The sound of saws and electric screwdrivers. The sound of a tool such as a chisel or a gouge on a turning piece of cherry, pine, maple, ash.  My father was a demonic abuser but also an artist with woodworking.  I never knew what was going to happen around him.  At any moment he would hit me for no reason. And then other times… Nothing. It means my father was still in the basement working and I was safe if I could hear wood working tools and machines. It was when the noises stopped that I would run to my room and hide.  Be more quiet than the smallest baby mouse.  Still, sometimes he would find me. I never knew what kind of mood he would be in when he came up that long flight of two dozen stairs.

If his project went well, he was okay.  I would occasionally be allowed to use the Shop Vacuum to clean out the inside of his table saw.  However, if his project did not work out correctly, I was the punching bag for his fury and so was my mother.  My older sister, she was never harmed. First born girl in the family and daddy’s favorite.  I was supposed to be a boy.  That is what he often told me.  I was supposed to be born a boy to play ball and to teach wood working too. 

My father is a math wizard.  He would help me with geometry (at the request of my demanding stepmother).  He drew the plans for the house he built.  He taught me to play chess.  Yet, he did not know that he controlled whether I was going to be a boy or a girl.  He had to throw the “Y” chromosome to get the boy he wanted.  He always blamed me and my mother. “We did it on purpose!” That is how he would accuse us.  For those who say ignorance is bliss… you are so terribly wrong.