The Attic

Picturing  an eight year old looking out a musty attic with make shift louvered windows exposed to the elements. I  held my  breath as he continued on this morning, listening as my husband described his living conditions growing up in his home, his bedroom. Not often has he spoken of life on Ontario Ave. Usually with some disconnection, acting as though every child had the same experience as him. This morning was different, why  I am not entirely sure.  It has been a time of release, forgiveness, room to let go, heal, understand. This is the first time I saw a true connection of horror in himself, for the little boy who came out of such an environment.

This is also why I understand from my soul why he loves Walt Disney. Why he  is so drawn to  The Company when it really is so the opposite of who he really is. I can barely contain myself as I am writing this. This is the love of my life I am writing about, and I know his pain so deeply. After thirty years in a relationship together, you know each other's owies. I know the little boy in the attic.

Though he could not possibly believe me throughout the years, that is the boy I have loved and held so dear to my heart. That is the boy that would learn at such an early age to create. That is where this story really begins.

The Attic. I cannot deal with this place as a mother  thinking of my children. I knew this place, he took me up there the first Thanksgiving I  ever went to his house. I was 20 years old and just plain stared. It was dirty, moldy, dark. I don't think it was any different from the time of his boyhood. Back then  the only thing covering the walls were burlap. Behind them exposed wire, no drywall. Rickety, dangerous, steep  unfinished stairs, leading down to the kitchen his father had built before leaving their family. 

An extension cord hooked up  from downstairs was his only form of electricity. The firetrap he lived in was inconceivable. As he walked up the stairs as a small boy, the overwhelming stench of rats at times, dead and alive would frighten him to the point that he would finally act as though it just wasn't there. 

My heart breaks for the man I love,  who deserved to be loved, nurtured, comforted. Instead a little boy went deeply into a fantasy world, which much later came to serve The Disney Family, more than they could ever know.  

Life is funny like that. What pains us so greatly in our childhood, becomes our greatest strengths in adulthood. Not having a TV or radio, Ray created. He put things together. His love of  erector sets, trains, fascination with how things were made stimulated his mind.At the age  of twelve, Ray decided to get some cheap wood paneling and make a room. Goodbye burlap.... he began figuring out for  himself how to create spaces.  For the ceiling, no more exposed rafters, cork panels. I sometimes wonder if his Grandfather had been able to see what circumstances he was living in upstairs ..... I  guess I just so much wished for him a gentler life.  But everything was about hiding and pretending. Life based on fear. Waiting for the welfare check. Living in such a beautiful area, beautiful neighborhood. Praying everyone would not know all your family secrets.  Pretty hard to hide the stumbling father who wanders to the neighbors for another drink.  

I could not be prouder of the man my husband is. The boy who lived through so much fear, and is finally feeling it enough to say I  never deserved that. No one does, ever. A mother who checked out Spent every penny and sold everything, even what was the boys. I understand even more why Christmas has been unbearable for my husband. He would work at  the local hobby shop. His mother would put his Christmas Present on credit, never pay it... and Ray would have to work it off. I am learning to forgive for his sake. We need to forgive together.

This Christmas was beautiful. We went to The Train Store  together, and he picked out what he
wanted. Was I as patient as I could have been? Working on it in Train Stores.

I understand why he creates, why he goes  so deep into a process most will never understand, including myself at times. Walt Disney is a very lucky Company indeed to have this creative man.  He is the Epitome to me, of what an Imagineer is.... A dreamer and a doer.