Edgar Oliver: The Apron Strings of Savannah

Summary

Summary of "Edgar Oliver: The Apron Strings of Savannah" by The Moth

Episode: Edgar Oliver: The Apron Strings of Savannah
Release Date: December 14, 2009
Host: Dan Kennedy
Storyteller: Edgar Oliver
Recorded: January 2006 at The Moth Main Stage
Theme: Last Stories About Endings

Introduction

In this poignant and captivating episode, Edgar Oliver shares a deeply personal narrative titled "The Apron Strings of Savannah," exploring his tumultuous childhood and the profound impact of his mother's controlling nature on his journey to self-discovery. Recorded in January 2006, Edgar's story delves into themes of familial bonds, artistic identity, and the desperate quest for independence.

Childhood Under Mother’s Control

Edgar begins by painting a vivid picture of his early life in Savannah, where his mother, Helen, exerted an almost omnipresent control over the household.

"[00:02:59] Edgar Oliver: Mother used to always say to us, Savannah is. Is a trap. It'll try to imprison you. Even if you manage to get away, it'll find a way to drag you back."
This metaphorical "trap" symbolized the constraints his mother placed on the family, fostering an environment of suspicion and isolation.

The household dynamics were tight-knit yet repressive, with little room for outside interaction. Edgar recounts the family's isolation:

"[00:03:31] Edgar Oliver: We're different. We're artists."
This declaration underscores the unique identity his mother instilled in him and his sister, Helen, fostering their artistic inclinations but simultaneously alienating them from their community.

Life on the Move

The family's life was characterized by constant movement, driven by his mother's paranoia and distrust of others. Edgar describes their daily migrations:

"[00:04:01] Edgar Oliver: And then there was the world. As though we were lost in it. We were like three lost children."
Their relentless driving, covering hundreds of miles each day, became a metaphor for their inability to truly settle or find peace.

The Haunted Household

Their home was a fortress of secrets and fears. Edgar vividly describes the oppressive atmosphere:

"[00:06:35] Edgar Oliver: That were locked and filled with mothers secrets."
The presence of locked chests and an aversion to darkness further emphasized the family's hidden tensions and fears.

Rituals and Superstitions

Edgar shares memories of their mother's adherence to gypsy witchcraft and various rituals that governed their daily lives. These practices heightened the sense of fear and control within the household:

"[00:07:09] Edgar Oliver: Eat the next day."
"[00:07:17] Edgar Oliver: Go on a banana split diet."
These bizarre dietary restrictions and nightly Ouija board sessions instilled a constant state of anxiety and uncertainty.

Social Isolation and Bullying

The siblings rarely interacted with other children or adults, leading to social isolation. Edgar recounts the ostracization they faced:

"[00:09:53] Edgar Oliver: You all talk funny. You're not from here, are you? Where are you from? Are you from Transylvania?"
Such taunts fueled their alienation, as classmates projected their fears of the "haunted" household onto Edgar and Helen, further deepening their isolation.

Secret Plans for Independence

As Edgar and Helen grew older, their desire for freedom intensified. They meticulously planned their escape to Paris, symbolizing their yearning to break free from their mother's oppressive grip:

"[00:15:26] Edgar Oliver: Our longing to get away from Mother began to grow very deep."
Their secret preparations, including forging financial independence and arranging travel plans, showcased their determination to carve out their own lives.

The Farewell and Transformation

The climax of Edgar's story is the emotional farewell as he leaves for Washington to attend George Washington University. This moment signifies the painful but necessary step towards independence:

"[00:19:00] Edgar Oliver: All round from under her crocheted hat. She was swinging her arms as she walked. She looked like a clown walking away."
The visual of his mother walking away, dressed eccentrically and seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the moment, encapsulates the complex emotions of leaving behind a tumultuous yet formative upbringing.

Reflections on Identity and Freedom

Edgar concludes by reflecting on how these experiences shaped his identity as an artist and his relentless pursuit of personal freedom:

"[00:12:44] Edgar Oliver: I think that we somehow thought that Mother would always be there to do the driving."
This realization underscores the lingering influence of his mother's control and the ongoing journey toward self-actualization.

Conclusion

Edgar Oliver's "The Apron Strings of Savannah" is a moving testament to the struggle between familial duty and personal freedom. Through evocative storytelling, Edgar illuminates the challenges of growing up under an overbearing parent, the pain of breaking free, and the enduring quest to define one's own identity. His narrative not only captivates listeners with its raw honesty but also resonates with anyone who has grappled with the desire to escape and the bittersweet journey toward self-discovery.

Notable Quotes

• "Mother used to always say to us, Savannah is a trap. It'll try to imprison you." — Edgar Oliver [00:02:59]
• "We're different. We're artists." — Edgar Oliver [00:03:31]
• "You all talk funny. You're not from here, are you? Where are you from? Are you from Transylvania?" — Edgar Oliver [00:09:53]
• "Our longing to get away from Mother began to grow very deep." — Edgar Oliver [00:15:26]

Final Thoughts

Edgar Oliver's story is a powerful exploration of the ties that bind and the courage required to sever them. It serves as a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of seeking one's own path amidst adversity.

Transcript

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[Dan Kennedy]

Welcome to welcome to another Moth Podcast. My name is Dan Kennedy. The Moth, as you know, is all about true stories and they're told live on a stage. They're told without notes. They're told without anything that could save your soul while you're burying it in front of a crowd standing in front of a microphone. The stories that you hear on the podcast are taken from events here in New York City, also in Los Angeles, in Chicago, in Detroit, and all over the country when the Moth is on tour. Find out more about the Moth by visiting the site themoth.org the story you're about to hear is by Edgar Oliver and it was recorded back in January of 2006 at the Moth main stage. The theme of the night was Last stories about endings. And I should say this is our second story by Edgar Oliver that we've featured on the podcast end and when we did the first story we heard from a lot of people from the site in email and whatnot, that apparently a lot of you thought that Edgar was an actor playing a part. And let me tell you this, that I know Edgar and I see him around at a lot of events here in New York and I'm here to tell you that he's the real deal, that when you hear him, that is who he is. If you bumped into him tomorrow on 3rd street and you said hi to him, that is who you're going to meet. So today we'd like to present a story that Edgar calls the apron strings of Savannah. But we at the Moth like to call it the story of how Edgar became Edgar.

[Edgar Oliver]

Ah. Mother used to always say to us, savannah is. Is a trap. It'll try to imprison you. Even if you manage to get away, it'll find a way to drag you back.

Mother also used to say, beware of other people. They won't understand you.

We're different.

We're artists. So all throughout my childhood, it was.

Just the three of us. Mother, Helen and me.

And then there was the world. As though we were lost in it. We were like three lost children.

Mother, Helen and me.

No one ever made it into our house, especially relatives. Mother was deeply suspicious of relatives. And if some old friend from Mother's past did dare to pay a visit, they wouldn't have been there very long when Mother would begin sobbing and screaming. You've been listening to the vicious gossip about me. I can tell you've been listening to the vicious gossip about me. And she would advance on them and they would back out the front door and flee, never to return. At which point we would all three run outside and jump in the car and zoom, zoom off with Mother driving like a maniac. All throughout my childhood, we drove obsessively. At least 200 miles a day. Sometimes 300 anywhere, really. They were aimless drives. It didn't matter where we went, just so long as we were on the go. And Helen and I did our homework in the car, which to this day I believe deeply affected both my and Helen's handwriting, which no one can decipher. And at night we would. At night we would return to the house on 36th street and lock ourselves in. And then we would plunge the downstairs into darkness and all three make the terrifying journey upstairs together, where we would lock ourselves in upstairs for the night. We were all three so terrified of the dark that it never would have occurred to any of us to have a room of our own. So we all three slept together in the upstairs front bedroom. The rest of the rooms upstairs were stacked to the rafters with chests of drawers and trunks and armoires and boxes.

That were all locked and filled with mothers secrets.

We'd all three lie on our narrow beds in the front bedroom and beneath dim shaded lamps. And Mother would shuffle her gypsy witchcrafts. And Helen and I would read, which we did madly. And Mother would ask the gypsy witchcurds things like what she should have to.

Eat the next day.

Eventually the gypsy witchcrafts convinced Mother to.

Go on a banana split diet.

And invariably, at some point. Mother would beg Helen and me to rub her feet. So Helen and I would take two. Sitting at the foot of Mother's bed for hours. Kneading and twisting and tickling and pulling at her feet. We played this little piggy with Mother's toes. Deep into the night. Often in the middle of the night. Mother would decide that we had to talk to the Ouija board. So we'd all sit around the board with our fingers poised lightly on the planchette. When Mother was at the board, the planchette would fly around wildly. And the board would say things like. Tonight is the night of the killer. Don't go to sleep or you'll wake up dead. So we'd sit in our beds waiting for the killer to strike. But sometimes the Ouija would say, he's coming tonight. Get out now. So we would all dash downstairs and jump in the car. And go check into the Travel Motor Lodge on Bay Street. Which Helen and I always loved because we loved staying in motels. But the man at the checkout, at the reception desk. Always found it rather odd. Because he knew that we lived in Savannah.

Helen and I had almost never spoken to a grown up.

In fact, grown ups used to wonder.

Out loud what our voices sounded like.

About the only times we would speak to grown ups.

Would be when we went to drive ins.

Which. Which we did a lot, since we were always driving. And Mother was so paranoid that she refused to place an order. She didn't want to speak to the people at the counter. So Helen and I would have to go up and make the order. And invariably the girl at the takeout counter would peer over the counter at us and say.

You all talk funny.

You're not from here, are you? Where are you from? Are you from Transylvania? And then she would say, come look at the two little Transylvanian children. Are you two twins? If ever any of our friends from school ever did walk home with us. As soon as they saw what house we lived in. This look of terror would come over them. And they would say, you live in that house.

How do you dare go inside?

I wouldn't dare set foot on the front porch. That house is haunted. And then their look of terror would.

Transfer itself from the house to us.

And they would back away from us.

And say, your mother is a witch.

And then they would run off. Without even saying goodbye to us over their shoulder. Helen and I always wondered why other children reacted that way. And we decided that maybe it was.

Because sometimes when mothers Sorrowful rages took hold of her. She would go into the backyard and climb a ladder onto the roof of the shed. And she would stand on the roof.

And claw the air and curse the sky in her rage. When I was 13 and Helen was.

14, we began to study French obsessively.

It became our secret language that Mother couldn't understand. And we would speak French to one another madly, for hours while rubbing Mother's feet. Those conversations with Helen in French were. Were some of the most passionate conversations I've ever had in my whole life. We dreamt of being poets and painters and wild bohemians. And rolling drunk in the Goddess of Paris. Even when I was in high school, it never occurred to me that I.

Would ever learn to drive. Helen never learned to drive either.

I think that we somehow thought that.

Mother would always be there to do the driving. We did, however, both get bicycles, which we kept in the downstairs hall. At this point, Mother had begun to practice self hypnosis.

Helen and I would sit beside Mother as she lay on the upstairs couch. And put herself through a series of hypnotic auto suggestions. Mother would tell herself that she would feel full of self esteem and really good about herself. And that she would no longer be.

Driven to eat banana splits.

And when Mother had placed herself in.

A deep, sound, hypnotic sleep. Helen and I would rise quietly and sneak downstairs.

Mother kept a folding chair wedged under the front door knob. With two long strands of camel bells dangling from it. Mother said that the ringing of the bells would warn us in case a burglar tried to get in.

But Helen and I had become convinced that Mother kept the camel bells there. So she would hear us if we tried to leave in secret. Very slowly and carefully, we would move the chair out from under the front door knob. Which, without making a single one of the camel bells ring.

Then we would grab our bikes and run outside and quietly shut the door.

And zoom off on our bikes alone, without Mother together. The most wild, adventuresome feeling. But invariably, no matter how far we'd gotten into what godforsaken stretch of town.

We would look back over our shoulders and there would be Mother's blue Chevy, too. Bearing down on us at top speed. With Mother at the wheel biting her lip and driving like a maniac trying to drive us off the road. It seemed like Mother didn't care whether she killed us. So long as she stopped us going off without her.

Our longing to get away from Mother began to grow very deep. When I graduated from high school, we all three took the train up north to Washington. Helen and I were going to attend George Washington University. And we were all going to live together in that room on the top floor of Mr. Schwoyer's rooming house in Georgetown.

And it would be the three of.

Us, like it always was. Like it always would be. But Helen and I knew that that summer would end differently. We were going to run away together to Paris. We had made our plane reservations in secret. We had some money in trust from our father, who had died before I was born of a morphine overdose. We wrote to the bank in secret, asking that the monthly checks be sent in our names and no longer in our mother's name. By running away, we were pulling the financial rug out from under Mother's feet. At the end of the summer, I began to pretend to go to my classes at gw but instead I would go every day to the Greyhound bus station to put quarters in a locker where we had our luggage kept. The day came for us to fly away. Neither of us had ever flown before. But what concerned us was getting Mother to go to the National Gallery alone, without us. I think I said that I had to go to my classes at gw and Helen said that she was feeling sick. I kissed Mother goodbye and I walked downstairs and I waited in the alley that ran along the side of the house. Helen was going to pull one of the blinds down in the top floor bay window as a signal to me that Mother had left. I was waiting in the alley, waiting to betray Mother. I peered around the side of the house. Mother had just walked out the front door. She was walking away. Her back was to me. She was walking away downhill to catch the bus at the foot of 30th Street. She was wearing her big Harris tweed men's overcoat like she always did, and her crocheted hat that she had made herself that was shaped like a ziggurat.

And her loony boots that she had ordered from the Mershire Hill shoe catalog that had fur tongues and that looked.

Like boots a bear would wear.

And her wild hair was poking out.

All round from under her crocheted hat.

She was swinging her arms as she walked.

She looked like a clown walking away. Thanks.

[Dan Kennedy]

Edgar Oliver is a renowned poet, playwright and performer. He's based in New York City. The Moth is a non profit organization. I bet you've heard me say, say that far too often. I just want to ask you to consider supporting our free podcast or becoming a Moth member. There's lots of honor involved in both things, so visit the website and find out more themoth.org where you can also buy moth stories on CD and that includes today's story that is featured on a CD called Audience Volume 4. So check those out. And now you can also download the Moth Podcast directly to your smartphone and listen. Visit stitcher.com and you can download the free application there today.

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Our podcast host Dan Kennedy is the author of the book Rock An Office Power Ballad.

[Dan Kennedy]

Learn [e-mail] thanks to all of you for listening. We hope you have a story worthy week. Podcast audio production by Paul Ruest at the Argo Network Podcast hosting by PRX Public Radio Exchange Helping make public radio more [e-mail].