me feel strong. They set the stage for how we’re perceived. I most needed those props when I was outside my zone of safety, asking for more than I’ve ever asked for, or entering the presence of those seemingly more powerful than I.

Anything is possible when you’re feeling strong.

Nothing is possible when you’re not.

The post Becoming: With Cars, I Felt Strong appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.

“We both attended the junior leader overnighter. He was so earnest…”

She trailed off, lost in thought, then rummaged around in her bag, came up with a tissue, and blew her nose.

Then the tears came.

I waited.

“He wasn’t political. That was all me. I talked him into it –– though it didn’t take much. I knew he was hooked.”

She paused again. Pulled out another tissue, blotted her eyes. They were swollen.

“I was euphoric. I’de dated a little. This guy was different. And he was so good looking. I thought he’d be another one of those stuck-up guys who thinks he’s got the world on a string. But, no, he asked me stuff, and he listened.”

I made a few notes, even though the recorder was on. More to collect my thoughts than anything. I asked, “So Saturday afternoon you went to the protest, after leaving the Y?”

“It wasn’t far. I always wanted to go, with all the stuff going on, you know. And I felt safe going with him. I knew none of my friends were going –– it’s too far for them. But here I was, just two blocks away and I thought, why not. And with him. He was up for it.”

Stopping again, this time her face blank. And I think, it’s too horrible to face, she’s retreated inside.

Then she leans forward, makes a nest with her arms on the table, and lays her head down.

I wait. Take a sip of my drink and wonder if I should continue to press her.

An eon passes. Checking the time –– it’s only been a few minutes –– I watch a spider carefully making a web across the window.

She raises her head and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

“I knew it was going to be hot, so I bought some water on the way. The soldiers were already there when we arrived. I didn’t see any guns. We would have turned around if there’d been guns. Seeing the soldiers from down the block we talked about it. Guns, I mean.”

“He was eager to join up with the protesters.”

“No that’s not really it. He was showing off. He was doing this for me. To impress me.”

She drifted, for a moment. So, I asked, “Did you have to pass through the soldiers to reach the other protesters?”

“No, the soldiers were protecting the entrance of the court building. They were easy to see because they were on higher ground. But the crowd was really big; well, you saw it, you were there.”

She looked at me. No, she studied me.

Uncomfortable, I asked, “So how did you get up front.”

“Oh, he was into it and, taking my hand, he pushed our way through the crowd. He kept saying he was a journalist.”

For a moment I was holding her hand. Pushing through the crowd. Smelling sweat. Then, willing myself back, I asked.

“People bought that? You’re high school seniors.”

“Some did ask. He said ‘high school paper. The kids need to know.’ Anyway, it worked; we got right to the front…

“And then they charged.”

“Who charged? The crowd? The soldiers?”

“The soldiers. And they had these sticks.”

I didn’t notice the change right away. Somehow, she looked older now. She was looking intently at me now.

“You look a lot like him.”

I looked down at my notebook, but it was gone. I looked past her at the window. The spider was in the center of her web.

Looking around, I saw the café had emptied.

I tried to hang on. Knew now. Knew it was a dream.

And I awoke remembering the girl from the Y. I don’t remember her name.

Fully awake now, I do remember she wanted me to go to a Vietnam War protest. My frontal cortex spinning deportation protests, Nam protests, my fear of protests, my cowardice, into one.

We didn’t go.

The post Becoming: Protest appeared first on Ted Leonhardt.