Wednesday, December 5, 2007
We went for a drive
Anyone who has met us knows that we are not so different from anyone else. Some of our friends from our highschool days might disagree but I think we are not so different. I remember taking a weekend to go camping or some other family event. The weekend was grand. We enjoyed each others company and there was little bickering to be done. Dad had a few drinks (dad always had a few drinks) Not a problem for us, he seemed to tolerate it well and it made him a little easier to be around. Kind of took the edge off. Once the weekend was over, we headed towards the house. I think we were driving one of the Blazers that we owned while I was growing up. Dad had a temper and was always convinced that someone was tweaking him specifically. This was kind of a fatalist view that as we grew older we came to expect as normal. There were still times growing up when it burst into the forefront like water from a sun blister. The drive home turned into one of those occassions. Dad pulled up behind someone on the freeway riding close enough to burn his face on the guys exhaust pipe. Dad was an over the road driver so he had "mad" itimidation skills. After several minutes of putting pressure on this guy by flashing his lights, racing up to within a hair of his bumper and anything else he could think of, the man in front flipped my dad off in his side mirror. A war of half-wits had just begun. I think the man thought it was some kind of game. Dad took it as a straight insult. The race was on. We spent the next several miles racing down the freeway. Dad would swerve left, the truck in front would swerve right. The man in front would hit his brakes Dad would hit his brakes, then swerve then gas it up for another go. Mom and us kids, along with one of Kammys friends from school froze except for the action of our butts sucking up seat as we watched our lives pass by. The inside of the Blazer seemed to be in slow motion as my Dad took to the grassy median to pass the man in the truck. As we barrelled down the freeway with the sound of swooshing grass hitting the bottom of the Blazer, tears and fear mixed with the screams from the backseat, Dad hollered for mom to open the window. Dad screamed at the man in the truck "PULL OVER YOU SON OF A BITCH, SO I CAN KICK YOUR ASS" It was pretty obvious by the look of terror on the drivers face and pale bloodless tear filled face of the drivers wife that he had poked a stick in the cage of a wild animal that was my dad. As we pulled back on the pavement, the driver of the other vehicle moved over into the other lane. The whole time my dad was hollering obcenities out the passenger window, begging him to stop so he could show him who was boss. Dad was so busy trying to catch up and yelling out the window, he did not notice the upcoming exit. At the last minute from a speed of nearly 90 mph the driver of the other vehicle swerved off the exit. Dad missed the exit and the other driver faded off in the other direction. Dad, not wanting to be outdone, swerved into the median and made his way back to the exit determined to finish what he had started. Mom seemed barley audible to dad as his anger drowned out any reason. We made our way in the direction of the other vehicle. We never found him though we spent a lot of time looking. Later Dad made his way back to the freeway and eventually home. I often wondered if we did some good. Oh, I don't think dad learned anything but I am sure that when the other couple got home (and changed their soiled undergarments) they rethought their courtesy on the road. Ah, road rage, now thats a memory!
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Moving
We moved from 23rd street at some point. The conversation was surreal. As a family we sat down and discussed everything (not really but it sounds nice). The way things usually went, we discussed the plan, how things were going to work everyone put their ideas together then we did things the way dad wanted to. The move to the new house in Daleville was a big one. We would have a yard and a bigger house. Dad said it was going to be a tough move and we would all have to work together to make it happen. The new house payment was more than we had been paying ,I think it was going to be somewhere around $225 to $275 per month, so we all needed to conserve.
The move would happen. We would leave the city atmosphere of Muncie. Gone were the Hardins and their dog inky. Gone was the Gibson arena. Gone was Lillians grocery, Grissom elementary and the corner park filled with not so famous musicians. Our life was changing, although it was too early to have know but we were "movin on up" like the Jeffersons. The next few years were filled with new adventures, new folks to meet and a little more growing up. One thing for sure it wasn't boring.
The move would happen. We would leave the city atmosphere of Muncie. Gone were the Hardins and their dog inky. Gone was the Gibson arena. Gone was Lillians grocery, Grissom elementary and the corner park filled with not so famous musicians. Our life was changing, although it was too early to have know but we were "movin on up" like the Jeffersons. The next few years were filled with new adventures, new folks to meet and a little more growing up. One thing for sure it wasn't boring.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Young Love
You know. Everyone has a story to tell. As I push through memories of my childhood and early adulthood, I am reminded of that. Each of us remembers things a little different, from a different point of view. Some choose a more diluted version, some see a more cloudy version others choose not to see at all. It does not mean that they don't exist, just that they choose to forget.
My mind floats to some interactions between my mom and dad. One particular occassion must have been pretty bad. It is representative of what we would come to witness over the course of our parents marriage. I am always surprised at how much they could love and how hard they could fight. We saw them hold hands and cuddle. Dad would bring flowers, open doors and just leak love from all of his pores for mom. Mom was putty in his hands. On the flip side of that coin, dad was loud, argumentative and abraisive. This might have been a result of his work schedule or the primative pressures put while raising a large family on a limited budget. Whatever the reason it was sometimes tough to watch.
On one occassion, the screaming and yelling of obcenities started in the living room. Dad had come home and, as was typical of this time frame, found a common thread to pull. It seems that mom was not keeping the house clean, especially the kitchen. Mom did not agree (looking back we thought this argument was a ruse for another problem) She stood her ground and things got heated. Dad would cuss and throw something. Mom would bark back. The whole thing lasted for what seemed to be all day. As for us kids, we just stepped aside. We had learned early on that this was best. It was the only way to keep attention off of us. At some point dad decided to illistrate how much of an issue the unkept kitchen was for him. He bagged up all of the items in the kitchen. Each bag was then taken to the street for the garbage man to pick up. Mom decided to stand her ground. If he wanted to throw things away, she would let him. He was not going to push her around.
We all watched the stubborness invade our home. We all watched in disbelief as the garbage man picked the guts of our kitchen. Dad had proved his point. Mom had proved hers. When things finally settled down and they always settled down we knew. Dad would head off to bedroom and mom would follow suit for further discussions. There would be some more yelling from behind closed doors then the bed would squeak. That was our childhood signal that all was well. If the bed squeaked the argument was over.
The next day, we went shopping for new kitchenware. Mom was happy dad was happy and we had new kitchenware. What a great day!
My mind floats to some interactions between my mom and dad. One particular occassion must have been pretty bad. It is representative of what we would come to witness over the course of our parents marriage. I am always surprised at how much they could love and how hard they could fight. We saw them hold hands and cuddle. Dad would bring flowers, open doors and just leak love from all of his pores for mom. Mom was putty in his hands. On the flip side of that coin, dad was loud, argumentative and abraisive. This might have been a result of his work schedule or the primative pressures put while raising a large family on a limited budget. Whatever the reason it was sometimes tough to watch.
On one occassion, the screaming and yelling of obcenities started in the living room. Dad had come home and, as was typical of this time frame, found a common thread to pull. It seems that mom was not keeping the house clean, especially the kitchen. Mom did not agree (looking back we thought this argument was a ruse for another problem) She stood her ground and things got heated. Dad would cuss and throw something. Mom would bark back. The whole thing lasted for what seemed to be all day. As for us kids, we just stepped aside. We had learned early on that this was best. It was the only way to keep attention off of us. At some point dad decided to illistrate how much of an issue the unkept kitchen was for him. He bagged up all of the items in the kitchen. Each bag was then taken to the street for the garbage man to pick up. Mom decided to stand her ground. If he wanted to throw things away, she would let him. He was not going to push her around.
We all watched the stubborness invade our home. We all watched in disbelief as the garbage man picked the guts of our kitchen. Dad had proved his point. Mom had proved hers. When things finally settled down and they always settled down we knew. Dad would head off to bedroom and mom would follow suit for further discussions. There would be some more yelling from behind closed doors then the bed would squeak. That was our childhood signal that all was well. If the bed squeaked the argument was over.
The next day, we went shopping for new kitchenware. Mom was happy dad was happy and we had new kitchenware. What a great day!
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Punishment 101
Your parents are your role models. They are not perfect. I know now that perfection is not achievable. I am sure my own children will find fault with much of what I do. My only solice is in knowing when they reach my age and have their own children they will understand.
We were punished as we grew up. It was complete and at times harsh but obviously, we survived. Our folks believed in spanking. My Dad would use a belt. Mom would use a switch. We had a crabapple tree in the front yard of 23rd street. That was my moms switch of choice. As I write these words I can almost feel the sting of the branch across the back of my bare legs. We hated that tree and all it represented. A swat with the switch was doled out sparingly. No doubt, the thought of a crabapple welt was enough to keep us from getting really out of control. Mom didn't have a quick temper she had to be really upset to get started on you, but when she did, watch out. That little woman could wield a mean switch.
Dad liked the belt. He had a quick temper and believed in his principals. You didn't want to argue with Dad. If he spoke, he spoke with authority. These are great characteristics for a father. In a pinch, you want someone you can depend on. He was your greatest proponent when he was on your side. You knew when Dad was coming to your defense someone had hell to pay. Good when defending you, bad when targeting you. Dad was a little unorthodox. There were 4 of us kids. It must have been a lot of stress keeping up with us. When something happened ( it was usually something was broken or misplaced) he would call us all together and ask us what happened. We were not stupid kids. No one wanted to admit to the crime. We knew he was going to whip the one that did it. The story would always end the same. After an excruciating amount of blasting with no results (except for the 4 of us crying and hoping it would come to an end) he would send us to the other room with an instruction " you decide which one is lying and have them come clean or all 4 of you will get the whippin" Well of course, we would scamper into the other room and start the round-a-bout. "Was it you?" "Was it you? " The argument in the room would drag out. Dad was a genius. Pit the 4 young ones against each other till one of them broke. That was the hope. The result was a lot different. We had decided, even at that young age, that you couldn't win in this situation. Even if no one admited it, this could go on for hours. One thing you could say about our Dad, he had staying power. Not a quitter. So, once the door was closed the conversation went something like this. "Whose turn is it to take the blame?" With a few turns of conversation, the choice would be made. One of us would step out in the light and speak those fateful words. " I did it, I'm Sorry" and the punishment would be doled out.
We usually never found out who really did the crime. It didn't mattter. At some point, I guess everyone got a turn. It played out evenly. The best thing to do, was to keep a good balance and not do something that got things wound up. This kept things quiet and uneventful, just what we wanted.
We were punished as we grew up. It was complete and at times harsh but obviously, we survived. Our folks believed in spanking. My Dad would use a belt. Mom would use a switch. We had a crabapple tree in the front yard of 23rd street. That was my moms switch of choice. As I write these words I can almost feel the sting of the branch across the back of my bare legs. We hated that tree and all it represented. A swat with the switch was doled out sparingly. No doubt, the thought of a crabapple welt was enough to keep us from getting really out of control. Mom didn't have a quick temper she had to be really upset to get started on you, but when she did, watch out. That little woman could wield a mean switch.
Dad liked the belt. He had a quick temper and believed in his principals. You didn't want to argue with Dad. If he spoke, he spoke with authority. These are great characteristics for a father. In a pinch, you want someone you can depend on. He was your greatest proponent when he was on your side. You knew when Dad was coming to your defense someone had hell to pay. Good when defending you, bad when targeting you. Dad was a little unorthodox. There were 4 of us kids. It must have been a lot of stress keeping up with us. When something happened ( it was usually something was broken or misplaced) he would call us all together and ask us what happened. We were not stupid kids. No one wanted to admit to the crime. We knew he was going to whip the one that did it. The story would always end the same. After an excruciating amount of blasting with no results (except for the 4 of us crying and hoping it would come to an end) he would send us to the other room with an instruction " you decide which one is lying and have them come clean or all 4 of you will get the whippin" Well of course, we would scamper into the other room and start the round-a-bout. "Was it you?" "Was it you? " The argument in the room would drag out. Dad was a genius. Pit the 4 young ones against each other till one of them broke. That was the hope. The result was a lot different. We had decided, even at that young age, that you couldn't win in this situation. Even if no one admited it, this could go on for hours. One thing you could say about our Dad, he had staying power. Not a quitter. So, once the door was closed the conversation went something like this. "Whose turn is it to take the blame?" With a few turns of conversation, the choice would be made. One of us would step out in the light and speak those fateful words. " I did it, I'm Sorry" and the punishment would be doled out.
We usually never found out who really did the crime. It didn't mattter. At some point, I guess everyone got a turn. It played out evenly. The best thing to do, was to keep a good balance and not do something that got things wound up. This kept things quiet and uneventful, just what we wanted.
Watch and Learn
Lots of lessons can be learned and are taught by the art of simulation. Children learn how to speak by repeating what their parents say. We learn how to interact with others based on how well out peers interact. We take many lessons from our folks until one day we grow up, excercise our free will and decide which lessons to emulate and which ones to ignore. Then we start the whole process over so that our kids can formulate their own decisions as well.
Mom was a great driver, with only a few minor mishaps that I can recall. She was a thoughtful driver. When her 10 year old was getting sick out the back window of the car and a lady in another car screamed "oh my god" she managed to pay no attention to her, even though her first instinct might have been to slap her into next week. When she backed out of a driveway while picking up kids and one of the kids fell out of the back door of the car, she did panic a bit because she thought she might have ran over them but luckily not a scratch was on them. Even when she freaked out and accelarated because someone passed her on the right side at a stop light, she only managed to take out a fence and a tree and a front porch. No harm, no foul. I can almost see people running through the yard as we speak. She was also a good gauge for our dads driving as well.
We had left an event, (in those days it could have been a wind blowing convention to provide a chance for liquid celebration). Dad had partaken of a little to much to drink and Mom was not comfortable with the way he was driving. The rest of us kids just sat and listened. We knew the minute mom spoke up, things were going to get ugly. Dad kept reassuring her things were ok. Mom kept reassuring him that he was a lunatic. One thing you didn't do was disagree with dad when he wasn't drinking and you definitly did not disagree with him when he was. The drink drained his reasoning and since he was dreadfully short of that anyway you could be sure that he would explode when confronted. Mom had seen this before. We all had. I think she just decided enough was enough. They fought as we drove down the road. Dads driving was eradic. He was a proffessional driver by this time, so I suspect some of the rodeo driving he was doing was to mess with mom. Things escalated to a boiling point. Somewhere in New Castle, Dad pulled over to use a restroom. Mom decided to take a stand. She locked all the doors and refused to let Dad in. Let me just say, wow. Mom decided enough was enough. The whole parking lot was witness to this act of defiance. So were the kids. Mom said no. Dad screamed while banging the windows for her to let him in. Mom stood her ground. I was sure that anyone within a mile could have heard dad scream "GOD DAMMIT BETTY JO LET ME IN" Mom remained steadfast. She was not going to give in. She had decided that this was a safety issue. I am not sure how long it lasted. I know that my Dad is persistant. I beleive he would have fought all night. That was his nature. At some point, Mom gave in. Dad got back in and drove us home and we made it safely. I believe that each time this type of thing happened Mom and Dad changed a little bit. We witnessed the changes. The days when they were holding hands and beaming like a young couple in love. We also witnessed the "hell days" when the stress of raising a young family and providing for them while balancing your own life became too much. Those days were tough on all of us. We watched and learned.
Mom was a great driver, with only a few minor mishaps that I can recall. She was a thoughtful driver. When her 10 year old was getting sick out the back window of the car and a lady in another car screamed "oh my god" she managed to pay no attention to her, even though her first instinct might have been to slap her into next week. When she backed out of a driveway while picking up kids and one of the kids fell out of the back door of the car, she did panic a bit because she thought she might have ran over them but luckily not a scratch was on them. Even when she freaked out and accelarated because someone passed her on the right side at a stop light, she only managed to take out a fence and a tree and a front porch. No harm, no foul. I can almost see people running through the yard as we speak. She was also a good gauge for our dads driving as well.
We had left an event, (in those days it could have been a wind blowing convention to provide a chance for liquid celebration). Dad had partaken of a little to much to drink and Mom was not comfortable with the way he was driving. The rest of us kids just sat and listened. We knew the minute mom spoke up, things were going to get ugly. Dad kept reassuring her things were ok. Mom kept reassuring him that he was a lunatic. One thing you didn't do was disagree with dad when he wasn't drinking and you definitly did not disagree with him when he was. The drink drained his reasoning and since he was dreadfully short of that anyway you could be sure that he would explode when confronted. Mom had seen this before. We all had. I think she just decided enough was enough. They fought as we drove down the road. Dads driving was eradic. He was a proffessional driver by this time, so I suspect some of the rodeo driving he was doing was to mess with mom. Things escalated to a boiling point. Somewhere in New Castle, Dad pulled over to use a restroom. Mom decided to take a stand. She locked all the doors and refused to let Dad in. Let me just say, wow. Mom decided enough was enough. The whole parking lot was witness to this act of defiance. So were the kids. Mom said no. Dad screamed while banging the windows for her to let him in. Mom stood her ground. I was sure that anyone within a mile could have heard dad scream "GOD DAMMIT BETTY JO LET ME IN" Mom remained steadfast. She was not going to give in. She had decided that this was a safety issue. I am not sure how long it lasted. I know that my Dad is persistant. I beleive he would have fought all night. That was his nature. At some point, Mom gave in. Dad got back in and drove us home and we made it safely. I believe that each time this type of thing happened Mom and Dad changed a little bit. We witnessed the changes. The days when they were holding hands and beaming like a young couple in love. We also witnessed the "hell days" when the stress of raising a young family and providing for them while balancing your own life became too much. Those days were tough on all of us. We watched and learned.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Neighborhood Stores and Watch out for that truck!
Our community was nice. It was a good time to be a kid. We had a lot of freedom to roam. We could go to Lillians store front on Macedonia. The little old lady with the meanest little dogs in town. The dogs were ugly too. I never understood how you could run a retail store, albeit a mom and pop version, with yappy ass little dogs greeting your customers. This was a quick stop store, the kind you found all over local neighborhoods in the past. There are still occassional storefronts found, just not as common. My best guess is that Lillian was 125 years old while she was running this operation. (My memory is cloudy I am sure, because I was so young) I can still see her in the recess of my mind scurrying out from behind the counter with her little minions yipping and yapping their not so freindly welcome to those brave enough to visit. It must have been tough on the old bird to maintain this place on her own. She didn't like kids very much, although after my sister put dads truck in gear and ran it up on the steps of her place, I can see why.
We had Gibsons Arena. A skating rink within walking distance from our home. I we were lucky we could stop by Garnets Drug store and pick up some penny candy. Like the little penny hotdog gum and the likes. Or a quick soda. Then off to Gibsons to make a day of it. Who hasn't visualized the " Old Skaters at the Rink" and thought, I could be a proffessional skater? Right, me either. I really think that even then I thought the old people skating were social rejects looking for a piece of their youth drooped away like the muscle tone in their bodies. At least they were happy, we just skated a good distance away so they wouldn't hit us if they died while we passed by. Oh the good old days. Gibson Arena and Garnets Drug Store or Lillians Market.
Lots to see and lots to remember. I still remember the man carrying Kammy up the driveway. Kammy looked scared and was crying. She had fallen off her bicycle and fell under the wheel of a moving dump truck. They were repairing the road along Macedonia. Pavement was removed and replaced with sand. The driver was in shock, he saw her fall down and he imagined the worst kind of horror. In his mind he was sure that he popped her head like a ripe tomato. Of course, anyone who knew or knows my sister would be sure that the tire would more likely burst than her head. But, no worries, she had turned her head and the tire on the truck ran over her arm. To a small boy, the tire tracks were cool the way they ran along her arm. Kinda like the most painful tatoo you could get. Kammy was rushed to the hospital with only a sprain. A lucky day to be sure. Scary then. But fodder for stories now. My sister was ran over by a dumptruck and didn't even break a bone. Not many folks could say that. She was tough.
We had Gibsons Arena. A skating rink within walking distance from our home. I we were lucky we could stop by Garnets Drug store and pick up some penny candy. Like the little penny hotdog gum and the likes. Or a quick soda. Then off to Gibsons to make a day of it. Who hasn't visualized the " Old Skaters at the Rink" and thought, I could be a proffessional skater? Right, me either. I really think that even then I thought the old people skating were social rejects looking for a piece of their youth drooped away like the muscle tone in their bodies. At least they were happy, we just skated a good distance away so they wouldn't hit us if they died while we passed by. Oh the good old days. Gibson Arena and Garnets Drug Store or Lillians Market.
Lots to see and lots to remember. I still remember the man carrying Kammy up the driveway. Kammy looked scared and was crying. She had fallen off her bicycle and fell under the wheel of a moving dump truck. They were repairing the road along Macedonia. Pavement was removed and replaced with sand. The driver was in shock, he saw her fall down and he imagined the worst kind of horror. In his mind he was sure that he popped her head like a ripe tomato. Of course, anyone who knew or knows my sister would be sure that the tire would more likely burst than her head. But, no worries, she had turned her head and the tire on the truck ran over her arm. To a small boy, the tire tracks were cool the way they ran along her arm. Kinda like the most painful tatoo you could get. Kammy was rushed to the hospital with only a sprain. A lucky day to be sure. Scary then. But fodder for stories now. My sister was ran over by a dumptruck and didn't even break a bone. Not many folks could say that. She was tough.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?
Everyone has family. I am no exception. Our family tree was always a little diverse. Our folks always told us about the extended family in Byrdstown and Jamestown. We came from mountain folk. Not a secret. Nothing to be ashamed of. We knew we had a history. Mom and Dad were above all honest with us. We didn't keep secrets at our house, thats the way it worked.
Dads side of the Family included Max & Eula. He had Effie and Jesse. When you think about the mountains you thought of Jack, Horace, Jewell, Frank, Sambo and the twins. On a few trips up to the mountains we would have the occassion to meet some of the more distant members of the clan. I remember going up to visit Arizona and her man at a cabin near what I think was a strip mine. We attended a funeral procession for dads Uncle Dewey. That was a real treat. Not only did we meet some of the most diverse members of the extended family, we also found out that in some parts of the south it is not only acceptable but expected to have everyone line up to walk past the coffin to pay your respects and give the dead guy a last kiss. I was very happy Dad didn't make us do the kiss thing, I might never have survived.
Moms family included lots of Aunts and Uncles. We were fortunate enough to meet our great grandmothers on her side. Moms family wasn't always in the forefront. We managed to meet all of Moms family, brothers and sisters, except for one. Of course, Mom and Dad told us that she had run off when she was younger. Everyone else was accounted for. We met some of Moms Uncles and Aunts although we did not have extensive relations with them. Both of our folks pretty progressive. They usually made sure we were made aware of all of the different types of lifestyles that were out there. I always thought they wouldn't hold anything back. What I wasn't aware of is that all familys have their secrets. They may be little ones, or big ones, but they exist and most folks are just blown over when they come to pass. This secret was one that I don't believe was originally sponsored by the folks. It was probably started by the family Matriarchs adn then passed on like a bad cold till its accepted as the way things are. No matter, we were about to find out.
Grandma and Grandpa Davis were due to have a anniversary party. Nice that we were invited considering the strain of recent times (refer to "Merry Fxxxing Christmas") It was a special occassion where all the family would be present. A time for celebration. Mom and Dad put us in some nice clothes. They put on their happy faces and cleaned up. We were the perfect middleclass american family. As was also typical, we were given the warnings. "Don't miss behave" "Stay out of trouble with your cousins" "Don't forget to wish Grandma and Grandpa happy anniversary" and oh yeah, "Remember the Aunt we told you ran off and we don't talk to? That wasn't true, she really married a black man who was a friend of your Grandpas" "We don't visit with them cause the family doesn't agree" We were smart kids.We understood diversity. We knew this was no big deal. We could handle it. After all what was there to handle. We had a mixed marriage in our family. So, with all of us still digesting the information, we were off to the family reunion. Our whitebread family with the most puritan viewpoints on life was off to celebrate with our African American Uncle and his wife whom no one had given us a chance to meet. Once we arrived at the Anniversary it became clear there was more to the story. Not only did we have a mixed marriage. We also had cousins of color. Obviously, to be expected. This, however was not a day for the expected. This was a day of surprises. This was the day we learned how a family could change color.
Its true. I found out a lot that day. A lot about my parents. A lot about my grandparents. A lot about my aunt and my new found cousins. I suppose the most I found out was about myself. I found out how little it mattered that I had Black relatives. We still didn't develop a deep seated bond that parlayed into a weekly visit with our newly found relatives. No doubt, it was hard to undue the years of damage that had been done. As the story goes, their life was challenged. The choices their parents made were pretty unconventional during those times. The children, I hear, had it pretty rough.
I still find it funny when I look back through the family album at the reunion photos. I tell my kids of the surprise I got just about the same time as I turn the page and reveal the photos of me with my black cousins. The day I found out my cousins were black.
Dads side of the Family included Max & Eula. He had Effie and Jesse. When you think about the mountains you thought of Jack, Horace, Jewell, Frank, Sambo and the twins. On a few trips up to the mountains we would have the occassion to meet some of the more distant members of the clan. I remember going up to visit Arizona and her man at a cabin near what I think was a strip mine. We attended a funeral procession for dads Uncle Dewey. That was a real treat. Not only did we meet some of the most diverse members of the extended family, we also found out that in some parts of the south it is not only acceptable but expected to have everyone line up to walk past the coffin to pay your respects and give the dead guy a last kiss. I was very happy Dad didn't make us do the kiss thing, I might never have survived.
Moms family included lots of Aunts and Uncles. We were fortunate enough to meet our great grandmothers on her side. Moms family wasn't always in the forefront. We managed to meet all of Moms family, brothers and sisters, except for one. Of course, Mom and Dad told us that she had run off when she was younger. Everyone else was accounted for. We met some of Moms Uncles and Aunts although we did not have extensive relations with them. Both of our folks pretty progressive. They usually made sure we were made aware of all of the different types of lifestyles that were out there. I always thought they wouldn't hold anything back. What I wasn't aware of is that all familys have their secrets. They may be little ones, or big ones, but they exist and most folks are just blown over when they come to pass. This secret was one that I don't believe was originally sponsored by the folks. It was probably started by the family Matriarchs adn then passed on like a bad cold till its accepted as the way things are. No matter, we were about to find out.
Grandma and Grandpa Davis were due to have a anniversary party. Nice that we were invited considering the strain of recent times (refer to "Merry Fxxxing Christmas") It was a special occassion where all the family would be present. A time for celebration. Mom and Dad put us in some nice clothes. They put on their happy faces and cleaned up. We were the perfect middleclass american family. As was also typical, we were given the warnings. "Don't miss behave" "Stay out of trouble with your cousins" "Don't forget to wish Grandma and Grandpa happy anniversary" and oh yeah, "Remember the Aunt we told you ran off and we don't talk to? That wasn't true, she really married a black man who was a friend of your Grandpas" "We don't visit with them cause the family doesn't agree" We were smart kids.We understood diversity. We knew this was no big deal. We could handle it. After all what was there to handle. We had a mixed marriage in our family. So, with all of us still digesting the information, we were off to the family reunion. Our whitebread family with the most puritan viewpoints on life was off to celebrate with our African American Uncle and his wife whom no one had given us a chance to meet. Once we arrived at the Anniversary it became clear there was more to the story. Not only did we have a mixed marriage. We also had cousins of color. Obviously, to be expected. This, however was not a day for the expected. This was a day of surprises. This was the day we learned how a family could change color.
Its true. I found out a lot that day. A lot about my parents. A lot about my grandparents. A lot about my aunt and my new found cousins. I suppose the most I found out was about myself. I found out how little it mattered that I had Black relatives. We still didn't develop a deep seated bond that parlayed into a weekly visit with our newly found relatives. No doubt, it was hard to undue the years of damage that had been done. As the story goes, their life was challenged. The choices their parents made were pretty unconventional during those times. The children, I hear, had it pretty rough.
I still find it funny when I look back through the family album at the reunion photos. I tell my kids of the surprise I got just about the same time as I turn the page and reveal the photos of me with my black cousins. The day I found out my cousins were black.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Meet your new family
Our family, like so many others rolled along with only a few major surprises along the way. Once in a while, a relative would come out of the family tree and you would think "wow, do they swim in the same gene pool as us?". It would of course turn out to be true. I suppose that with names in our past like, Eula, Arizona, Horace, Jewell and the like that we should have know that our family tree was wrought with hillbilly branches. Dad liked the idea of showing us where we came from (unlike moms family who showed us where we could have gone). Our dad was always trying to show us that our roots were as diverse as any that you could run accross. You see a lot of our folks came from Tennessee. The story goes like this, when Ball Brothers (the Ball Jar) needed workers in Muncie, there were not enough qualified, cost effective folks to fill the bill. So they shipped workers from the Tennessee hills to fill those spots. That was what I remember overhearing. It might have been many other companies also in need of the "hillbilly workforce" who knows.
Dad liked to fancy himself a real country boy at heart. We witnessed his steady walk through the cowboy (hillbilly) lifestyle over much of our childhood. He liked to wear boots. He liked country music. He liked to horse trade, although he never traded a horse. I suppose thats what drew him, at least at first, to spend time with Aunt Eula and Uncle Max. Max was a trader. He lived at the Flea markets and loved to make deals. We used to visit with them on occassion. This is what we saw...
Max and Eula lived in Muncie. Muncie at that time was a nice middleclass american town with a lot of folks moving forward with their lives. As you pull up to their home, you are struck by the odd beauty of tires buried semi-circle lining the driveway of their home. The tires were painted white to distinguish them from the tires that you drive on. There was a need for some outline of the driveway because it was the only dicernable seperation of the dirt. Otherwise, you might have parked your pickup on the lawn. Keep it between the tires. When you visited it really felt like you were stepping back into mountain living. There was always a chicken or a pig or a horse or any other number of farm animal roaming the property. This too was an oddity considering they were well within the city limits of Muncie. In fact, we were within a couple of blocks of one of the main roads in town. These were simple folks and very nice. They had a few children, Kimmy, Timmy, Cookie, Pee Joe and Doug. The house was not big, probably 900 sqare feet or so. Wood floors and 2 bedrooms. The wood stove in the living room kept the house cozy. The kitchen always had something good cooking. This was one of the special treats. You could count on a pigeon, or snake or some other type of "specialty meat" to tantalize your pallate. These folks used to teach us how to catch carp. Who could forget the flavorful yummy we ate while camping with them called fried carp eggs. I can almost taste it now. Food wasn't their only contribution. We learned from them how to utilize space. When Cookie, their only daughter, needed some private space they did not have to build on to their house. This was ingenious. They moved her bed and her belongings to the front porch and gave her a room of her own. Imagine our surprise. You knock on the porch door ( the only front access to the home) Cookie would answer and welcome you in, via her new room. The walls of the former front porch were plastered with teenage girl memorabila and the sounds of teen music filled your head. You take a couple of steps and knock on the front door of the house and stepped into the living room. I was always in admiration, who would of thought, a front porch, a bedroom. You won't find that on trading spaces. We witnessed this same type of ingenuity when Doug and his girlfriend found out what happens without birth control. Max and Eula moved em to the front yard into the Cab over Camper that sat in the front yard waiting for the never to arrive pickup truck to snatch it up for a mountain vacation. This would be there new permanent home while they worked toward a future of their own. Never a dull moment during one of these visits.
Over the years our time with them was spent well. We would not forget the trips to Rome City Dam. Sliding down the dam in our bathing suits. Watching them fish for Carps. Learning how to mud pack a fish and cook carp eggs over an open fire. Those were the days. This was our some of our extended family. Check back later and I will tell you how your family can change color. Just like a mood ring.
Dad liked to fancy himself a real country boy at heart. We witnessed his steady walk through the cowboy (hillbilly) lifestyle over much of our childhood. He liked to wear boots. He liked country music. He liked to horse trade, although he never traded a horse. I suppose thats what drew him, at least at first, to spend time with Aunt Eula and Uncle Max. Max was a trader. He lived at the Flea markets and loved to make deals. We used to visit with them on occassion. This is what we saw...
Max and Eula lived in Muncie. Muncie at that time was a nice middleclass american town with a lot of folks moving forward with their lives. As you pull up to their home, you are struck by the odd beauty of tires buried semi-circle lining the driveway of their home. The tires were painted white to distinguish them from the tires that you drive on. There was a need for some outline of the driveway because it was the only dicernable seperation of the dirt. Otherwise, you might have parked your pickup on the lawn. Keep it between the tires. When you visited it really felt like you were stepping back into mountain living. There was always a chicken or a pig or a horse or any other number of farm animal roaming the property. This too was an oddity considering they were well within the city limits of Muncie. In fact, we were within a couple of blocks of one of the main roads in town. These were simple folks and very nice. They had a few children, Kimmy, Timmy, Cookie, Pee Joe and Doug. The house was not big, probably 900 sqare feet or so. Wood floors and 2 bedrooms. The wood stove in the living room kept the house cozy. The kitchen always had something good cooking. This was one of the special treats. You could count on a pigeon, or snake or some other type of "specialty meat" to tantalize your pallate. These folks used to teach us how to catch carp. Who could forget the flavorful yummy we ate while camping with them called fried carp eggs. I can almost taste it now. Food wasn't their only contribution. We learned from them how to utilize space. When Cookie, their only daughter, needed some private space they did not have to build on to their house. This was ingenious. They moved her bed and her belongings to the front porch and gave her a room of her own. Imagine our surprise. You knock on the porch door ( the only front access to the home) Cookie would answer and welcome you in, via her new room. The walls of the former front porch were plastered with teenage girl memorabila and the sounds of teen music filled your head. You take a couple of steps and knock on the front door of the house and stepped into the living room. I was always in admiration, who would of thought, a front porch, a bedroom. You won't find that on trading spaces. We witnessed this same type of ingenuity when Doug and his girlfriend found out what happens without birth control. Max and Eula moved em to the front yard into the Cab over Camper that sat in the front yard waiting for the never to arrive pickup truck to snatch it up for a mountain vacation. This would be there new permanent home while they worked toward a future of their own. Never a dull moment during one of these visits.
Over the years our time with them was spent well. We would not forget the trips to Rome City Dam. Sliding down the dam in our bathing suits. Watching them fish for Carps. Learning how to mud pack a fish and cook carp eggs over an open fire. Those were the days. This was our some of our extended family. Check back later and I will tell you how your family can change color. Just like a mood ring.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Merry Fxxxing Christmas
We had some extended family. Dad thought we should experience all facets of life. He said it helps to know where you came from and if your weren't careful where you might end up. My mom came from a family of 8 children. Dad ran a little with moms brothers when they were younger. They were all in Muncie. Over the course of our childhood I guess you could say that things were a little strained between my father and my mothers side of the family. The most prolific event is one I like to refer to as "Merry Fxxxing Christmas". You see, we spent our time visiting Gandma and Gandpa and Uncle Kenny. We liked that the family was close by and we had somewhere to go. One Christmas, we made the journey to see moms side of the family. It must have been around the same time frame that we owned the motorhome (the one we used to walk the dog on vacation). Dad and Uncle Larry and Uncle Russel dissappeared for sometime while all the cousins played with us. There were aunts and uncles in and out. There were cousins in and out. Everyone was having a grand old time. Of course, we knew that Grandma had her favorites in Pats boys. They were a rough bunch. Nice enough but with all the trappings you might expect when you were raising 4 boys, pretty close in age at the same time. They were missing some major social components that are usually instilled when there is a larger presence of estrogen in the house. For example, most young boys learn from their mothers early on that you don't water the trees in the backyard with your wanker in mixed company. The Zachary boys lacked this social skill. The way they spoke implied that the world existed to serve them. They did not differentiate between adults and children in their eyes they all sucked equally. I believe Aunt Pat dealt with them using the "choose your battle" method of parenting. She realized that if she were going to keep her grip on reality, she would have to only chop off the bigh limbs and let the little ones hit the ground. Grandma thought they were little diminutive greek gods. She loved her some Jay-bird. Jimmy & Brian ranked high on the Grandma scale and then there was Barry. Grandma didn't seem to mind the lack of social graces. She loved them the best and we were accepting of the fact. In our family, Grandma of course loved us too. She loved "floppy" the most. Floppy was a name she gave Kevin because of some incident with his ears. ( I love my brother, but I think he might have gotten the name from Mom holding her close to her bosom 4 years longer than was socially responsible. They actually could have gotten the "got milk" ad campaign from the leftovers he carried on his face) Grandma loved him the most. Mom loved him the most. That boy was over loved.
So here we are. At Grandma and Grandpa's house. Lots of kids, lots of adults lots of presents. It had the makings of a helluva Christmas. Dad and Larry and Russell ( Uncle Tom must have been somewhere, I honestly don't remember) had been gone for sometime and we had been busy watching the Zachary Boys Show. Presents had been doled out, not a small feat. The Davis's numbered a plenty. So the gifts on any level had to be prohibitive. We were happy. Happy to have a Christmas. Then something happend that changed it all. As would happen at a lot of holidays there was some large sampling of alcoholic beverages. In fact, there must have been a bartender with Dad and the Uncled because they were all drunk and pissed with they got back from where ever they had been. There were some words spoken and then some extra words spoken. Then Dad decided to take a stand. It was time to right all the wrongs that had been done to our family since him and mom had taken their vows. The speech was one that could have been published. It was one that I would hear many different versions of as I grew up. It did not have a familiar ring at this ripe young age. But it amounted to this, my Dad raised his voice by a few octaves. Then he announced " you folks have taken advantage of my family for the last time, we are done. We are no longer a part of this family" " Betty Jo, get the kids, leave the presents, we're going home" "Merry Fxxxing Christmas"and just like that, for the next several years we did not associate with that side of the family except when mom would sneak us over on the occasional visit. One for the record books.
So here we are. At Grandma and Grandpa's house. Lots of kids, lots of adults lots of presents. It had the makings of a helluva Christmas. Dad and Larry and Russell ( Uncle Tom must have been somewhere, I honestly don't remember) had been gone for sometime and we had been busy watching the Zachary Boys Show. Presents had been doled out, not a small feat. The Davis's numbered a plenty. So the gifts on any level had to be prohibitive. We were happy. Happy to have a Christmas. Then something happend that changed it all. As would happen at a lot of holidays there was some large sampling of alcoholic beverages. In fact, there must have been a bartender with Dad and the Uncled because they were all drunk and pissed with they got back from where ever they had been. There were some words spoken and then some extra words spoken. Then Dad decided to take a stand. It was time to right all the wrongs that had been done to our family since him and mom had taken their vows. The speech was one that could have been published. It was one that I would hear many different versions of as I grew up. It did not have a familiar ring at this ripe young age. But it amounted to this, my Dad raised his voice by a few octaves. Then he announced " you folks have taken advantage of my family for the last time, we are done. We are no longer a part of this family" " Betty Jo, get the kids, leave the presents, we're going home" "Merry Fxxxing Christmas"and just like that, for the next several years we did not associate with that side of the family except when mom would sneak us over on the occasional visit. One for the record books.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Coming of Age
You know. We survived the vacations. Nothing like a reality check. We hit the front door of our home on 23rd street and the power was out. A little icing on the cake. All was not lost though, within a year or two, we did a redo of the Western Adventure. This time all was well we made it to Disney. I managed to get a kiss from Cinderella and it was the adventure of a lifetime.
As we got a little older so did our adventures. We managed to watch Kammy destroy lots of clothes. She would take perfectly good blue jeans put them in the washer and dump a bunch of bleach in to get a tie die effect. It was fun watching her go through adolesence, at least for us kids. I am not sure mom and dad had so much fun. I can still see Kammy in her Maxi-Dress walking like she owned the world. She would sit for hours and split her blue jeans ( the ones that she didn't bleach) and sew floral material into the legs so that they flared out. My sister had style. We were all in awe at how she could mesh her straight laced wardrobe into a modern 60's hippie outfit. I don't remember flowers in her hair but I remember a lot of piece signs. She was in love with Peter Frampton and Barry Gibb. The look in her eyes when she saw Leif Garrett. I thought for a time she would actually marry Shaun Cassidy. Teen love never turns out the way you want it.
Our cousin Tammy lived down the road across Macedonia. She was Ted and Drinda's daughter ( I know DRINDA, who da thunk) I think they were related to Max and Eula. Eula was my dads aunt. Tammy and Kammy were freinds. They used to walk to school together. I don't think they were best friends but they were freinds. Tammy was always a little more high strung than Kammy was. Since Kammy was the oldest she helped highlight the pitfalls of modern city living. We all looked up to her. After all, she had been run over by a dumptruck while they were paving Macedonia. Didn't even break a bone. Tough as nails that one. Tammy and Kammy had words at school or somewhere off of the homesite. I know this because one afternoon while we were at home with the folks, Tammy and a herd of she bitches showed up on the street in front of the house. They came to kick Kammys butt. Kammy was having no part of it. She was taking the high ground and not stooping to their level. I admired her for her stance. Dad, however saw right through the facade. He said she was yellow. He said no child of his was going to be pushed around by a group of she bitches. With a little encouragement and a promise that he would not let them kill her, he sent her out to face the herd. Things did not fair well. I will say that it looked like she held her own for all of about 2 minutes. Then the inevitable happened, they kicked her butt. A lesson was learned, they knew she couldn't be pushed around and that even though she lost, she would fight. I guess its all part of coming of age. Tammy and Kammy were not friends after that. Tammy had some tough times the rest of her young life. She was headed for trouble. Kammy learned and grew from the experience. It must have worked. I never saw Kammy back from a fight from that day forward. Legend has it that she made a teenage girl pee on herself out of fear on a schoolbus one day. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself that was years later. My big sister, shes got my back.
As we got a little older so did our adventures. We managed to watch Kammy destroy lots of clothes. She would take perfectly good blue jeans put them in the washer and dump a bunch of bleach in to get a tie die effect. It was fun watching her go through adolesence, at least for us kids. I am not sure mom and dad had so much fun. I can still see Kammy in her Maxi-Dress walking like she owned the world. She would sit for hours and split her blue jeans ( the ones that she didn't bleach) and sew floral material into the legs so that they flared out. My sister had style. We were all in awe at how she could mesh her straight laced wardrobe into a modern 60's hippie outfit. I don't remember flowers in her hair but I remember a lot of piece signs. She was in love with Peter Frampton and Barry Gibb. The look in her eyes when she saw Leif Garrett. I thought for a time she would actually marry Shaun Cassidy. Teen love never turns out the way you want it.
Our cousin Tammy lived down the road across Macedonia. She was Ted and Drinda's daughter ( I know DRINDA, who da thunk) I think they were related to Max and Eula. Eula was my dads aunt. Tammy and Kammy were freinds. They used to walk to school together. I don't think they were best friends but they were freinds. Tammy was always a little more high strung than Kammy was. Since Kammy was the oldest she helped highlight the pitfalls of modern city living. We all looked up to her. After all, she had been run over by a dumptruck while they were paving Macedonia. Didn't even break a bone. Tough as nails that one. Tammy and Kammy had words at school or somewhere off of the homesite. I know this because one afternoon while we were at home with the folks, Tammy and a herd of she bitches showed up on the street in front of the house. They came to kick Kammys butt. Kammy was having no part of it. She was taking the high ground and not stooping to their level. I admired her for her stance. Dad, however saw right through the facade. He said she was yellow. He said no child of his was going to be pushed around by a group of she bitches. With a little encouragement and a promise that he would not let them kill her, he sent her out to face the herd. Things did not fair well. I will say that it looked like she held her own for all of about 2 minutes. Then the inevitable happened, they kicked her butt. A lesson was learned, they knew she couldn't be pushed around and that even though she lost, she would fight. I guess its all part of coming of age. Tammy and Kammy were not friends after that. Tammy had some tough times the rest of her young life. She was headed for trouble. Kammy learned and grew from the experience. It must have worked. I never saw Kammy back from a fight from that day forward. Legend has it that she made a teenage girl pee on herself out of fear on a schoolbus one day. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself that was years later. My big sister, shes got my back.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Vacation Dreams
Our house was always pretty exciting. With 4 young kids ages 10 and under, things never were quiet, dull or without a little drama. Mom and dad were still pretty young by modern standards. By the time Kammy was 10 they would have been only 28 years old apiece. Dad worked a couple of jobs most of the time and mom was busy keeping the house. They were both in search of the american dream. The hard work seemed to payoff because we finally seemed to have some financial stability. It seemed to put periodic strain on how mom and dad got along. That was all put aside when, in 1972 they annouced that we were going on vacation. The plan was a road trip. We would take off the last 2 weeks of school. Dad had earned some vacation. We would leave the homestead on 23rd street and head west. We had family in California and I think in Arizona. This would be the adventure of a lifetime. Dad had bought a mini-motorhome for the trip. According to dad it had a bathroom where you could "shit, shower and shave" as we drove across the country on vacation. We had moved up in the world. For the first time we were part of the haves instead of the have nots. There was a top bunk that fit the kids and there was a kitchen table that let down into a bed. We were high rolling.
Sometime near Christmas break we Dad, Mom, Kammy, Jeff, Kevin, Jesse and the dog hit the road. My memories of the trip are sporadic at best. I remember that we played games and mingled all the way across the country. We would stop at a rest area or store and someone would walk the dog give him food and water and we would all stretch our legs. We stopped at one point in Phoenix to visit folks. Dad decided he wanted to go up Flaggstaff mountain. This was the strangest site I had ever seen. The weather at the base of the mountain was dry and hot. As we moved up the mountain the weather changed drastically. About 3/4 of the way up the mountain the police stopped us. It turns out you could not continue up the mountain without snow chains. No one thought to pack those considering our southern route. I could tell dad wasn't happy by the way he was barking at mom. There was someone selling them on the side of the road and from dad's tone I thought he might beat someone to death with them. We made it to the top and then back down again. The only other thing I remember about Phoenix was that we had some authentic mexican food, of course this was long before it was popularized across the country. We also meandered through San Antonio and saw the Alamo and the riverwalk area. The whole vacation moved along at a pretty good clip without to many hitches. In fact, I am not sure how we made it so far without someone getting hurt. I have a pretty vivid memory of visiting the old part of Las Vegas (probably not so old when we were there). Mom and dad left us in the Motorhome while they stepped into the casino and did some gambleing. The four of us kids lined up on the bed that hung over the cab and marveled at all the lights and the machines that lined up in front of us out the front window. Dad wasn't very happy with his take given his mood when they got back in the motorhome. Mom had been hitting the nickel slots and winning and she was complaining that dad kept taking all her cups of money. Judging from their dispositions, they must have came with less than they started with.
As kids, you just kind of move along through life without too much to worry about. It did seem pretty clear that things were starting to get a little strained. The Motorhome seemed more like a motor room by the time we pulled into California. We visited with some of our distant relatives there. Nice enough bunch. They lived on the edge of the desert. They had dune buggies and all the toys you might expect someone to have that lived on the desert. Dad spent a lot of time catching up. At some point, we went down toward Hollywood, mom found Buddy Epson asleep in his car on the side of the road (thats right JED CLAMPETT in person) She drug him out of the car and he took a picture with us on the side of the road. Down on the beach mom spotted another celebrity off of some soap opera, she managed to wrangle a picture with him as well.
The toll of the trip must have settled in cause dad and mom were really bumping heads. I am not sure how long we spent in California, but something went pretty wrong while we were there. Dad tied one on and as we were leaving the area he told us we were not going to make it to Disneyland. I remember him and mom fighting pretty bad and he told us mom had spent all the money and we couldn't afford to go. After that the motorhome pretty much headed for Indiana. We stopped at on the side of the road along the way to celebrate Jeff and Kevins birthday. We all sang happy birthday and ate some cake. It gave us a chance to walk the dog and stretch our legs.
Our dog came into our life sort of unexpectedly. Mom got the dog while dad was at work. It was a long haired dog. I don't even remember its name. Someone gave it to mom and she put it in the garage. Dad was working odd shifts and it was his privilege to be surprised by the wild animal as he opened the garage door. The dog barked and attacked. Dad and mom had a screaming match but mom won and the dog stayed. I think dad bonded with the dog over time and it became a pretty important part of our family.
As you might expect, things get pretty busy with a family of 6 in a motorhome. Important things like,where are the pieces for the Sorry game, what happened to my book report, where is my hairbrush and of course who let the dog in after the last stop are all things that come up as you meander across the country. Unfortunately for us, the last question was answered by some folks who pulled up next to us and flagged us down. The next 30 minutes seemed like an hour. As dad stepped back to the rear of the motor home it became ubundantly clear that no one had brought the dog in. Something like this is pretty hard to hide from the young ones when they are so underfoot. By this point the entire cast of the Jaynes bunch was hysterical. The dog, a medium build with short legs had not passed. Dad put him in the back door of the motorhome. He was in bad shape and in a lot of pain. He squirmed and yelped and begged for help with his eyes. Dad found his way off the freeway and located and old farm, while at the same time, any hope of control in the motorhome had slipped away. He didn't tell us what he was doing and he didn't explain it after he returned. The single gunshot said it all. The dog couldn't have survived.
As I write this, I know that many people will not believe it. There are certain parts of this story that actually appear in a very popular movie. My thoughts are that either this is a more common event than you might imagine or that some writer somewhere actually witnessed the horror that was our family vacation.
Sometime near Christmas break we Dad, Mom, Kammy, Jeff, Kevin, Jesse and the dog hit the road. My memories of the trip are sporadic at best. I remember that we played games and mingled all the way across the country. We would stop at a rest area or store and someone would walk the dog give him food and water and we would all stretch our legs. We stopped at one point in Phoenix to visit folks. Dad decided he wanted to go up Flaggstaff mountain. This was the strangest site I had ever seen. The weather at the base of the mountain was dry and hot. As we moved up the mountain the weather changed drastically. About 3/4 of the way up the mountain the police stopped us. It turns out you could not continue up the mountain without snow chains. No one thought to pack those considering our southern route. I could tell dad wasn't happy by the way he was barking at mom. There was someone selling them on the side of the road and from dad's tone I thought he might beat someone to death with them. We made it to the top and then back down again. The only other thing I remember about Phoenix was that we had some authentic mexican food, of course this was long before it was popularized across the country. We also meandered through San Antonio and saw the Alamo and the riverwalk area. The whole vacation moved along at a pretty good clip without to many hitches. In fact, I am not sure how we made it so far without someone getting hurt. I have a pretty vivid memory of visiting the old part of Las Vegas (probably not so old when we were there). Mom and dad left us in the Motorhome while they stepped into the casino and did some gambleing. The four of us kids lined up on the bed that hung over the cab and marveled at all the lights and the machines that lined up in front of us out the front window. Dad wasn't very happy with his take given his mood when they got back in the motorhome. Mom had been hitting the nickel slots and winning and she was complaining that dad kept taking all her cups of money. Judging from their dispositions, they must have came with less than they started with.
As kids, you just kind of move along through life without too much to worry about. It did seem pretty clear that things were starting to get a little strained. The Motorhome seemed more like a motor room by the time we pulled into California. We visited with some of our distant relatives there. Nice enough bunch. They lived on the edge of the desert. They had dune buggies and all the toys you might expect someone to have that lived on the desert. Dad spent a lot of time catching up. At some point, we went down toward Hollywood, mom found Buddy Epson asleep in his car on the side of the road (thats right JED CLAMPETT in person) She drug him out of the car and he took a picture with us on the side of the road. Down on the beach mom spotted another celebrity off of some soap opera, she managed to wrangle a picture with him as well.
The toll of the trip must have settled in cause dad and mom were really bumping heads. I am not sure how long we spent in California, but something went pretty wrong while we were there. Dad tied one on and as we were leaving the area he told us we were not going to make it to Disneyland. I remember him and mom fighting pretty bad and he told us mom had spent all the money and we couldn't afford to go. After that the motorhome pretty much headed for Indiana. We stopped at on the side of the road along the way to celebrate Jeff and Kevins birthday. We all sang happy birthday and ate some cake. It gave us a chance to walk the dog and stretch our legs.
Our dog came into our life sort of unexpectedly. Mom got the dog while dad was at work. It was a long haired dog. I don't even remember its name. Someone gave it to mom and she put it in the garage. Dad was working odd shifts and it was his privilege to be surprised by the wild animal as he opened the garage door. The dog barked and attacked. Dad and mom had a screaming match but mom won and the dog stayed. I think dad bonded with the dog over time and it became a pretty important part of our family.
As you might expect, things get pretty busy with a family of 6 in a motorhome. Important things like,where are the pieces for the Sorry game, what happened to my book report, where is my hairbrush and of course who let the dog in after the last stop are all things that come up as you meander across the country. Unfortunately for us, the last question was answered by some folks who pulled up next to us and flagged us down. The next 30 minutes seemed like an hour. As dad stepped back to the rear of the motor home it became ubundantly clear that no one had brought the dog in. Something like this is pretty hard to hide from the young ones when they are so underfoot. By this point the entire cast of the Jaynes bunch was hysterical. The dog, a medium build with short legs had not passed. Dad put him in the back door of the motorhome. He was in bad shape and in a lot of pain. He squirmed and yelped and begged for help with his eyes. Dad found his way off the freeway and located and old farm, while at the same time, any hope of control in the motorhome had slipped away. He didn't tell us what he was doing and he didn't explain it after he returned. The single gunshot said it all. The dog couldn't have survived.
As I write this, I know that many people will not believe it. There are certain parts of this story that actually appear in a very popular movie. My thoughts are that either this is a more common event than you might imagine or that some writer somewhere actually witnessed the horror that was our family vacation.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
23rd Street- Neighbors
You watch your television and you think " I know someone like that". It might be a funny uncle. A silly child. A level speaking teacher. I had the same occurence when I used to watch the old Bewitched. Do you remember Gladys Kravitz? The thin neurotic neighbor with some quirky traits? We had a nice family living next door to us on 23rd st. with a mom that fit the bill. Don't get me wrong, not everything coming out of next door was bad. My brother Jeff was caught with his clothes off in the garage with Tina trying to innocently explore the differences between the boy and girl anatomy. Not bad, only because at this young age you are gaining knowledge that is completely useless. (I am sure the parents had a difference of opinon on that). True, most of our exchanges with Kenny and Tina consisted of making cement out of mud around the posts of the Sears chainlink fence my dad had installed. Kenny, their boy, had a few allergies that required him to be extremely careful with life. His mom, in all her oddities, would not allow him into anything without him being medicated up. This boy was allergic to grass, pollen, cats, dogs, and nearly everything anyone could think of. My theory is that he was also allergic to ditzy mom figures. Kenny was one step from the real life Boy In A Bubble as played by John Travolta. Sue was a sweet woman. She had dark hair and a thin frame that looked as though it might break if you bumped against it. Her voice made a noise akin to squealing pigs just before the slaughter. The kind of voice that was annoying if you were awake and had active hearing. I remember her as a very attentive mother. Hovering over Kenny and Tina in such a way that breathing could be difficult. Her husband, Raymond was a bulky guy. Not heavy just bulky. He was a mechanical guy who spent time in his garage. I think he was happy. He understood that the choices you make are ones that you have to live with. His interactions with his wife seemed different. I think as long as they didn't have to talk much, it was ok. Sue wasn't someone that was very deep. She spoke well and she spoke often. Listening wasn't something that was her strong suit, unless it was to hear herself talk.Mom and Sue were freinds. Dad and Raymond were freinds as well. Thats the way suburbia worked. You liked the people next door. We had more in common with Sue and Raymond's family than we did with the elderly folks on the other side. So our parents migrated their friendship towards them.
No story about Sue would be complete without talking about her dog. My mom gave Sue a puppy. I am not sure if it came from a dog we had or not. What I do know is Sue loved that puppy. Sue named her dog Inky. Inky because of the color of the coat. This dog could not have known the life it was in for. The truth is, Sue treated this dog like it was a child. Kenny had allergies, so did the dog. Tina got the flu, so did the dog. Raymond got the dissentary, so did the dog. Poor little Inky spent most of his time suffering through every childhood illness in the neighborhood. Sue cried over that dog like you would cry over a family member. Sue was a fragile woman with a frail constitution. Her love for this dog gave her a purpose and some fulfillment, so I guess its not a bad thing. Tina and Kenny grew up and last we heard Kenny had outgrown some of his allergies. Tina was doing well too. Sue and Raymond got divorced and I never found out what happened to Inky. My guess is, she had him cremated and then spent the next several years sprinkling him over her favorite food dishes. Woof.
No story about Sue would be complete without talking about her dog. My mom gave Sue a puppy. I am not sure if it came from a dog we had or not. What I do know is Sue loved that puppy. Sue named her dog Inky. Inky because of the color of the coat. This dog could not have known the life it was in for. The truth is, Sue treated this dog like it was a child. Kenny had allergies, so did the dog. Tina got the flu, so did the dog. Raymond got the dissentary, so did the dog. Poor little Inky spent most of his time suffering through every childhood illness in the neighborhood. Sue cried over that dog like you would cry over a family member. Sue was a fragile woman with a frail constitution. Her love for this dog gave her a purpose and some fulfillment, so I guess its not a bad thing. Tina and Kenny grew up and last we heard Kenny had outgrown some of his allergies. Tina was doing well too. Sue and Raymond got divorced and I never found out what happened to Inky. My guess is, she had him cremated and then spent the next several years sprinkling him over her favorite food dishes. Woof.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Doggie Love
Folks have dogs. So did we. Our folks were the kind that believed kids should have pets. We grew fond of our animals as did most people. Our pet stories were varied. I remember the excitement like it was yesterday. When we saw the beast of a dog that was to be our next pet, we were still inhabitants of 23rd st. The Sears chainlink fence from dads job was all in place. So when the St Bernard arrived for the 4 small kids to play with, it was like Christmas. Our games with that dog consisted of anything we could think of. We put the little ones on for a ride. This was usually Kevin. Kevin was the youngest of the 4. He was small and a momma's boy, so if he fell off and muffed up his little toe head, we knew mommy would give him extra kisses to make him better.
The dog was a contradiction to how our parents cared for this home. My father and mother took meticulous care to ensure that we had a nice home. I think I remember the landscaping winning a neighborhood award for best maintained yard. This was, at this point in middle suburbia history, a lofty honor not made to just any yard. My belief is that it was more a chance for the neighborhood committee to point out all the yards that were not chosen. To be chosen was to be the Chosen Leaders, the example, the mold by which all lawns were graded for at least a month. Our yard as an example, our family as an example this must explain the ultimate demise of 23rd st. We must have been the original "crack in the dam". As was typical, the next month was always a fury to make sure you were in the running for the award again. The house was perfect. New shutters, fresh paint, Jack Byrd using his special caligraphy talents to hand paint our house numbers in what could only be described as the best damn numbers on the block. Dad was working 2 jobs and mom was busy with 4 jobs (Kammy, Jesse, Jeff and Kevin). Both of them were spending all of their spare time trying to elevate us into middle suburbia.
Dad loved his screen doors. Judging from the amount of trouble we got into for slamming them or pushing the screen out or just generally abusing them. Anyone with 4 small children can tell you that maintaining a home at award winning standards can be tough. Keeping the screen in the front door can be almost impossible. Dads new job at Sears allowed us access to many of the newest additions to improve your home. After several episodes with the screen and a small child something had to be done. It wasn't long until the new screen door arrived. It was brilliant white with a screen and a window at the top. These were able to be opened and slid down for the option of either a breeze without bugs via the screen or a window with no breeze. The lower half was white metal (probably aluminum) it had this x that filled a box covering the enitre surface of the bottom half. Dad barked at mom for tools as we played in the yard with our St Bernard puppy (now the size of a small horse). After what seemed like an eternity, the family was gathered around to look at the award winning door. We were awe struck. This must be the best door on the whole street. Sears had given us the tool to sweep the neighborhood contest for the rest of the year. But wait, dad had an idea. Lets paint it. With the utmost care and dilligence. My dad, king of 23rd st. Put on his painters cap. He got out the white paint and the black paint and started working on the masterpiece. Of course, highlight the x by painting it black. This would match the trim. This had to lock up the competition. Surely if anyone drove by our home and saw the door, they would realize they could buy the same one at Sears. No one would ever think to customize it with paint. That was genious. This extra polish might even be so great that the neigborhood committe would overlook the new path that our small pony had now made all around the interior of the Sears fence. They might also overlook the other pieces of destruction a chewing dog likes to leave in its path. Our parents had just sealed our permanent position as the "permanent leaders of the 23rd st yard care society". They would probably stop the competition because we were so far in advance of all the other folks. After all it wouldn't be fair to let us win everymonth. With dads job done, he went in for a nap to prepare for his evening work.
The four of us kids played in the yard chasing the dog, letting the dog chase us. We never really stopped to appreciate the extra details in the paint or the glowing effect the door had on the home. We put Kevin on the dog then we ran. The dog would chase us and knock us down. The dog never tired of the game. The children did. After what must have been hours of relentlessly running from the dog, I ran as fast as I could to the safety at the front of the house. I saw the dog coming, so I stepped with my back to the front screen door. The one my father and mother had hung all of their hopes and dreams on. The one that would dictate our position in 23rd st heirarchy for years to come. The dog would stop. He would never run straight into me. That wouldn't be plausible. Suddenly, with a burst of last minute gusto. As I see it now the dog acted like we were in Pampalona at the running of the bulls. The charge was direct and deliberate. With reckless abandon he ran straight at me never hitting the doggie brakes and without a thought for the consequences.
The metal x to the screen door now lay beneath my bottom on the living room floor. The dog, happy that it finally caught me licked my face for approval. I don't think I was giggling if I was it was probably fear. My mind has blocked out the punishment. I know that my memories of this doggie dissapeared after this event. I keep flashing back to the dented screen door. I am not sure how long it took to replace it. The damaged door seems to have remained for a while. The doggie memories from this point forward move to much smaller dogs with shorter legs. If we had know what our future would hold, we might have invested in dogs that could run much faster.......
The dog was a contradiction to how our parents cared for this home. My father and mother took meticulous care to ensure that we had a nice home. I think I remember the landscaping winning a neighborhood award for best maintained yard. This was, at this point in middle suburbia history, a lofty honor not made to just any yard. My belief is that it was more a chance for the neighborhood committee to point out all the yards that were not chosen. To be chosen was to be the Chosen Leaders, the example, the mold by which all lawns were graded for at least a month. Our yard as an example, our family as an example this must explain the ultimate demise of 23rd st. We must have been the original "crack in the dam". As was typical, the next month was always a fury to make sure you were in the running for the award again. The house was perfect. New shutters, fresh paint, Jack Byrd using his special caligraphy talents to hand paint our house numbers in what could only be described as the best damn numbers on the block. Dad was working 2 jobs and mom was busy with 4 jobs (Kammy, Jesse, Jeff and Kevin). Both of them were spending all of their spare time trying to elevate us into middle suburbia.
Dad loved his screen doors. Judging from the amount of trouble we got into for slamming them or pushing the screen out or just generally abusing them. Anyone with 4 small children can tell you that maintaining a home at award winning standards can be tough. Keeping the screen in the front door can be almost impossible. Dads new job at Sears allowed us access to many of the newest additions to improve your home. After several episodes with the screen and a small child something had to be done. It wasn't long until the new screen door arrived. It was brilliant white with a screen and a window at the top. These were able to be opened and slid down for the option of either a breeze without bugs via the screen or a window with no breeze. The lower half was white metal (probably aluminum) it had this x that filled a box covering the enitre surface of the bottom half. Dad barked at mom for tools as we played in the yard with our St Bernard puppy (now the size of a small horse). After what seemed like an eternity, the family was gathered around to look at the award winning door. We were awe struck. This must be the best door on the whole street. Sears had given us the tool to sweep the neighborhood contest for the rest of the year. But wait, dad had an idea. Lets paint it. With the utmost care and dilligence. My dad, king of 23rd st. Put on his painters cap. He got out the white paint and the black paint and started working on the masterpiece. Of course, highlight the x by painting it black. This would match the trim. This had to lock up the competition. Surely if anyone drove by our home and saw the door, they would realize they could buy the same one at Sears. No one would ever think to customize it with paint. That was genious. This extra polish might even be so great that the neigborhood committe would overlook the new path that our small pony had now made all around the interior of the Sears fence. They might also overlook the other pieces of destruction a chewing dog likes to leave in its path. Our parents had just sealed our permanent position as the "permanent leaders of the 23rd st yard care society". They would probably stop the competition because we were so far in advance of all the other folks. After all it wouldn't be fair to let us win everymonth. With dads job done, he went in for a nap to prepare for his evening work.
The four of us kids played in the yard chasing the dog, letting the dog chase us. We never really stopped to appreciate the extra details in the paint or the glowing effect the door had on the home. We put Kevin on the dog then we ran. The dog would chase us and knock us down. The dog never tired of the game. The children did. After what must have been hours of relentlessly running from the dog, I ran as fast as I could to the safety at the front of the house. I saw the dog coming, so I stepped with my back to the front screen door. The one my father and mother had hung all of their hopes and dreams on. The one that would dictate our position in 23rd st heirarchy for years to come. The dog would stop. He would never run straight into me. That wouldn't be plausible. Suddenly, with a burst of last minute gusto. As I see it now the dog acted like we were in Pampalona at the running of the bulls. The charge was direct and deliberate. With reckless abandon he ran straight at me never hitting the doggie brakes and without a thought for the consequences.
The metal x to the screen door now lay beneath my bottom on the living room floor. The dog, happy that it finally caught me licked my face for approval. I don't think I was giggling if I was it was probably fear. My mind has blocked out the punishment. I know that my memories of this doggie dissapeared after this event. I keep flashing back to the dented screen door. I am not sure how long it took to replace it. The damaged door seems to have remained for a while. The doggie memories from this point forward move to much smaller dogs with shorter legs. If we had know what our future would hold, we might have invested in dogs that could run much faster.......
Sunday, October 21, 2007
More Memory from 23rd Street
23rd Steet was like any other place during my early childhood. It had a neighborhood skating rink, an old 2 story brick school house an old store, a park and row after row of indistinct little starter homes that one after the other resembeled each other with only small exceptions for the modifications that each owner made to accommodate their individual personalities. We called this place home for what seemed like many years.
As little kids often do, we wandered this place as if it were an adventure land. At one end of the street, in the place that is now a park, we found lots to keep our mind busy. Broken pieces of concrete pipe served as a home for wayward cave explorers. Solid piles of unused asphalt was the volcanic mountain we used to create the ultimate fantasy world. The countless wooden wire spools, usless to the city became a forest of wooden creatures for small children to lurk around while hiding from the wooley wooden forest beast that sometimes ate the children he came in contact with. There were many earthen piles that served a great service to young children as bicycle jumps and king of the mountain bases a better accidental park than ever could be created by man.
Not only the places we saw but the people we met. Little folks with their natural curiosity sometimes know more people than their adult counterparts in the same space. They, especially in groups, fear no one. Everyone is their friend. The home down the street, on the opposite end from chubby curler lady, beyond the retired couple next door with the adult son living at home. Is where we convinced ourselves that the host of the local terror movie matinee lived. Thinking back, the vision of Sammy Terry that I held as a youth seems almost laughable. He was, as I recall,a vampire like character complete with blood on his face and a caped black garb covering his thin frame. Late night drew me in as an unatural fan. My mind raced with anticipation every time he moved into the frame. I think I knew he was just a character introducing movies at midnight on Saturday, just like Cowboy Bob and Sheila the Wonder Horse introducing our cartoons on WTTV channel 4 but one part of me liked to think he might be real. So, when the neighbor, who obviously did an impression of his voice for me annouced he was Sammy Terry, I knew we had a celebrity on our street.
The adventure park had other sorts in it. The late 60's was a time for free life and a lot of folks took that and lived it. When we met the folks who stayed at the adventure park we thought they were doing the same thing that we young adventurers would do. Bounce off the volcano, roam through the spindle forest and jump the dirt hills. They were freindly enough always there to talk to us. I don't remember any fear from these encounters. What I do remember is one of them had a guitar and he would play Jim Croce songs for us while we hung out with them. I thought these folks were locals just visiting like us. Now, I think we might have been visiting their temporary home. It was a nice interaction with a good chance to meet people not so much like those in your home. At some point, our visits to the adventure park stopped and we moved on. There was always someone to catch your attention. In the vicinity of Sammy Terry's house, lived a lady with a giant poodle. We were sure that she had gotten it from some exotic land and that no other existed in this part of the world. It could surely eat a small child in one swallow.
The folks across the street, kind of at an angle from us, had two sons. For the life of me I cannot remember both of their names. One of them for sure was Buster I think the other one was Billy. Its not really relevant. They were miss named. The names should have been little shit and bigger shit. If ever any children had a small piece of the devil living inside them. These were the ones. As I think back, they seem bigger and meaner than we were. I remember their hobbies. Buster liked to break our toys while Billy watched. They were diverse, once in a whlie Billy would break the toys while Buster would watch. When the toys were all broken or hidden away. They took turns thumping on the neighbor kids. When the neighbor kids were broken or hidden away, they took turns thumping on each other. That was fun.
As little kids often do, we wandered this place as if it were an adventure land. At one end of the street, in the place that is now a park, we found lots to keep our mind busy. Broken pieces of concrete pipe served as a home for wayward cave explorers. Solid piles of unused asphalt was the volcanic mountain we used to create the ultimate fantasy world. The countless wooden wire spools, usless to the city became a forest of wooden creatures for small children to lurk around while hiding from the wooley wooden forest beast that sometimes ate the children he came in contact with. There were many earthen piles that served a great service to young children as bicycle jumps and king of the mountain bases a better accidental park than ever could be created by man.
Not only the places we saw but the people we met. Little folks with their natural curiosity sometimes know more people than their adult counterparts in the same space. They, especially in groups, fear no one. Everyone is their friend. The home down the street, on the opposite end from chubby curler lady, beyond the retired couple next door with the adult son living at home. Is where we convinced ourselves that the host of the local terror movie matinee lived. Thinking back, the vision of Sammy Terry that I held as a youth seems almost laughable. He was, as I recall,a vampire like character complete with blood on his face and a caped black garb covering his thin frame. Late night drew me in as an unatural fan. My mind raced with anticipation every time he moved into the frame. I think I knew he was just a character introducing movies at midnight on Saturday, just like Cowboy Bob and Sheila the Wonder Horse introducing our cartoons on WTTV channel 4 but one part of me liked to think he might be real. So, when the neighbor, who obviously did an impression of his voice for me annouced he was Sammy Terry, I knew we had a celebrity on our street.
The adventure park had other sorts in it. The late 60's was a time for free life and a lot of folks took that and lived it. When we met the folks who stayed at the adventure park we thought they were doing the same thing that we young adventurers would do. Bounce off the volcano, roam through the spindle forest and jump the dirt hills. They were freindly enough always there to talk to us. I don't remember any fear from these encounters. What I do remember is one of them had a guitar and he would play Jim Croce songs for us while we hung out with them. I thought these folks were locals just visiting like us. Now, I think we might have been visiting their temporary home. It was a nice interaction with a good chance to meet people not so much like those in your home. At some point, our visits to the adventure park stopped and we moved on. There was always someone to catch your attention. In the vicinity of Sammy Terry's house, lived a lady with a giant poodle. We were sure that she had gotten it from some exotic land and that no other existed in this part of the world. It could surely eat a small child in one swallow.
The folks across the street, kind of at an angle from us, had two sons. For the life of me I cannot remember both of their names. One of them for sure was Buster I think the other one was Billy. Its not really relevant. They were miss named. The names should have been little shit and bigger shit. If ever any children had a small piece of the devil living inside them. These were the ones. As I think back, they seem bigger and meaner than we were. I remember their hobbies. Buster liked to break our toys while Billy watched. They were diverse, once in a whlie Billy would break the toys while Buster would watch. When the toys were all broken or hidden away. They took turns thumping on the neighbor kids. When the neighbor kids were broken or hidden away, they took turns thumping on each other. That was fun.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Parental Influence
I tried to think back to the first time I realized something was different in our house. We had a safe upbringing. There was a lot of love and laughter in our home. Our parents, young and inexperienced, worked hard to provide a good place for us to grow up. Looking back, I think they were growing up a little as well. Our parents married when they were 17. Dad, I am told, was very much a student of the 50's. I remember pictures of him, a dashing dark haired Elvis inspired young man. Family history tells us that he was very popular among the ladies. Some of my earliest memories of my father was his ability to turn a womans head with a polite word and a quick wink. My father was also quick witted and a real mans man. His friendships ran deep. Family ties, specifically his side of the family, especially so. If there was a problem in the family, he was the one they called. My aunt with her daughter, my grandmother, his Aunts, Dad was "johnny on the spot". He liked being the hero. He liked the attention. I always thought it was a great attribute to believe that you are always right and that the universe traveled in tight circle that started at you and worked its way out. That was my dad, always right, always the most important and always looking out for number one.
Mom, was a easy. Her fair skin, blonde hair and blue eyes made her easy to look at. Her sense of humor and casual style made her fun to be around and great as a parent. She too was a teenager of the 50's. She liked the music, she liked the dances and she liked the era. It was always fun to grow up in the house with mom. Her family values were strong, as were her opinions. Mom was also busy managing the house. Managing my father. Her personality was strongest when it wasn't overshadowed by the more dominant personality in the home. I suppose this was a common occurence in this era. For the most part, he job and position in the house was to maintain dads mood swings by attending to all the details of the house, bills and children. Mom had a tough side. You have to remember that by the time she was 22, there were 4 children in the home to contend with. Mom did not hold a job outside the house. She was capable of managing just fine. I am drawn to a memory of my mom and a neighbor, several houses away, having words. Although my young mind flashes pictures of a chunky woman with curlers in her hair with missing teeth and a screech when she talked, I am sure the neighbor was not as intimidating as my minds eye remembers. At some point, this venomous creature called out my mom with some choice names. I think our dog may have wondered into their yard. The exchange must have lasted, hit and miss, for days. The entire event culminated as I remember it with my mom, Divine Entity of 23rd St, marching her 4 small children across the Hardin's front yard for a face to face over the property line of the chunky curler lady. My best recollection of the event (I must have been only 9 or so) was of my mother and this woman spewing out expletives at one another trying to solve this problem once and for all. The soup continued to rumble just below a boil until the chunky curler lady thought she saw one of the wee ones step over the property line into chunky curler lady land. It was at that point she told my mother, to keep you damn kid off my yard. Now my mom, who always kept things on the nice, must have had a switch flipped. The rage in her eyes, the tone of her voice changed from mild mannered mommy to wicked evil monster neighbor lady from hell. She blasted chunky curler lady with an explosion of expletives that would have made Lenny Bruce proud. At the end of the tirade she gave one more warning. She said "lady, I don't know when, and I don't know how but one day you are going to have to leave this yard and when you do, I am going to beat you" It must have been believable, because we watched chunky curler lady retreat to her house. She spent the next 2 years running from her house directly to her car and then back to her house again. At some point a few years later, chunky curler lady made her way to our house. She came with an apology,explained that she had been going through the change of life and called a truce. Mom, ever gracious, accepted the apology and never spoke of it again. This was the first time I realized something was different in our house.
Mom, was a easy. Her fair skin, blonde hair and blue eyes made her easy to look at. Her sense of humor and casual style made her fun to be around and great as a parent. She too was a teenager of the 50's. She liked the music, she liked the dances and she liked the era. It was always fun to grow up in the house with mom. Her family values were strong, as were her opinions. Mom was also busy managing the house. Managing my father. Her personality was strongest when it wasn't overshadowed by the more dominant personality in the home. I suppose this was a common occurence in this era. For the most part, he job and position in the house was to maintain dads mood swings by attending to all the details of the house, bills and children. Mom had a tough side. You have to remember that by the time she was 22, there were 4 children in the home to contend with. Mom did not hold a job outside the house. She was capable of managing just fine. I am drawn to a memory of my mom and a neighbor, several houses away, having words. Although my young mind flashes pictures of a chunky woman with curlers in her hair with missing teeth and a screech when she talked, I am sure the neighbor was not as intimidating as my minds eye remembers. At some point, this venomous creature called out my mom with some choice names. I think our dog may have wondered into their yard. The exchange must have lasted, hit and miss, for days. The entire event culminated as I remember it with my mom, Divine Entity of 23rd St, marching her 4 small children across the Hardin's front yard for a face to face over the property line of the chunky curler lady. My best recollection of the event (I must have been only 9 or so) was of my mother and this woman spewing out expletives at one another trying to solve this problem once and for all. The soup continued to rumble just below a boil until the chunky curler lady thought she saw one of the wee ones step over the property line into chunky curler lady land. It was at that point she told my mother, to keep you damn kid off my yard. Now my mom, who always kept things on the nice, must have had a switch flipped. The rage in her eyes, the tone of her voice changed from mild mannered mommy to wicked evil monster neighbor lady from hell. She blasted chunky curler lady with an explosion of expletives that would have made Lenny Bruce proud. At the end of the tirade she gave one more warning. She said "lady, I don't know when, and I don't know how but one day you are going to have to leave this yard and when you do, I am going to beat you" It must have been believable, because we watched chunky curler lady retreat to her house. She spent the next 2 years running from her house directly to her car and then back to her house again. At some point a few years later, chunky curler lady made her way to our house. She came with an apology,explained that she had been going through the change of life and called a truce. Mom, ever gracious, accepted the apology and never spoke of it again. This was the first time I realized something was different in our house.
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