5/9/13 - The Axe Wielder
Blogger's Note: During uneventful, mundane weeks (such as this one), I had planned on filling my posts with various forms of more interesting reading. Profiling the "cast", ranting on pet peeves, or even rolling out blueprints for some future endeavor could be used as stuffing when life just wasn't being brilliantly pleasant or opaquely vulgar. I've been stirring the stew on one about "The Road to Amelia" for a while now; and, a feature about Joanna is past due. But, right now, Joanna is 8 months pregnant and exhausted and miserable and ready to get to the next chapter of this whole birthing concept (bless her heart); and, unfortunately, that sort of misery just doesn't lend itself to inspiration. And when I do write about Joanna, the mother, the wife, the lover-of-vodka, well, I wanna do it right. I've discovered that if I write about what's on my mind (as opposed to force-feeding a subject), I can write freely and with gusto, which tends to be conceptually more attractive.
Joanna and I had lunch with some friends this week, and the old clichè "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" had been tossed on the table. Now, I tend to subscribe to this age-old proverb, and once that scrap of wisdom nestled in my brain, it rooted and grew and suddenly I had something to focus on for this week's topic. "Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it" (I had to google the source of that one and apparently some Spanish fella by the name of George Santayana gets the nod) is a quote that applies not just to History class but also to successful parenting.
One thing I simply can't stand is listening to some scratchy-throat, chain-smoking Jerry Springer candidate proclaim how "well, it worked for me" while she's swashbuckling her snotty-nosed child with a freshly-harvested switch and yelling profanities. I'm pretty damn certain that "it" didn't work for her; and, if it did, there might have been a better way. Each generation has a responsibility to be better than the last, and if we're going to improve upon the things our parents did right or fix the things they didn't, then we have to look back and scrutinize the apple tree from which we fell. Upon examination, I've discovered that my apple tree bears a lot to ponder.
Now, I know I promised not to get cute with any musical gimmicks in my blog. But I like to write to music. If you care to listen along with me or just know what inspired me this week, then click here to listen to Bob Dylan's Tempest and open my blog in another tab. If not, well, no problem.. just continue reading...
If I had to zero in on a singular, life-altering event in my childhood that would easily be the death of my father in 1978. Harold Duane Edwards, known by friends and family as "Butchie", was called out in the middle of a January night to fuel a tow boat on the Ohio River. The winter of '77-'78 is considered by locals to have been the worst winter of a generation (excluding perhaps the ice storm of '09). This particular night, white-out conditions, high winds, and choppy waters would prove to be too much for the small, tow boat that he was piloting. He was pulled from the frigid water wearing a life vest shortly after the boat capsized; but, after several attempts at resuscitation, hypothermia claimed him. Another crew member was never found.
He was 27. I would be turning 4 in a week; my brother was 10 months old.
One of the best nuggets of wisdom my mother ever gave me was to hang on to the memories of my father as best I could. Over the years, I've retained a number of these diamonds; they still sparkle on occasion. The most significant of these would sadly be a memory of that night.
I awoke deep in the morning to the sounds of conversation coming from the living room. I staggered in wearing a step-in Winnie the Pooh pajama piece complete with footies. Mom was sitting on the couch; near the front door stood two suits. She was just sitting there. She wasn't crying or hysterical or anything like that; she just sat there looking distant, like no one was home. I groggily climbed on her lap, still wiping sleep from my eyes.
"Your dad's gone over the rainbow," was the only thing I remember her saying.
Strange that. I mean, mom has always been a steadfast Christian. I think it's a testament to her state of mind that she chose those words as opposed to "he's gone to be with the Lord" or "he'll be waiting for us in Heaven". But we had just watched "The Wizard of Oz" on tv that week; I suppose she thought I'd understand that better. If I hadn't already loved that movie, now I would find it absolutely enchanting. (Later as a child I would even read all of L. Frank Baum's Oz books, and I sometimes wonder if my love for fantasy fiction can't be traced here.)
The song lyric "the candle burned out long before the legend ever did..." makes me think of Dad. To this day, "oh my God... you're Butchie's boy!" sometimes follows the unearthing of our kinship during a random conversation. And then the stories start. Butchie stories are never "he once helped me carry in groceries" or "he once loaned me five bucks when I was out of money". They are more like, "he could take apart a car motor and have it back together before the end of the day," "he helped me carry an engine across the Brookport bridge to get it worked on and then back," "he helped me push my car through foot-deep snow once when I ran out of gas for three miles" and "some jerk called me a name at the pool hall so he jumped up on this son-of-a-bitch's car and ripped open the convertible top with a pool stick." (these are all actual examples.) After repeatedly hearing these stories from different sources, I have no choice but to believe them. It was only fitting that his casket had to be carried a mile through 12 inches of snow to his grave site the day he was buried.
He was born a twin. He was one of 14 kids raised by Momma Betty and Daddy Bill (my grandparents). The Edwards Family Reunion is the only show on Earth where it's ok to walk up to someone random and ask, "who are you?" I have fond memories of these grandparents; I grew up just a couple of blocks from them. Momma Betty, smelling of Ben-Gay and Tab, would always give me something when I came to visit (which was often) even if it was just a sponge (and I loved that). She once gave me a picture of her as a little girl. I still have it.
I recall their backyard smelling like old motor oil soaked into the earth (to this day, I strangely enjoy that smell; it brings me back there). Daddy Bill had an old wringer washing machine in his backyard that he never turned off. Mere weeks after my father died, it nearly ate my hand as I was playing. I have some pretty vicious scars to prove it (in school, while other kids were trying to figure out their left hand from their right, I would just feel for these scars and remember that they were on my right hand).
Momma Betty would pass away on my birthday in 1986; Daddy Bill died a few weeks later. They lived a long and loving life.
My other grandparents were quite a bit different. Bud Reynolds, and a step-mother named Rose raised my mother. She had 8 other siblings that were a hodgepodge of step-brothers and sisters, a real sister and a real brother, and a half-sister. They all slept in one room - boys in one bed, girls in the other. She told me that it wasn't uncommon for them to go barefoot in the summer time, because they couldn't afford shoes.
Back in that time, Paducah was to bluegrass what Nashville is to country music. And Bud Reynolds was a local legend. Everyone knew that Bud was the biggest liar in Massac County, but nobody cared because his stories were just so damn colorful. He has been chased by a bear (and barely escaped with his life); he's driven across the Ohio River in his pick-up truck after it had frozen solid one winter, and he played with Merle Haggard at the Grand Ole Opry - there may have been some truth to this last one, I'm a little unclear on the details, but I have heard that he has sat in with Merle Haggard before.
Leaving the asphalt behind, Poco Road winds through the Shawnee Forest as it makes its way beyond Hohman's Lake. Cresting Weak's Hill, beyond the gravel pits tucked along its path, it has somehow been excluded from modern development and feels like a step into the past. Along this route, Bud's rusty, old pick-up would often complain and backfire as a crushed Pabst Blue Ribbon can flew out of the driver's-side window.
As a child, when mom would bring us for a visit, I would climb the fruit trees in the backyard or find eggs in the chicken coop or get bitten by one of their little asshole dogs. Inside the house, a wood stove - the only source of heat - would crackle and hiss.
Mom has told me many stories about various nights when, as a child, she had to brave one of his regular fits of drunken rage. Carolyn, her sister, nearly lost an eye to a belt buckle, and her brothers' creative imaginations were regularly tested as they tried to explain whelps and bruises he had given them. It's funny how when people speak of Bud Reynolds (and an example of this occurred to me just the other day), they can talk affectionately of him and call him a worthless son-of-a-bitch all in the same breath. I think that alcoholism was the villain here; when he wasn't drinking, his charismatic story-telling could charm anyone.
One Thanksgiving day, when mom was very young, they were waiting on two of her brothers to arrive at the table before they began eating. Their names were Tommy and (ironically enough) Butchie. Mom said she was closer to these two than any of the others. Worry evolved into panic when the two didn't show for a a rare food-covered table. The worried family left the food in the kitchen and began a search. Late that afternoon, the sun's fingers were losing their grip on the horizon, mom watched her father use a garden rake to pull the lifeless bodies of her two brothers from a cistern. Apparently, they had been using the rope and pulley above it to swing across. When the rope broke and Tommy fell in, Butchie (as best as they could figure) tried to help him out and must have fallen in as well. They both drowned.
Rose died when I was a teenager of complications from Alzheimer's. Bud died about 10 years ago: cirrhosis of the liver.
I have read that after one suffers a traumatic event, any underlying psychological disorders that may be resting deep in the mind's dark abyss can surface. Edna Mae Edwards, my mother, has suffered many, many a traumatic event. These events have defined her as a person and as a mother and as a grandmother. I have learned from her strengths... ...and her mistakes.
I have a hard time explaining her. She is a very complex person. While I am no psychologist, I'm fairly certain that she suffers from some form of paranoia. She often blames "the neighbors" for breaking into her house and taking light bulbs or breaking the shelves in her refrigerator or messing with the wires on her oven. She keeps three padlocks on her shed, and I have walked into her house to see her lawn mower sitting in the middle of the kitchen. She explained that if she didn't keep it there then "the neighbors" would mess with it. "The Neighbors" have never done anything major; they just mess with her by moving things like her purse from the kitchen table to the counter or, perhaps, by leaving the trunk of her car slightly open. Don't think for one second that I haven't considered every possible option when it comes to how to help her. But she insists that she's perfectly normal... and, the fact is, she is functional. But, for as a long as I can remember, no matter where we lived, she has had problems with "the neighbors."
I don't remember mom ever saying "I love you" to us. Perhaps when we were very young. She quit hugging us by the time we were 6. This bothered me a lot growing up. As part of our 8th grade graduation ceremony, we were supposed to bring our mothers a rose and hug them. I remember feeling so uncomfortable that I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I hugged her, of course, but it was awkward; and, I reflected for a long time on that. And this made me angry. To this day, I try to remember to tell Joanna and Roman that I love them everyday. And, when DJ (being a teenager) isn't around his friends, and I think I can get away with it, I'll slip in a term of endearment. It's important to me.
The other problem with mom is that she doesn't quit talking. Now, I'm not trying to be funny or witty here. I mean she never quits talking. If someone's in the room or not, she's still rambling on about lord-knows-what. She has "butt-dialed" me on her cell phone before; I can hear her still just chatting away about whatever's on her mind. As a child, this never-ending verbal environment had an interesting effect on me (and I believe my brother and sister as well). I learned to tune her out. To this day, I have trouble "tuning" back in sometimes. Joanna has learned when she needs to tell me something, she'll politely get in my face and say, "are you listening?" before we begin a conversation. This doesn't bother me; in fact, I appreciate it, it keeps me tuned in to the real world.
Keeping tuned in to the real world would always be a problem for me. I spent much of my youth in a fantasy world. I had a pit in my mind where I had thrown all my favorite superheroes, Star Wars characters, and fairy tales. I lived quite contently with all of these things in my little world.
And, man-oh-man, my mother had a temper. Behind our house (when we lived in Brookport) there stood an old, wood shed that was leaning and in serious need of attention. One day, my mom had gotten really angry with "the neighbor." Venting her temper, she got a wood axe and proceeded to vent her anger on that shed. My brother and I, very young, sat wide-eyed and watched from our bedroom window.
And that's when "the neighbor" came out to check on mom. As she walked up, the sounds of splintering wood stopped as mom quit swinging the axe. My brother and I turned to each other to share a glance that might have been comical in another circumstance. We turned back to watch the lady with our mouths open and an expression that might be described as a child's equivalent to "Damn, bitch, now you crazy!"
"Edna, I just want you to be careful. If that axe sparks a nail it could ignite that gasoline can over there and...." she trailed off. Mom lifted her axe ever-so-slightly and gave her this wild-eyed stare that was louder than a shout. "The neighbor" turned around and headed back into her house moving briskly. My brother and I exhaled.
Over the years, I began to understand mom. And I began to love her. You see, the thing about mom is, well, her moral compass always points True North. Whilst I had once been embarrassed of how she would treat some people, over time I would learn that the people she didn't like were, in fact, pretty damn rotten anyway (including that particular neighbor.) The manner in which mom handled these rotten tomatoes may have left something to be desired.. ..but, ultimately, she handled the rotten tomatoes. And, so, I felt safe around her.
We were never hurting for money. Social Security and a settlement kept us never wanting for anything (at least until we turned 18 and it all abruptly ended). Mom gave so much to the poor kids in town. Sometimes, if she felt badly enough for a kid, she would tell me to see if they wanted to spend the night and then she would take them shopping. I remember these turtleneck sweaters mom had bought us that had our initials embroidered in the collar. I remember seeing these sweaters, still with my initials, being worn by some of the poorer kids at school. I remember feeling awkward about that; now, I feel very proud of mom for that.
Being father-less, always made me feel like I was missing something. Like maybe I'd be better at sports or better with tools or more confident if I had had a father. But, over time, I began to enjoy the freedom that not-having-a-father gave me. My brother and I came and went as we pleased. We weren't bad kids, but we were always off on some adventure (I have all kinds of stories) that many of our classmates wouldn't have been allowed to do.
I wasn't afraid either. You see, I thought, if anyone wanted trouble, they could bring their fathers, whether they were hunters or Cub Scout leaders or mechanics or carpenters or fishermen or basketball coaches or weight lifters. I wasn't scared of any of them. Because, you see, my mom wields an axe. And one part of the program in her mind that has ALWAYS worked, was that no one EVER messed with her children (and later her grandchildren). I don't know that a part of me wouldn't chuckle if some stranger decided to mess with Roman while he was under her care. I think I'd almost feel sorry for that poor sap.
From mom, I have a lot of parenting lessons to take with me. Both good and bad. And when Roman is screaming to go to "Bigos" (that's what he calls mom -- I haven't a clue where he got that or what it means), I know that he is under the watchful care of both a loving dove and a deadly hawk. And, well, when it comes to the whole saying "I love you" and all that hugging crap.. I've learned something over the years. Some people go to visit their families to get all of that stuff, they walk on the surface of the sun and get scorched with affection - so much so that they're numb to all of it and the words have become routine. But, my brother and I (and later my sister), didn't need all those little terms of endearment or shallow theatrics. We were constantly bathing in the light of love. Speaking the words "I love you" is just so... finite for our mother. It just doesn't encompass everything that we are to her. For we are everything. Why waste even a moment with the words "I love you"? You see, we know that she loves us... And she loves us all the time.
"The watchman he lay dreaming,
The damage had been done.
He dreamed the Titanic was sinking,
And he tried to tell someone.."
Bob Dylan
Blogger's Note: During uneventful, mundane weeks (such as this one), I had planned on filling my posts with various forms of more interesting reading. Profiling the "cast", ranting on pet peeves, or even rolling out blueprints for some future endeavor could be used as stuffing when life just wasn't being brilliantly pleasant or opaquely vulgar. I've been stirring the stew on one about "The Road to Amelia" for a while now; and, a feature about Joanna is past due. But, right now, Joanna is 8 months pregnant and exhausted and miserable and ready to get to the next chapter of this whole birthing concept (bless her heart); and, unfortunately, that sort of misery just doesn't lend itself to inspiration. And when I do write about Joanna, the mother, the wife, the lover-of-vodka, well, I wanna do it right. I've discovered that if I write about what's on my mind (as opposed to force-feeding a subject), I can write freely and with gusto, which tends to be conceptually more attractive.
Joanna and I had lunch with some friends this week, and the old clichè "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" had been tossed on the table. Now, I tend to subscribe to this age-old proverb, and once that scrap of wisdom nestled in my brain, it rooted and grew and suddenly I had something to focus on for this week's topic. "Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it" (I had to google the source of that one and apparently some Spanish fella by the name of George Santayana gets the nod) is a quote that applies not just to History class but also to successful parenting.
One thing I simply can't stand is listening to some scratchy-throat, chain-smoking Jerry Springer candidate proclaim how "well, it worked for me" while she's swashbuckling her snotty-nosed child with a freshly-harvested switch and yelling profanities. I'm pretty damn certain that "it" didn't work for her; and, if it did, there might have been a better way. Each generation has a responsibility to be better than the last, and if we're going to improve upon the things our parents did right or fix the things they didn't, then we have to look back and scrutinize the apple tree from which we fell. Upon examination, I've discovered that my apple tree bears a lot to ponder.
Now, I know I promised not to get cute with any musical gimmicks in my blog. But I like to write to music. If you care to listen along with me or just know what inspired me this week, then click here to listen to Bob Dylan's Tempest and open my blog in another tab. If not, well, no problem.. just continue reading...
 |
| My dad and me |
He was 27. I would be turning 4 in a week; my brother was 10 months old.
One of the best nuggets of wisdom my mother ever gave me was to hang on to the memories of my father as best I could. Over the years, I've retained a number of these diamonds; they still sparkle on occasion. The most significant of these would sadly be a memory of that night.
I awoke deep in the morning to the sounds of conversation coming from the living room. I staggered in wearing a step-in Winnie the Pooh pajama piece complete with footies. Mom was sitting on the couch; near the front door stood two suits. She was just sitting there. She wasn't crying or hysterical or anything like that; she just sat there looking distant, like no one was home. I groggily climbed on her lap, still wiping sleep from my eyes.
"Your dad's gone over the rainbow," was the only thing I remember her saying.
Strange that. I mean, mom has always been a steadfast Christian. I think it's a testament to her state of mind that she chose those words as opposed to "he's gone to be with the Lord" or "he'll be waiting for us in Heaven". But we had just watched "The Wizard of Oz" on tv that week; I suppose she thought I'd understand that better. If I hadn't already loved that movie, now I would find it absolutely enchanting. (Later as a child I would even read all of L. Frank Baum's Oz books, and I sometimes wonder if my love for fantasy fiction can't be traced here.)
The song lyric "the candle burned out long before the legend ever did..." makes me think of Dad. To this day, "oh my God... you're Butchie's boy!" sometimes follows the unearthing of our kinship during a random conversation. And then the stories start. Butchie stories are never "he once helped me carry in groceries" or "he once loaned me five bucks when I was out of money". They are more like, "he could take apart a car motor and have it back together before the end of the day," "he helped me carry an engine across the Brookport bridge to get it worked on and then back," "he helped me push my car through foot-deep snow once when I ran out of gas for three miles" and "some jerk called me a name at the pool hall so he jumped up on this son-of-a-bitch's car and ripped open the convertible top with a pool stick." (these are all actual examples.) After repeatedly hearing these stories from different sources, I have no choice but to believe them. It was only fitting that his casket had to be carried a mile through 12 inches of snow to his grave site the day he was buried.
 |
| Daddy Bill and Momma Betty just before my dad's funeral |
I recall their backyard smelling like old motor oil soaked into the earth (to this day, I strangely enjoy that smell; it brings me back there). Daddy Bill had an old wringer washing machine in his backyard that he never turned off. Mere weeks after my father died, it nearly ate my hand as I was playing. I have some pretty vicious scars to prove it (in school, while other kids were trying to figure out their left hand from their right, I would just feel for these scars and remember that they were on my right hand).
Momma Betty would pass away on my birthday in 1986; Daddy Bill died a few weeks later. They lived a long and loving life.
My other grandparents were quite a bit different. Bud Reynolds, and a step-mother named Rose raised my mother. She had 8 other siblings that were a hodgepodge of step-brothers and sisters, a real sister and a real brother, and a half-sister. They all slept in one room - boys in one bed, girls in the other. She told me that it wasn't uncommon for them to go barefoot in the summer time, because they couldn't afford shoes.
 |
| a young Bud Reynolds |
 |
| Bud shortly before his death |
Leaving the asphalt behind, Poco Road winds through the Shawnee Forest as it makes its way beyond Hohman's Lake. Cresting Weak's Hill, beyond the gravel pits tucked along its path, it has somehow been excluded from modern development and feels like a step into the past. Along this route, Bud's rusty, old pick-up would often complain and backfire as a crushed Pabst Blue Ribbon can flew out of the driver's-side window.
As a child, when mom would bring us for a visit, I would climb the fruit trees in the backyard or find eggs in the chicken coop or get bitten by one of their little asshole dogs. Inside the house, a wood stove - the only source of heat - would crackle and hiss.
 |
One Thanksgiving day, when mom was very young, they were waiting on two of her brothers to arrive at the table before they began eating. Their names were Tommy and (ironically enough) Butchie. Mom said she was closer to these two than any of the others. Worry evolved into panic when the two didn't show for a a rare food-covered table. The worried family left the food in the kitchen and began a search. Late that afternoon, the sun's fingers were losing their grip on the horizon, mom watched her father use a garden rake to pull the lifeless bodies of her two brothers from a cistern. Apparently, they had been using the rope and pulley above it to swing across. When the rope broke and Tommy fell in, Butchie (as best as they could figure) tried to help him out and must have fallen in as well. They both drowned.
Rose died when I was a teenager of complications from Alzheimer's. Bud died about 10 years ago: cirrhosis of the liver.
I have read that after one suffers a traumatic event, any underlying psychological disorders that may be resting deep in the mind's dark abyss can surface. Edna Mae Edwards, my mother, has suffered many, many a traumatic event. These events have defined her as a person and as a mother and as a grandmother. I have learned from her strengths... ...and her mistakes.
I have a hard time explaining her. She is a very complex person. While I am no psychologist, I'm fairly certain that she suffers from some form of paranoia. She often blames "the neighbors" for breaking into her house and taking light bulbs or breaking the shelves in her refrigerator or messing with the wires on her oven. She keeps three padlocks on her shed, and I have walked into her house to see her lawn mower sitting in the middle of the kitchen. She explained that if she didn't keep it there then "the neighbors" would mess with it. "The Neighbors" have never done anything major; they just mess with her by moving things like her purse from the kitchen table to the counter or, perhaps, by leaving the trunk of her car slightly open. Don't think for one second that I haven't considered every possible option when it comes to how to help her. But she insists that she's perfectly normal... and, the fact is, she is functional. But, for as a long as I can remember, no matter where we lived, she has had problems with "the neighbors."
I don't remember mom ever saying "I love you" to us. Perhaps when we were very young. She quit hugging us by the time we were 6. This bothered me a lot growing up. As part of our 8th grade graduation ceremony, we were supposed to bring our mothers a rose and hug them. I remember feeling so uncomfortable that I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I hugged her, of course, but it was awkward; and, I reflected for a long time on that. And this made me angry. To this day, I try to remember to tell Joanna and Roman that I love them everyday. And, when DJ (being a teenager) isn't around his friends, and I think I can get away with it, I'll slip in a term of endearment. It's important to me.The other problem with mom is that she doesn't quit talking. Now, I'm not trying to be funny or witty here. I mean she never quits talking. If someone's in the room or not, she's still rambling on about lord-knows-what. She has "butt-dialed" me on her cell phone before; I can hear her still just chatting away about whatever's on her mind. As a child, this never-ending verbal environment had an interesting effect on me (and I believe my brother and sister as well). I learned to tune her out. To this day, I have trouble "tuning" back in sometimes. Joanna has learned when she needs to tell me something, she'll politely get in my face and say, "are you listening?" before we begin a conversation. This doesn't bother me; in fact, I appreciate it, it keeps me tuned in to the real world.
Keeping tuned in to the real world would always be a problem for me. I spent much of my youth in a fantasy world. I had a pit in my mind where I had thrown all my favorite superheroes, Star Wars characters, and fairy tales. I lived quite contently with all of these things in my little world.
And, man-oh-man, my mother had a temper. Behind our house (when we lived in Brookport) there stood an old, wood shed that was leaning and in serious need of attention. One day, my mom had gotten really angry with "the neighbor." Venting her temper, she got a wood axe and proceeded to vent her anger on that shed. My brother and I, very young, sat wide-eyed and watched from our bedroom window.
And that's when "the neighbor" came out to check on mom. As she walked up, the sounds of splintering wood stopped as mom quit swinging the axe. My brother and I turned to each other to share a glance that might have been comical in another circumstance. We turned back to watch the lady with our mouths open and an expression that might be described as a child's equivalent to "Damn, bitch, now you crazy!"
"Edna, I just want you to be careful. If that axe sparks a nail it could ignite that gasoline can over there and...." she trailed off. Mom lifted her axe ever-so-slightly and gave her this wild-eyed stare that was louder than a shout. "The neighbor" turned around and headed back into her house moving briskly. My brother and I exhaled.
Over the years, I began to understand mom. And I began to love her. You see, the thing about mom is, well, her moral compass always points True North. Whilst I had once been embarrassed of how she would treat some people, over time I would learn that the people she didn't like were, in fact, pretty damn rotten anyway (including that particular neighbor.) The manner in which mom handled these rotten tomatoes may have left something to be desired.. ..but, ultimately, she handled the rotten tomatoes. And, so, I felt safe around her.
We were never hurting for money. Social Security and a settlement kept us never wanting for anything (at least until we turned 18 and it all abruptly ended). Mom gave so much to the poor kids in town. Sometimes, if she felt badly enough for a kid, she would tell me to see if they wanted to spend the night and then she would take them shopping. I remember these turtleneck sweaters mom had bought us that had our initials embroidered in the collar. I remember seeing these sweaters, still with my initials, being worn by some of the poorer kids at school. I remember feeling awkward about that; now, I feel very proud of mom for that.Being father-less, always made me feel like I was missing something. Like maybe I'd be better at sports or better with tools or more confident if I had had a father. But, over time, I began to enjoy the freedom that not-having-a-father gave me. My brother and I came and went as we pleased. We weren't bad kids, but we were always off on some adventure (I have all kinds of stories) that many of our classmates wouldn't have been allowed to do.
I wasn't afraid either. You see, I thought, if anyone wanted trouble, they could bring their fathers, whether they were hunters or Cub Scout leaders or mechanics or carpenters or fishermen or basketball coaches or weight lifters. I wasn't scared of any of them. Because, you see, my mom wields an axe. And one part of the program in her mind that has ALWAYS worked, was that no one EVER messed with her children (and later her grandchildren). I don't know that a part of me wouldn't chuckle if some stranger decided to mess with Roman while he was under her care. I think I'd almost feel sorry for that poor sap.
From mom, I have a lot of parenting lessons to take with me. Both good and bad. And when Roman is screaming to go to "Bigos" (that's what he calls mom -- I haven't a clue where he got that or what it means), I know that he is under the watchful care of both a loving dove and a deadly hawk. And, well, when it comes to the whole saying "I love you" and all that hugging crap.. I've learned something over the years. Some people go to visit their families to get all of that stuff, they walk on the surface of the sun and get scorched with affection - so much so that they're numb to all of it and the words have become routine. But, my brother and I (and later my sister), didn't need all those little terms of endearment or shallow theatrics. We were constantly bathing in the light of love. Speaking the words "I love you" is just so... finite for our mother. It just doesn't encompass everything that we are to her. For we are everything. Why waste even a moment with the words "I love you"? You see, we know that she loves us... And she loves us all the time."The watchman he lay dreaming,
The damage had been done.
He dreamed the Titanic was sinking,
And he tried to tell someone.."
Bob Dylan
1 comment:
Great post Duane :)
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