My Story by Lisa Boston Frye

 

         When I told my friend, Stephanie, that I was writing my story and presenting it to this class, she said, “Are you going to tell the truth?”  I thought, why wouldn’t I?  So here it is, the truth as I remember it, and my story.

           I was born an identical twin, the oldest by seven minutes, in February of 1956, which makes me 44 years old.  I like to tell people that when I was born I kicked Lynn in the face on my way out and it’s been a battle ever since, but that would be a lie because I was born breach, feet first. 

           We are twins who share identical DNA, but separate people who have traveled opposite paths, made separate choices, led different lives.  She’s been somewhat respectable, seemingly carefree, while I have lived recklessly however burdened with responsibility.  She always had money and clothes, I was chronically broke, a paycheck away from homelessness.  I have 3 kids and now a husband; she has a Shitz’tsu.  Lynn has lived, since high school, in apartments in South Boston, Quincy, Melrose, and now Winthrop, two in from the ocean.  She vacations in places like Paris, The Canary Islands, and sometimes Florida.            

            I have lived in other people’s homes, in their back rooms, on their couches, once in a tent.  I’ve wandered and resided in different parts of the country: a log cabin in Idaho; a trailer in upstate New York; an empty house in Reno; a hotel room in Las Vegas; the desert in Arizona; a campground in California.  Instead of vacationing for two weeks a year like a normal person, I have regularly moved to a destination in order to experience it.  My motto has been, “If youíre gonna be broke, you may as well be someplace nice.”  

           There were six children in our family, four girls and two boys.  We grew up on Main Street, South Berwick, Maine in a run down colonial style house, under the supervision of an overwhelmed mother, Virginia, and a stressed out workaholic father, Quentin.  We were poor because there were so many of us.  Our house was cold in the winter, but we did have a fireplace that was often lit, sometimes to toast marshmallows and hotdogs.  We hung stockings on the mantle on Christmas Eve, real wool socks from my fathers underwear drawer.  We didn’t have many toys, but I can still remember a brown felt bean bag doll from the early years, which I dragged around until all the beans fell out.  My first sad memory. 

           Because we had to create our own entertainment, my sisters and I would write plays and act them out for the neighborhood kids.  We produced variety shows, told fortunes, sold kool aid and cotton candy.  I remember singing a heartfelt,  Mela Femina, a song by Connie Francis, which was popular at that time.  We didn’t have many books, but we had the classics, and I read Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights over and over again.

           Before you start believing that ours was an idyllic, Little Women type existence, you must enter other elements into the mix, such as a charismatic Uncle Elijah, the war hero and pedophile, Uncle Bud the wife beater, and my Cousin Tommy, the hapless victim of a messy axe murder.  We grew up amid loud arguments and alcoholism, and regular physical and verbal abuse.  Most times, we children would escape our home to do our own thing.

           I remember spending long summer days with friends, tramping down the railroad tracks, leaving one town and entering another.  A variety of dead animals in various forms of injury and rot we would step over and examine closely.  I believe it was after many of these discoveries that I decided not to pursue the nursing career that my aunt Elsie had hoped for.

           Instead I entered the elegant world of shoe factory work.  It was five years of dust and dirt with no air conditioning or air to breathe, and the surroundings were made more intolerable by the dragging of suede across your legs as the fibers stuck to your sweaty skin and clothes.  Although the place was dreary and the labor manual, the ones who worked there were full of fun and life. 

           I remember Josie, a 40 year old Italian ball buster who would holler across the room at our foreman, Rocco,  “Hey, Hosenose!”  She operated an eight needle sewing machine, and pushed herself daily to meet the demands of the factory and her large family.  Elaine was always selling something and she talked through the mirror at a younger me.   

           I remember Arizona, we are rushing to get ready, before darkness fell, my friend Leslie and I, in a camper with no electricity.  We cross two deserts, climb a barbed wire fence, crawl through a tunnel to reach the highway, so we can hitchhike to The Yacht Club, a local bar.

             I remember an outdoor rock concert at August Acres, a replica of Woodstock.  I whoosh back in time, to hear Arlo Guthrie’s voice singing, City of New Orleans, the music pounds in my brain as a rope of friends run barefoot, hand in hand through the kaleidoscopic crowd, weaving single file, stepping on blankets, people, trash, racing for the stage to get a better view. 

                              I am riding the hood of a girlfriend’s car down Main Street, the horn is blaring, a pitcher of beer is clutched in one hand, as I hold on with my other.  On the way back through town, a police cruiser follows closely, the siren is shrilling, high pitched and annoying. 

           After leaving a night concert in Massachusetts, we are heading North on 95, and I yell for Butch to stop the van.  I bound into the darkness clutching my pocketbook and a bottle of Christian Brothers Brandy.  I cross the highway and start hitchhiking for South Boston.  I never wanted the party to be over. 

           I was very reckless and “live for the moment” when I was younger, and sometimes found myself in disturbing situations, but somehow I survived with not much visible damage, and now I am quite settled down.               

           I have since worked six years as a bartender, eight years with people with disabilities and at various other jobs.  As I approached 40, I asked myself what I would do if I ever won the lottery.  My answer was to become educated.  After taking a keyboarding class at my local high school, and several classes at CLL, I decided that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life tied to the job I had, so I gave my notice.  After a year of working at many different places, I became an operator.  While no happy ending, I almost tripled my income which is somewhat important.

                               I’m happy, after many years of restlessness, with the person I’m becoming.  Although it has been a struggle to remain stable after years of aimlessness and lack of focus, I am now anchored and on course.  I do have many things to be thankful for.         

           I am the queen of my world.  My husband, Rusty, my children, Wendy, Meagan, and Russell adore me, and I them.  My granddaughter, Rebecca, when she visits from North Carolina, says, “Hi Mammy!” with excitement and a smile. 

            I have kept the same treasured friends for almost thirty years.  Sheryl, Stephanie, Lynda, Leslie, my friend Joanne who is now my sister in law.  Most of them knew me before I reached puberty, and they tolerate me still, as I approach menopause.  We have lost touch on occasion, but there’s been a  connection that has always pulled us back into each other’s lives.  I call it a lifeline.

           After many years of renting, I recently purchased a seven year old, four bedroom split level home on three beautiful wooded acres.  My job is reasonably secure, although usually boring.  My classes are  paid for, I only  have to purchase books.  When I retire from the phone company, I  hope to have earned a doctorate degree in something, debt free, and to be as educated as I’ve never dreamed I could be. 

           I quit smoking four months ago, after a 30-year addiction.  I have started walking, am trying to get into shape, to get healthy.  Life is good now.  Although I am, at 44, middle aged, fat, and no longer beautiful, I am happier, more content, more at peace than I have ever been. 

           In the future, I plan to continue taking classes here at CLL.  I would like to write a book.  I sometimes ask my friends who they would like to play them in the movie.  I have big dreams. 

           This class has meant a lot to me.  I am truly grateful for this opportunity to meet you all.  I have listened in awe as you have shared freely your most painful experiences.  You are molding your lives into a triumph.  I hope someday to do the same.