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.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
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.
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