The boot

One of the disadvantages of having a large family is the limited bathroom space. It is even more of a challenge when you are frequently being watched by being in a very controlled environment. OK I guess I will get right down to it. One of the methods my mother used to “babysit” some of us was to put is in a room and lock the door. Sever of the bedrooms had the latch and eyelet hooks on the outside of the door. Sound like no really big deal until you look at the potential for problems. What if there were an emergency? With a big family there is always the potential for issues and it can be a really challenge to watch a large number of kids, especially if your heart is not in it. I was very young probably ten years old when the “babysitter” was in place and we could not get out of the room. We had windows and they did open but they were high off the ground and we had no way of getting back in if we chose to jump the four or five feet to get to the ground. There were some times when we would be locked in our room for many hours at a time. I learned early on not to make a great deal of noise about being locked in the room. We were on the other side of this old farm house which had been set up as a duplex. So you could not be heard unless you were screaming at the top of your lungs. If you got my mother attention the attention she gave you was not good. Fortunately for us it was upstate NY and as such there were long winters and with winters came boots, not just warm boots but in many cases waterproof boots. Mind you it was not winter for this particular memory in fact is was a beautiful sprint or summer time and we did not want to be in this locked room. I don’t remember how long we had been in the room. It might have only been a half an hour it might have been four. But regardless there was an emergency and my mother was not hearing the cry for help. So the emergency was an incredibly full bladder and no relief in sight. We could not get out the door to the very next room which was the bathroom. We Could not jump out the window because we could not get back in. We could however unload the closet of winter cloths and find the boot. It is amazing the relief the boot provided. The beauty of this approach was once we were released from the “babysitter” we could secretly relieve the boot of its cargo and a little rinse and dry time and it was as good as new. We did not have to use this approach often but considering the door was latched from the outside more than once it was nice to know we had some relief with us.

Pain and how to get it and avoid it

I don’t remember how old I was but I was probably in my mid teens. We lived in a small town in upstate NY and I was trying hard to see what was outside my immediate family environment. My mother allowed us to ride bicycles into the local town which we did as often as we could. It was a way out it was something to do it was fun. The bikes were not new but they were functional. I did get a new bike for one of my early birthdays. It was purple and had a purple banana seat one it. Not sure what happen but my next oldest brother got a hold of it and things were not the same.
Sometime during my youth I was out for a ride and I had managed to build a ten speed road bike. No small feat when your brothers are attempting to do the same thing and your parts may become their in the blink of an eye. I had built this ten speed bike complete with racing road wheels and curved handlebars, the works.
I lived in the part of the county that had oiled dirt roads. Needless to say they were not smooth and they certainly were not good for thin tired racing bikes. I had been on the county road which is paved and I made a right onto one of the side dirt roads, which was not paved. Try as I might I could not get the bike to complete the turn. I made it about sixty degrees into this ninety degree turn and that was it. I lost control and hit a rock that stopped me dead. Next thing you know I am airborne and flying head on into a rock used to line the lawn of this house. It is safe to say it hurt. BAD. I remember feeling chucks of shattered front teeth in my mouth. I spit out the chucks and lots of blood and reached up with my tongue to where my front teeth use to be and hit the two raw nerves that were still there and had not been ripped out from my remains of front teeth. I had all kinds of new pain on top of the pain I already had.
You may be thinking I must have immediately sought help, you would be wrong. My mom and I never really had a good relationship, not sure why but it wasn’t good. I will accept half of the blame but only half. I really had no choice but to go home. So I picked up my now very wrecked bike and headed back to my house. For many years there was always a babysitter at my house. My mom chose to work and pay a baby sitter to stay with us. I can only guess how things might have been if my mom did not work and stayed home instead of paying someone to do that part of the mothering thing. The sitter didn’t notice anything at first and I as able to avoid her probing questions. My mom came home and I was in good shape as she never did ask much in the way of questions. I got lucky that night as my mom was in a good mood and I was allowed to go to bed without big issues. Mind you the nerves are still hanging you and hurting like hell. I woke up the next morning and got ready for school. Breakfast was interesting as I had to open my mouth very wide, insert the spoon of cheerios low, flip it swallow everything and withdrawal the spoon without hitting the nerves, lots of fun. I made it through school with no issue as I was not mister popularity and for at least that day it was ok. I got back home and there was the babysitter. This time she had notices my interactions were not the same. She drilled me and finally got me to open my mouth, literally and that was it the word was out. My mom came home and she was told. My mom asked why I had not told her sooner. My reply was I did not want the punishment that was to come whenever I did something that she did not like. That reply left her quiet for several long seconds. Then she told me to my coat and get in the damn car. It was a calm response from here and one I have not forgotten. It is my hope that I have not passed that trait on to my kids. I can only pray that in a time of need they would feel safe approaching me. I was more concerned with the typically beating that occurred when “wrong” things were done than with the pain of two raw nerves hanging out. I made it one day, I might have gone longer, I will never know. But I intended to avoid the punishment at all cost. The loss of the teeth and the bike were enough, I did not want punishment on top of that.

I was wrong. What a relief

One of the things I have never really gotten over is the fact that through all the challenges of my youth I cannot recall my parents admitting they were wrong. I was looking at a ten year old photo this afternoon after being outside working all day. I was of my wife and children right as I retired from a twenty year career in the Army. My oldest is quite reserved and in many way secretive and I regret that. I suspect I am a significant cause of his reclusive interaction with me and to a lesser degree with the other members of the family. My daughter catches the worst of that as she is much like her mom, caring, empathetic and concerned. My next youngest son is more like me in some way and more like his mom in most. That is a good thing; He is outgoing, fun, full of life. He can also be stubborn and has a hard time accepting that not all things are as they appear. My youngest son is unique as are all the others. He has challenges as a result of development issues and I regret not understand and accepting those earlier in his life. There were times I took my mother approach and just assumed his actions were out of choice and not out of natural inability to comprehend.
To this day I truly do not know why my mother had such a deep dislike for me. She did the “required” things. I had what was needed physically; emotionally that was a different thing. I never understood why, I never received an apology; I never heard the words I am sorry. For my children who might sometime read this. I admit to having gotten much of this fathering thing wrong. I was not right in all things and I am paying for those choices now. A child who is withdrawn, one who pushes the limits whenever it fits, one whose emotions were delicate and I did not treat accordingly and one who is facing challenges because of real issues not out of choice. For all of you I was wrong and I am sorry. It will not fix anything but I don’t want you to carry useless baggage with you throughout your life as I have mine.

Doing the hard things

There are many things that come to mind when I think of the term commitment. I have served in the military for twenty years that was commitment. I have been married for over twenty five years, that is commitment. I have four kids that is commitment. I have had faith in the saving grace of Christ for longer than I have been married, that is commitment.
I think I received the ability to commit from my father. He did things that you just don’t hear about anymore. My dad smoked Salem cigarettes when I was little. He was very methodical in his smoking. While he was smoking he was trying to complete a National Radio Institute home study course for Television Electronics. He was also assembling heath kit equipment as part of his studying. He would open the NRI books and read a few pages and then pull a cigarette out of the green and white pack and then place the ashtray in arms reach then light the cigarette. I remember him taking the first pull on the cigarette and I remember him putting it out. I don’t remember him actually smoking the entire cigarette. When he finished that cigarette he was done, no more that night.
My dad use to drink. On occasion he would drink to excess. The school he worked for use to have “clam bakes” during the late spring, early summer season. And mom and dad attended them as a rule. I am not sure what happened one night as my mother was not with my dad for this particular clam bake. We drove up to the VFW post behind the bus garage, where the parties were always held. My mom parked the car and left, we did not follow. Sometime later my mom returns and my dad is in tow, literally. We are in the inside of the car and my mom and dad are yelling at each other on the outside of the car. They both finally got in the car and commenced to argue more. I am not sure which one of us kids had the gall to interrupt the “discussion” but I will take the blame. I don’t remember the question I do remember the response, it was not good. In the end you could have heard a pin drop in the back of the car and not another word was said until the next morning.
The next morning was different to say the least. It was one of a very few times where I remember my dad leading what could almost be a family discussion. He had all of us in the kitchen and announced that his conduct “last night” was not right. He announced that he would never do that “again”. In fact he would never drink again. To the best of my memory he has stuck to his word, that is commitment. During the discussion he announced he would not smoke again and he never did, that is commitment.
I learned from my dad that if you say you’re going to do something then you’re obligated to do that thing. I believe members of my family learned something else, they learned not to commit to things because the challenges of committing are often larger than expected.

Pop, Cops, Fuzzbuster

It was in the early 1970’s that I got to see a side of my dad that I had not noticed before. Well I noticed I just did not give it much thought. My dad worked three different jobs in an effort to keep the family afloat. He was still working as a janitor at the local school district. He had also recently taken a job as a news paper carrier. He was also cleaning two bar rooms in the nearby city. All three of the jobs required him to drive.
On to the problem my dad was on his way into the city to clean the two bar rooms. This occurred at some ungodly hour in the morning three days a week. By this time he had been making the trip for many years and I suspect more than once his body was on autopilot for the entire trip. There is a requirement to cross a fairly good sized river to get from our house to the bar rooms. The bridge is long and arcs upward toward the middle the back down. My dad is making this run in his 1968 yellow Plymouth Fury-III. Big car, big engine, lots of potential to speed. But that was and still is out of character for my dad, he does not intentionally speed. This particular morning my dad capped the top of that bridge arch and on the other side of the bridge was a police officer with a radar speed detection device. In the early 70’s they were anything but portable. My dad is clocked doing seven miles per hour over the speed limit. There is no arguing with a cop, could not do it then, cannot do it now. They are right and you are guilty until proven innocent. So my dad took his ticket, caught by this new technology called the speed checking radar.
During my young years my dad rarely got angry or made a lot of noise about issues. He made some noise about the radar ticket. He was not happy years of traveling the same route doing the same thing had been declared wrong by technology. In NY then and now it was and is illegal to operate a radar detector while in a motor vehicle. But my dad was offended and was not going to be defenseless in this technology war. Radar speed checking stations were big and cumbersome. Radar detectors (Fuzzbusters) were not the small compact things we have today. My dad purchased one of the first generation fuzzbusters. It was big, heavy and expensive. It was just a little smaller than a Kleenex tissue box. That gave my dad and idea for camouflaging the “illegal” fuzzbuster. I cut out the front (long side) of a tissue box and stored the fuzzbuster inside. He then placed some of the tissue over top of the fuzzbuster and closed the front, sort of like a flap. So to the untrained eye it looked like a box of tissues on the dash. Keep in mind most eyes were untrained at that time as no one had the “radar guns” or “radar detectors”
This is where a side of my dad came through I had never seen before. After installing the “tissue box” and plugging it in my dad went for a drive. He went looking for police who were set up for radar speed control. It took some time but he found a radar team and drove by them. Under the speed limit of course. He then drove past them. This occurred several times as he had to “calibrate” the fuzzbuster for maximum performance. Once done the fuzzbuster gave out a loud signal and a big red light to alert you to the presence of a “speed trap”. From that time forward whenever my dad was driving the fuzzbuster was on and when alerted he would do the obvious, check speed, but more important he would declare with his delight that he saw the cops before they saw him. My dad for many of my early years was not afraid of technology in fact he would often be in front of it. My dad could also be frustrated and when he was he had no problems figuring out a way to resolve the source of frustration.

A Thanksgiving to Remember

I often have heard that the holiday seasons bring out the best and the worst in folks. As I am thinking back on many of my holidays I understand why. I was six years old and the family size had increased again. We were now up to eight folks in the house. We were also frequently sharing life with our extended family. My mother’s sister also had a large family and they would frequently visit. By and large the visits were always welcome because the kids would have each other to play with and the parents would do the parent thing. For many years the parent thing involved loud conversations about their work, the government, and the people they did not like. The kitchen was the social center of the house it was the room that had access to food and beer. As I remember Genesee Cream Ale (Genny) was the beer of choice and it would be involved in a lot of my memories. As the visit wore on the talk got louder and us kids found ways to occupy our time. In my younger days my grandmother would also visit. Her name was Ella and she was never a happy person. She had her favorite children and grand children, I was nowhere in the running. My grandmothers first husband died before I could remember him. The second husband smoked cigars. I remember him as being a good balance for my grandmother. The house was full with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.
It was Thanksgiving 1970 and again we had our family and our cousins over for a visit. Feeding a large family is an undertaking on a regular day. To make a “feast” as is the requirement for a proper American thanksgiving is a task. To create the feast for two large families and grandparents required significant work. As long as I can remember my dad was the primary cook, and he was good at it. There are meals that were staples and it was ok because they were good. My parents had spent a significant part of the day preparing for the “feast”. We kids spent a significant amount of the day being a pain in the side of the parents. I do not think it was intentional it just was. Upwards of a dozen kids in the age of ten and below is a pain. As such we were often pushed into another room to the baby sitter, otherwise known as the television. I will talk more about the television later.
It was mid to late afternoon and the dinner was ready. Making the dinner was one thing. Getting the dinner distributed was another. It was a rare thing for the entire family to sit around the table. Typically table space was reserved for the really young kids and the adults. The various foods were set on the table and the “kids” started at one end and worked their way around the table. There were many of us to get around the table and I was not the first in line. My time arrived and I did as all before me had done, piled the plate high with the various dishes available and exited past the refrigerator and bathroom door to the living room. I found a place on the floor because there was not seating for ten kids and began eating. I had food, the television was on, and I was good to go. During a program change or commercial break I decided to go for round two of the dinner.
Something went wrong. To this day have no idea whether I ate too much in one sitting or if I had consumed something that did not agree with me. The end result is as I was going to the table for my second round my first round came back with a vengeance. I was aware something was not right and set the plate on the end of the table and made a mad dash to the bathroom which was off to the right of the kitchen. I almost made it, almost. As a result there was a mess and there was confusion on my behalf. I had no idea why I was losing dinner but I was. There was a significant mess in the bathroom. There was significant disruption to the thanksgiving “festivities” and I was the cause. In short order my mother was involved and not at all happy. In fact she was unhappy to the point of being out of control.
Between the bathroom and the kitchen was a refrigerator. On the refrigerator handle was a leather belt. It was long and wide. It was one of those later 60’s “hippie” style belts with 3 holes across so yes it was wide about three inches wide. It was placed there for ease of access for my mom and for a constant waning to us kids. That was the first out of control beating I remember. I had gotten sick, I had made a mess and I had received a beating that would never forget. There were belt marks across my legs and lower back, for being sick. I have never forgotten that beating. I have also never been sick again. Once it is in there is only one way it is coming out.
Many years later I would be frustrated at my youngest and he would receive a whipping from me that would leave marks on him, and as I write they are still on me. Sometime later I would understand that my son did not understand as I or normal folks understood. I apologized to him. I am not sure he understood the apology. I have struggled to make sure I did not repeat the errors of my parents. My kids have been sick, it is ok. They have spilled things it is ok. They have been kids it is ok. I have not always replied to more serious offenses with a calm level head. But with the exception of the one time with the youngest I have never beat them when I not in full control of my actions.
There have been many thanksgivings since that one. But that one stands out because of the total contradiction the day represented. I was thankful for the ending of the beating and not much more.

Remembering Teddys arrival

So I was outside today pushing the lawn mower. It was hot, I was sweating and I with thinking random thoughts. And it occurred to me that I have not done a great job sharing my history with the family. That history has shaped me. That history has made me into the person I am. That history is shaping my family now. I can not say it is always say it was for the good. I will try to keep theses post in chronological order but no guarentees as I believe it is more important to get them down than to make the time frame line up exactly. So here goes

I was four or five years old in 1968, 1969 and it was Christmas time. At that time the family consisted of a set of parents, two older brothers, a twin brother, two younger sisters, and a new born younger brother. Yes the math is correct eight in all. The oldest was eight or nine, the youngest was new born.

Mom was a bus driver, Dad was a school janitor, a bar room janitor, and any other thing he could do to bring in money for the family. Bus drivers and janitors do not make big money now they made less then.

It was Christmas season and there was a tree. Not much else, but a tree there was. The holiday "spirit" was not all that present. We had recently moved into a bigger house that was built in the mid 1800's. It took most of the money my folks made to keep some heat in the place. There was little expectation of something special.

It was getting really close to Christmas time and a guy I did not know but have never forgotten showed up at the house. His name was Louie Miller and he was old. He came in the front door which deposited people right in the middle of the kitchen. Big table to the right the rest of the house to the left. Louie was carrying two green trash bags. They were filled with toys, none new, but all in good shape. It did not matter because it was certainty more than we were expecting to receive.

As I remember back I was not very polite in my approach. I like all the others was truly looking for what I could get. I got my chance to dig into the bag and was happy with the present I grabbed from the bottom.

It was a stuffed teddy bear that I named Teddy. Yeah I know not an original thinker. Teddy was old and showing signed of wear but he was mine, and I was happy with him. You will hear about Teddy through out these posts. He is with me today forty years later. He has had some loving attention by my wife of twenty six years and he brings back memories. Some good some not. But those will be for another time.

We were poor, dirt poor. Our needs were met as best as possible. I learned early on to be grateful. Thank you Louie for Teddy and for being willing to give to a family in need.