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Five Minutes for France: A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear, Escape, and Lost Underwear
Five Minutes for France: A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear, Escape, and Lost Underwear
Five Minutes for France: A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear, Escape, and Lost Underwear
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Five Minutes for France: A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear, Escape, and Lost Underwear

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Out of anxious childhood beginnings, Bronwyn Wilson developed an anxiety disorder. She worried about things that would never happen. She traveled no further than the grocery store. She quit driving over bridges, riding in elevators, entering parking garages, going out at night, and refused to ever board an airplane. As she worried about possible dangers, her world grew smaller while physical ailments grew larger. Doctors couldnt find a biological cause for her hives, dizziness, and intestinal issues. Searching for answers led her to ask, how has this happened? What is anxiety? Where does it come from? Where does it lead? In her memoir Five Minutes For France, Wilson travels through the Mediterranean using the new coping skills she has learned.

How does she handle dangling in a gondola high above the town of Funchal, Portugal? How will she cope when she discovers herself sliding down a mile-long road in a wicker basket? What happens when she wanders the streets of Barcelona searching for underwear?

Wilsons story offers a message of hope and humor for those suffering from anxiety, or for those who know someone living with it, or for those simply wanting a good read. In addition, she offers eight recovery steps that helped her break free of anxietys grip and led her to physical and emotional healing.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 14, 2014
ISBN9781462408658
Five Minutes for France: A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear, Escape, and Lost Underwear
Author

Bronwyn Wilson

BRONWYN WILSON currently lives in sunny Arizona with her husband Jerry and four cats (a self-proclaimed princess, a humble sister, and two feral cats who moved into her house and never left). Previously, Bronwyn wrote feature stories and a humorous garden column for the Woodinville Weekly in Woodinville, Washington. A Master Gardener, Bronwyn has a fondness for all kinds of plantsexcluding pampas grass known to tantalize her allergies. She’s happiest when chatting with a friend or family member in a quaint coffee shop; feeding the giraffes at the Phoenix Zoo; or writing at home in her fleecy pajamas. WWW.BRONWYNWILSON.COM

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    Five Minutes for France - Bronwyn Wilson

    Five Minutes For France

    A Scenic Travel Memoir of Fear,

    Escape, and Lost Underwear

    Bronwyn Wilson

    58122.png

    Copyright © 2014 Bronwyn Wilson.

    Cover art by Jerry Wilson.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

    Inspiring Voices

    1663 Liberty Drive

    Bloomington, IN 47403

    www.inspiringvoices.com

    1 (866) 697-5313

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    ISBN: 978-1-4624-0864-1 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4624-0865-8 (e)

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2013923165

    Inspiring Voices rev. date: 4/14/2014

    Contents

    Acknowledgments

    Introduction

    Chapter 1   Garden Grove, California 1961

    Chapter 2   Woodinville, Washington February 2008

    Chapter 3   Fish Guts

    Chapter 4   First Step Out the Door

    Chapter 5   Clobbered By a Princess Wand

    Chapter 6   Disney’s Chevys

    Chapter 7   Travel Brochure Promises

    Chapter 8   Golden Moments and Flying Fish

    Chapter 9   Master Card Wedding

    Chapter 10   Get Your Pitter-Patter

    Chapter 11   Port of Call: Madeira

    Chapter 12   Elephants and Unmade Beds

    Chapter 13   Laundromat Love

    Chapter 14   Port of Call: Seville

    Chapter 15   Port of Call: Gibraltar

    Chapter 16   Port of Call: Sardinia

    Chapter 17   Port of Call: Rome

    Chapter 18   Storytelling in the Dark

    Chapter 19   Port of Call: Tuscany

    Chapter 20   Port of Call: Provence

    Chapter 21   Gucci Envy Me

    Chapter 22   Elevator Limbo

    Chapter 23   Escape the Escape

    Chapter 24   Humor on the To-Do List

    Chapter 25   A Spot of Tea and a Burning Book

    Chapter 26   Final Port: Barcelona

    Chapter 27   Mrs. B

    Chapter 28   No Goodbyes Needed

    Chapter 29   Worthy Naranjas

    Chapter 30   Going Home

    Afterword

    In memory of Beverley

    1923-1962

    For the carefree zeal of her typewriter, striking a clicking symphony of chic-chic-chika-chic in the kitchen at 2 a.m.; For affording me the opportunity to choose the color of frosting on my birthday cake. For giving me the love of words and for the blue frosting years.

    To Jerry

    For your entertaining Egyptian dances, the funny notes in the refrigerator, your support and thoughtful praise; for bringing beauty into my life with your brilliant creativity and imagination. For your love.

    To my son

    For telling me I’m one of your three favorite writers… I forgot the other two. For the cobalt blue ceramic eyeball you fashioned in your 8th grade art class and gave to me for Christmas; For the Mother’s Day you served me breakfast in bed with a buttered English muffin, red tulip in a vase, and big bowl of vanilla ice cream set on a blue Smurf tray.

    To all who have suffered, or are suffering, from anxiety and don’t care to read books written in doctorese.

    Acknowledgments

    Much gratitude goes to the special people who encouraged and inspired me−often over lunch and many cups of coffee−during the course of writing this book:

    Jerry for cheering me on, and sacrificing so I can write; my son for lifting me up with engaging humor and amusing stories; my daughter-in-law for the fun days of Tinkerbell and tea; Jodee for caring with an accepting heart and encouraging me to ‘live on the edge’; Teresa for your longtime unconditional friendship, for the fabulous Fourths, the ferry-crossing daycations and all the delicious chocolate cupcakes we dined on just before the sun came up; Alison Farmer for brightening my days with your uniquely talented inspiration of artistic beauty and cheer, and for your exquisite sunflower watercolor painting on my doorstep; Debbie Stone for your spirit of adventure and for the laughs and imagination sparked at the Purple Cafe; Janet Tracy for standing by me through my journey of recovery with your wit and wisdom and for your entertaining writing and storytelling; Susie Egan for your ingenious knack of creating fun and surprise in beautiful and artful ways, and for encouraging me at a local author’s book signing when you told me, One day that will be you; Karen Behling for your elegant cards and notes of encouragement; Suzi Freeman for your inventive ideas and not doubting my claim of writing this book, or otherwise you wouldn’t have asked to read it; Harriet Doohan for our mission and partnership on the e-zine and for bringing me up in the down times; Sondra Kephart for your warm camaraderie and saying you’d buy my book; Susan DeBow for caring about someone you never met in person.

    To all my Sistas in Redmond, Washington and in Maricopa, Arizona who prayed for me; to Judy Bodmer for your grace and courage, your advocacy of writers and your thoughtful counsel and editorial guidance; to Mick Silva for your caring wisdom and reminding me the struggle in the search is purposeful.

    To Marisa Mitchell at Inspiring Voices for hanging in there. To her colleagues Ashly Taylor, Erica Hookfin, and Amanda Parsons for making the publishing process a joy.

    Introduction

    Our cruise ship docked in Barcelona. I got off. My luggage did not. Unbeknownst to me, my bags did not make it to the terminal along with everyone else’s luggage.

    The mishap caused a deep desire to immediately replenish my lost clothing. At least, some of it. I focused on underwear. I would survive without my shirts and pants and pajamas. But not my underwear. I set out on Barcelona’s famed road La Rambla. I noticed colorful mosaics, artists, mimes and musicians. I didn’t stop to enjoy any of it. I didn’t have time. Not until I had purchased what the Spanish call ropa interior. Translation: underwear. Only then would I revel in Barcelona’s sights.

    With my focus on purchasing new skivvies, I missed out on much of the joy of exploring Barcelona’s beauty and mystique. Looking back, I see a similarity to the way I lived my life for many years. Rather than making room for the joy in my present circumstances, I focused on potential dangers and how to avoid them.

    Seeking ways to keep myself away from danger wore me down over time. I came down with a full-blown case of hives, headaches, dizziness and intestinal difficulties. Not all at once, but at various intervals to keep me continuously annoyed. I trekked from doctor to doctor. Naturally I wanted a cure. Each doctor gave me the same diagnosis after exams and tests and much scratching of their head. You’re healthy. I can’t find anything wrong, they told me. Did they think I made this up? I couldn’t believe it. How many doctors does it take? Fifteen? Twenty-one? Maybe forty? But who’s counting? Not one doctor could find anything wrong. To quote my husband Jerry, No wonder they call it a practice.

    The parental admonition to be strong and never be a sissy haunted me from a young age. I believed the erroneous idea that admitting to fear, anger and sadness demonstrated weakness. In my show of false bravery, I deprived myself of personal growth as well as happiness and freedom. I didn’t tell anyone of my inner struggle, not even Jerry. I wandered the dark caverns of my self-imposed entrapment, alone.

    I didn’t connect my inner world with my physical ailments. And I felt exasperated by the few people in my life who didn’t have a medical degree, yet felt qualified to diagnose my condition. I clearly remember a friend calling me to give me a secondhand diagnosis, Linda says your problems are due to your nerves. But she says you won’t listen! Nerves! Hah! The nerve of her to say nerves! I continued my search for a biological cause.

    This memoir follows my life with anxiety, how it developed, my search for a cure, what I discovered, and how I recovered. It also follows a scenic journey through the Mediterranean.

    This is a true story. In some instances I’ve imagined details, or converged scenes, in an effort to convey the truth of the experience or to cover for memory gaps (no one remembers the real name of the hamburger joint we patronized at midnight). I altered some sequences for context and flashbacks. Many names, as well as some characteristics, have been changed for privacy.

    My account in no way means to discredit my dad’s genuine desire to be a good parent. Everyone has, at times, given and received relational injuries. This isn’t to excuse hurtful behavior, only to understand we all have emotional wounds and that forgiveness of others and of ourselves is the only way to heal.

    Wherever you are in your life travels−if anxiety has you in its grip, I hope my journey might help you in yours. If you’ve never experienced anxiety’s debilitating stronghold, it’s my hope you’ll gain insight into anxiety disorders, a condition that affects millions.

    My story begins late at night in 1961…

    Chapter 1

    Garden Grove, California 1961

    Papa doesn’t know our secret.

    I’m in bed with my play clothes on and my saddle shoes tied tight. I’m ready to go when Mom gives the signal. I can’t fall asleep. And my little sister Shannon can’t fall asleep either. She’s in bed with her clothes on too.

    Right now Papa snores in his bed. What if he wakes up while Mom, Shannon, and I try to make our getaway? The thought makes my insides feel tight like stretched rubber bands.

    Before jumping in bed, I hollered down the hallway, Good-night Mom! I wanted to make it seem real. I’m snuggled beneath Grandma’s patchwork quilt. If it weren’t so dark, you could see its bright red, yellow, and blue squares.

    I’m ten and Shannon just turned eight. This is our fourth secret escape. Papa hasn’t caught us yet. Mom’s tapping my quilt. There’s the signal.

    I’m tiptoeing in blackness, feeling the walls as my guide. I hear Shannon ahead of me. This isn’t a time to sneeze, bang a head on an open cupboard door, or yell Ow. I tiptoe quietly like Tonto sneaking up on the bad guys. We make it to the front door and Mom opens it carefully. Crrr-eak. I brace. Did the creaking door wake Papa? We creep down the front steps. The scattered stars in the clear dark sky look like spilled glitter. Somewhere behind the hibiscus bush the crickets host a loud and crazy party.

    Silently, we tiptoe along the front walk and pass Mom’s garden of gloom. She tells us she has a black thumb. Her meaning: don’t get too attached to her flowers as they’re doomed. Her red geraniums may look healthy beneath the streetlight’s fuzzy glow. But who knows how much longer they have? Mom pays no attention to her doomed garden. She follows behind, sweeping along the walkway with the grace of a fashion model. Her dangly gold earrings sway back and forth. She doesn’t seem afraid. But I’m nervous. We’re breaking Papa’s rules. He tells us he has to have rules because he’s a strict disciplinarian.

    In the driveway, we gently open the door of our dark green 1956 Nash Metropolitan. We call it the Metro. I climb into the back seat. The air has a chill and I wish I had worn my blue jacket. Shannon doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. She bounces in the front seat.

    Mom settles behind the driver’s wheel and releases the handbrake. The Metro rolls backwards. Tires against the pavement crackle and pop like a loud bowl Rice Krispies. For cereal that’s okay. But not when you want silence. We coast in reverse, slowly inching backward down our sloped driveway. I focus on the front porch. If the light flashes on, it could mean the end of our late night adventure.

    Lock your door, Shannon, Mom says in a hushed voice. After all, you never know when muggers lurk about. Once we’ve rolled into the street, Mom turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters alive and my eyes stay glued to the front porch. It remains dark.

    Let’s go, girls! Mom whoops and guns the engine. We’re off. The Metro winds through dimly lit streets, full of ghostly shadows and puddles of light. The pale moon hovers above treetops. We zip past the old Quaker church with its lofty steeple. We breeze by the cemetery where lumpy grass and headstones mark lives that are no more. The thought that death could soon touch my world never occurs to me.

    Mama, are we going to Aunt Virginia’s? Shannon asks, making sure our plans hadn’t changed.

    You bet, Mom replies. It’s odd that my mother turns to Papa’s sister for friendship and comfort, especially since Papa and Aunt Virginia have a feud going on. I don’t know for sure what started the fight. I only know Papa suddenly forbid us to visit her. Sometimes Aunt Virginia comes to visit us, but if she sees the Metro in our driveway,− it means Papa is home. Whenever she spots our car, she continues to breeze past our house and on down the road in her turquoise, barge-sized Chrysler.

    We defy Papa’s command to not see Aunt Virginia. Her easygoing manner makes Mom feel at ease. She says Aunt Virginia is one of her best friends.

    Mama, what does the yellow light mean? Shannon wonders as we near a yellow traffic light.

    It means, Mom explains with a mischievous grin, ya better hurry up. She throws her head back and hits the accelerator. She glances at me in the rear view mirror and beams a wide smile. I realize she’s found a place where rage can’t control her. We fly through the yellow traffic light. Like a corralled pony on the loose, our car bolts down darkened side streets. Suddenly the Metro jerks to a whiplash stop. The Metro’s headlamps throw a spotlight on a tumbleweed barricade blocking our path. Mom climbs out and we watch her silhouette drag the giant spiky weeds to the side of the road. She’s Super Mom slaying giant weeds in the dark night.

    We’re off again. We pass a gas station still open for business. We turn left on the highway and the movie screen at the Highway 39 Drive-In Theater comes into larger-than-life view. Marilyn Monroe’s dark red lips and black lashes dwarf the parked cars below.

    As we pull into the parking lot of the apartments where Aunt Virginia lives with her two daughters, my thumping heart begins to calm down. I feel transported to a peaceful world where colorful outdoor garden lights cast pools of fluorescent green and blue on palm trees.

    I hate Papa, I told Mom a few days ago, after enduring another one of his horrid, painful punishments. Shannon said she felt the same way. I waited for Mom to tell us why we shouldn’t feel the way we do, that he’s our dad after all. But she said nothing.

    We knock on 3C and Aunt Virginia’s door springs open. Hi, Aunt Virginia says, giggling like it’s gift-time on Christmas morning. Aunt Virginia could easily be the lady from the Lustre-Crème shampoo commercial. She has brassy blonde curls like Grace Kelly. Her husband, Uncle Johnny, died unexpectedly over a year ago. She now raises her two daughters on her nursing income. We all miss Uncle Johnny, a kind man with movie star good looks. But on this night, it’s time for fun.

    Mom and Aunt Virginia chat at the kitchen table. I can’t hear their conversation. I bet they’re talking about Papa. Aunt Virginia has a frown and twists a lock of her hair with her fingers.

    My cousin Marcia turns on the record player and soon I forget about sadness or Papa. I’m dancing to You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog and Marcia shows me new dance steps to try. Marcia is older than me by five months and believes her age advantage allows privileges. Aunt Bev, can I baby-sit Bronwyn and Shannon sometime? Mom smiles in amusement and doesn’t answer.

    Uh, ahem, excuse me. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m in the fourth grade.

    Soon we’re danced-out. We converge around the TV. We watch Johnny Carson and slurp mugs of Sanka with more sugar and milk than anything else. All of a sudden Aunt Virginia grabs her keys, We’re going to Swanee’s.

    The thought of Swanee’s hamburgers and milkshakes at midnight causes us to shout as we race toward Aunt Virginia’s big, honkin’ Chrysler with the snazzy chrome fins.

    We pile into Aunt Virginia’s car, laughing and shrieking.

    Girls, you’ve got to be quiet or you’ll wake the neighbors−if you haven’t already, Aunt Virginia says as she settles in the driver’s side. Nanette, the gray fluffy poodle, jumps and hops in the front seat like she has the caffeine jitters. Her tail wags fifty miles per hour as she settles down beside Mom on the passenger side. Us girls have plenty of room in the back seat as we rumble along.

    At Swanee’s, the car-hop meets us in the parking lot. From my backseat view, I focus on Mom’s wavy dark hair and glossy red lipstick. Mom never goes out, even at midnight, without her makeup applied or hair brushed perfectly or her earrings on. Teresa, my best friend, says Mom is glamorous.

    I now feel relaxed and happy.

    At home everything is different. I don’t know when Papa will turn from jolly dad to angry boogeyman. I’m constantly alert. Making too much noise while he’s watching TV or leaving my roller skates on the front sidewalk are opportunities for his angry face and punishment. I try to be on my guard at all times, but it’s not easy.

    I know Mom is unhappy. I see her sadness all the time. On rare occasions, Papa hitches a ride to work, and Mom has the Metro car for the day. She’s off to Buffum’s and the Broadway where she loses herself in cosmetics, jewelry, and lacy blouses.

    At home she loses herself in writing her book, a story based on her real-life experience as a Navy WAVE during World War II.

    But she hasn’t figured out how to escape the constant quarreling and fury that dampens the longed-for harmony. I hear my dad’s harsh voice in the early morning hours. He calls out hurtful words. The front door bangs shut. The Metro’s engine whines as the car blasts out of the driveway. I find Mom crumpled at the breakfast table in her dainty blue-flower print nightgown. Why are you crying, Mom? I ask. She always responds, I’m all right. Are you ready for school?

    Each weekday morning begins on a cheery sing-song note. Beverley (pronounced like Bev-verrrrr-leeeee), time to wake up, Papa’s cheerful voice rolls down the hallway, sounding like he’s on an amusement ride. Papa always starts out in the cheery voice. Like clockwork, Mom drags herself from bed at his calling.

    The daughter of a Baptist minister, Mom grew up in an atmosphere of always doing what’s expected. She tells me her childhood felt like living in a fishbowl. Parishioners actually walked into the three-story parsonage she grew up in without knocking. They believed the house belonged to them as well. If Mom did anything other than what was expected of a preacher’s daughter, teachers commented, I never would have dreamed you’d do anything like this, Beverley. You’re a preacher’s daughter after all!

    Mom has a fun-loving side. Once, when Shannon and I came home from school, she said to us, Go look in your jewelry boxes. We raced to the jewelry boxes resting on our chest of drawers. Inside, we found gold necklaces holding a tiny gold box. One for each of us. We flipped open the tiny gold box hanging at the end of the chain and an even tinier gold Mickey Mouse popped out like jack-in-the-box. We giggled. We love Mom’s surprises.

    In the morning, Mom’s all business. Robot-like, she places a pot of boiling water on the stove for Papa’s usual Cream of Wheat. She dumps bacon grease in a frying pan for his fried egg. As I leave for school, I often notice Papa’s plate on the kitchen table. In a glued mass of mush, his half-eaten plate of buttered hot cereal gawks at me.

    When I first heard of Robert Louis Stevenson’s tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I knew something of Papa. The fun Papa took us on jaunts to the beach and sang songs in the car along the way. Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful daaaaay… I never knew when Papa’s jolly face would suddenly turn sour. Without warning, mean Mr. Hyde would suddenly appear, speaking through his teeth with glaring eyes fixed on me. Many offenses could ignite his anger. Often followed by the dreaded punishment. At times, the offenses were ones I didn’t know were offensive. Perhaps I’d answer a question with I don’t know. Suddenly angry Papa would emerge, followed by severe punishment. I’d then realize answering I don’t know counted as an offense.

    Although Papa is handsome, he looks hideously ugly to me when he speaks to me in his angry, hissing voice. His menacing brown eyes scorch holes straight through me. Shannon and I shudder in fear whenever his mood changes. Who would Papa be today? we often wonder.

    On this particular night of our secret escape, we return home. I have a lightness now after the fun time at Aunt Virginia’s.

    We begin the usual drill, tiptoeing back to our rooms in the darkness. We’ve done this easily before.

    Out of nowhere, the lights flip on in the hallway.

    Papa’s form comes into full view. He’s tall and slim with fierce eyes. He stands in the hallway beside the light switch. He’s motionless, like a statue dressed in a white t-shirt and blue-print boxer shorts. He squints, adjusting to the blast of light. Who knows how long Mr. Hyde stood there, in the dark, waiting for us? He doesn’t say a word. He glowers.

    He didn’t glower when Mom first met Papa. She tells me she met him while working in a Denver soda shop during her college days after the war. She explained his dancing brown eyes, boyish grin and disarming charm caught her attention. Papa liked to order the shop’s special soda called the 400, prompting Mom to begin calling him the 400 Guy before she knew his actual name. The 400 soda sparked friendly discourse, then kidding and laughing, on to dating, and elopement six weeks later.

    Mom didn’t know about Papa’s angry mood until after she married him. She once explained to me that Papa’s anger started up in his childhood. His mother didn’t give him much love when he was a kid, she said, adding, One day he came home from school and she had moved without telling him. He lived with your Aunt Myrtle after that.

    Papa’s dad died when he was five years old. Mom believes this event has a lot to do with his dark moods. She explained that after his dad’s funeral, Papa sat on the front steps of his house and complained to one of the friends or neighbors who stopped by. I wish it had been Mother who died instead of Daddy.

    Mom said, Your grandma overheard his complaint. And she held it against him throughout his growing up years.

    But knowing the reason doesn’t help us this night. Papa’s usual perfectly-combed pompadour droops over his forehead. He shoots death rays with his dark eyes.

    My feet, the ones that danced earlier to You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog, don’t feel like dancing any more.

    Chapter 2

    Woodinville, Washington February 2008

    May I ask where you’ll wear this? the cashier asks as he scans the swimsuit’s tagged barcode. He sounds skeptical. Apparently he’d scanned dozens of fleece-lined parkas, rain ponchos, and thermal underwear before my skimpy swimsuit came through his checkout line.

    I’m going to the Mediterranean, I say with a hint of ecstatic glee.

    The cashier’s eyebrows jump up. He looks at me as if I said I’m blasting off to the planet Pluto attired in my new swimsuit.

    It occurs to me I have just declared my destination without any apprehension.

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