The Beating

I enjoy listening to podcasts, especially on road trips.  Some of my favorite podcasts are the ones where you get to hear personal stories of all sorts of people.  Marc Maron interviews celebrities in his "WTF" podcast; a recent one was with singer/songwriter James Taylor.  It was a good interview and covered Mr. Taylor’s bout with depression and his decades-long struggle with substance abuse. One of the things that stuck with me was his description of how his family “came off the rails.”  My own family did something like that too.

Both of my parents were alcoholics. Mom got hooked on Valium a couple of times.  She suffered from depression and had body image issues. But the point when the family came off the rails seems to be centered around Brother and his troubles.

Dad’s parenting style grew out of the way that he wanted to be treated as a kid. He fought with his mother about curfew and such and never felt like he needed a lot of parental monitoring. He really wanted to just be left alone.  He says that he left us alone because that was how he wanted to be treated, but another side to that may be that didn’t know how to be a role model.

I had a pretty good head on my shoulders and a good internal moral compass and Dad's approach, while leaving me lonely and sad for a relationship with him, worked out okay for me.  My brother, however, could have used a lot more parental involvement.

Brother was seven and a half years older than me.  I don’t know all the details but by fifteen or sixteen he started doing all the wrong things.  Cutting school and doing drugs were bad enough, but he also was stealing from houses in the neighborhood.  It got so bad that he was put in Juvenile Detention.

One of the early incidents that he got in trouble for had to do with a case of 8-track tapes. When the case showed up, he said that he belonged to a friend of his.  He even wrote the friend’s name, address, and phone number in the red felt lining of the case lid.

I only remember one of the tapes in the collection, an album from the Partridge Family.  I used to love listening to that tape.  I would play it in Brother’s 8-track player/radio combo.  I would pull the antenna down to the level of my face and pretend it was a microphone as I sang along with the songs.  I would fantasize about replacing one of the young boys in the group, becoming a member of the band.

But before that could happen, Brother’s crime was found out and all hell broke loose.  To top it off, I was a factor in his being caught.  The case of 8-tracks was stolen from the garage of another teenage boy about Brother’s age.  This kid was pretty sure that Brother had stolen the tapes because Brother had been at his house right before they went missing.  One day as I was walking down the sand road in our neighborhood, the theft victim struck up a conversation with me, eventually asking me about any 8-tracks that Brother had.  I gave him good enough inventory list to confirm that the case and tapes were his missing property.  I guess he told his Dad who then asked my Dad about the 8-tracks and then the gig was up.

I don’t think there were any official criminal proceedings this time, but there was hell to pay.  That evening while Sister, Cousin, and I waited outside, the punishment came. I can remember hearing Mom crying, but above that I could hear Dad yelling at the top of his voice, “Why did you do it?  Why did you do it?” Brother was screaming his replies of, “I don’t know, I don’t know!”  The screaming was punctuated by the loud slaps of the end of a leather belt striking Brother’s bare back.

We kids outside thought Brother was going to die. Sister was crying and Cousin and I were just staring at each other and at the house.

The next day I saw the evidence of the beating on Brother’s back – the bruises and marks that I swear were the clear imprints of the end of a leather belt, even showing the stitching and prong holes from the belt.

That beating was pretty bad and to my knowledge was the worst that happened. But there were other incidents. There was at least one fight between my parents that left Mom with a broken nose. Dad almost punched out Sister when she pushed him too far.  And I was there for one knock-down drag-out fight between Mom and Sister.

Dad rarely spoke of that time period when the family went off the rails. I like to think that he was as embarrassed at how he behaved as he was saddened about the pain that he himself had suffered during those times.  I asked him once about that beating and he blamed Mom, said that she pushed him into it with her screaming and crying.  That may be what happened, but it doesn’t absolve him from responsibility.  It was his hand that delivered the blows to a fifteen-year-old boy needing guidance.

Early on, I learned that I could not trust my parents to always do the right thing, I could not trust them to truly take care of us kids. Of all the things they did to themselves, to each other, and to us kids – that lack of trust was probably the most damaging. But in learning not to trust them, I had a better chance of surviving the relationship with my mind and spirit (mostly) intact.

That beating, is something I'll never forget, but it doesn't have deep emotional connections with me.  If it did, I might have hated Dad or estranged myself from him. The beating wasn’t a direct crime between Dad and me and his trespasses against me never rose to that level. Family members usually get a little more leeway in their trespasses against us before we give up on them.

Dreams

Dad’s side-yard allowed him to create his garden, store tools and supplies, and have space to work on projects. One of those projects is a camper trailer that he dreamed of taking out on the road.  He bought it used a couple of years ago, in much need of repairs. He had gutted the inside to rebuild it, but in the end he lacked the strength to finish what he started.  Now I’ve inherited this gutted old camper trailer and the realization that I need to pursue my dreams a little harder before I get too old and tired to finish them.

One of my dreams has been to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon (and back up). This dream started the very first time I saw the Grand Canyon.  It was on a road trip with Dad in the summer of ’78 when I was 14.

I don’t remember everything we saw on that trip, probably because as a 14-year-old nerd stuck in a car for hours on end I was pretty bored.  I managed to spend most of those hours reading some science fiction novel.  This was in the days before I developed motion sickness and could read in a moving car.

With my head buried in a book, Dad had nothing to do but look at the landscape before him and marvel at whatever feature or sign caught his eye.  He would occasionally point out something interesting, to which I would usually respond as only a 14-year-old can, “So?” Those of you who have had teenagers, or can remember being fourteen, take a moment and pull from your memory the sound of disdain that a 14-year-old can put into their voice.  Imagine the curl of the lip and slight bob of the head when that 14-year-old can only answer with one word when you point out the majestic beauty of a sandstone formation in the American West.

“So?”

Now imagine being told this over and over again for nearly a week.  Can you imagine leaving the teenager on the side of the road?  Or putting them on a bus headed back home while you finished the trip?  Or do you wait for the opportunity for revenge?

Fortunately for me, Dad chose the last option. On one of the rare occasions that pulled my nose out of my book, I saw something on the landscape that caught my eye and pointed it out to Dad.

“Sooo!?” was the response he spat back at me.  Point taken, Dad, point taken.

On the trip itself I remember seeing the Alamo – that’s it?; Carlsbad Caverns – I couldn’t have cared less, and the ketchup in the commissary deep in the cave was the cheapest, nastiest flavor of ketchup I have ever tasted; Indian cliff dwellings – boring; Pike’s Peak – so what?

But something at Grand Canyon finally caught my eye.  It wasn’t the Canyon itself, but the sliver of a trail that went down into the canyon. We had stopped at a scenic overlook and there was a trail led out to a large feature jutting into the canyon.

To give Dad credit, he sat in the car and waited while I explored this trail for about 30 minutes.  Or, in hindsight, he was happy to have a break from me.

I hiked out to the feature and found myself a hundred yards from the parking area and any other people.  Cool!  But the trail didn’t end there.  It started to wind its way down into the canyon.  I so much wanted to go further and follow that trail and explore the canyon. I promised myself then and there to do that someday.  I’ve been back to Grand Canyon a couple of times since then, but still haven’t explored those trails.  I’ve hiked quite a few other trails, but that first one in Grand Canyon has always been fondly with me.

Salvatore

When we first moved into the mobile home in 1983, the demographics of the mobile home park was mostly working-class white.  Over time the demographics changed to almost all working-class Hispanic.

For at least the last ten years or so Dad and the guy across the street have been the last white guys in the park.  Dad had a prime lot with a big shaded side-yard and the guy across the street has an end lot so that he has a neighbor only on one side.

As far as I can tell, Dad got along okay with the Hispanic neighbors. He didn’t hang out with them, but would return their greetings.  In the past week of my daily clean-up efforts several of them have come by to offer condolences and say nice things about him.  Some of them thought Dad had been murdered and were incredulous that someone would want to hurt this quiet old man.

 

One neighbor has been especially nice and helpful.  Salvatore appears to be in his 60s and has an infectious smile.  In just a short time I have learned that Salvatore lost a pet dog not long ago and that he has a hard time working his new smart phone.

 

As part of my clean-up I started a pile of recyclable metals that I could take to a recycler to responsibly dispose of and maybe get a little cash.  Salvatore asked about the metal and I offered it to him freely.  I don’t really want to take the time to make trips to the metal recycler, and I’m sure he needs the money more than I do.

Every day that I have been out at the mobile home I have created small to large piles of metal that Salvatore has taken away for me.  His smile has always been warm and I’m glad to see it in the middle of my sweaty work.  Salvatore has even taken some stuff from my trash pile to the dumpster. He says that he can take it all to the dumpster for me a little at a time, but that he can’t fill up the dumpster with it all. 

I had already realized that I didn’t want to put all my trash into the dumpster as well, because then the residents of the park would not be able to throw away their kitchen trash.  I’ve been bagging all the small to medium trash which I can easily put it into my own curbside trash pickup.  Today I stacked most of the big trash and scrap carefully into the bed of my pickup so that I can take it to a nearby landfill tomorrow morning at 7:00 am.

Salvatore offered today to weed-eat the side-yard.  I told him that he didn’t have to do that, but I later reconsidered.  I saw a way to get him a little more cash. On my way out this morning I offered to pay him to weed-eat the yard.  He smiled and push away my hand.  He was thankful for all the scrap metal and glad to help out.  What a nice man!

This is in stark contrast to an incident that happened to me when I lived in the park 30 years ago that has stuck with me all these years. 

On a dark and rainy night, when I was driving into the park, I managed to miss the drive just enough that I put my left front wheel into the drainage ditch.  My old ’76 Monte Carlo was good and stuck.  I started to walk to the mobile home to call my friend Steve and ask him to drive all the way out from Alief to pull me out.  

But a neighbor, a young white guy, in a similar large American car offered to help.  I got a tow strap from the tool shed and we quickly got my car out of the ditch. 

I thanked the neighbor, but before I could disengage he asked for compensation. “Hey aren’t you going to buy me a six-pack of beer for helping you out?”  

I was pretty disgusted; never in my life would I expect or ask compensation for helping someone in need.  I gave him five or ten dollars for his help, made note of the make, model and color of his car, and silently swore to never offer him help if I saw him broken down somewhere. 

Along with my friend Steve, his son Thomas, and my dad’s friend Lester, Salvatore is on my list of angels this week. If I can figure out something appropriate I hope to gift Salvatore for his friendliness and kindness. Well what do you know. After writing that last sentence I Googled the name Salvatore to make sure that I was spelling it correctly. I learned that "In Spanish the meaning of the name Salvatore is: Savior."

The IRS

Dad’s first bad encounter with the IRS was back in 50s.  After he got out of the Air Force, he went back to Memphis.  I don’t know the exact details, but for a year or two he paid the mortgage for their house.  He decided that since he paid the mortgage that he could deduct the mortgage interest from his own Federal income taxes.  The IRS disagreed and subsequently audited him for the next couple of years.  Then I guess he was square with them for the next couple of decades but he always resented those audits. 

Then comes the year 1978.  He was working as a house painter for new houses built by Perry Homes in Katy off of Mason Road.  He didn’t set aside money for taxes and the work that winter was light.  When the time came to file his taxes he didn’t have enough to pay the bill -- he didn’t file that year or 1979 or  1980. By 1981 he made an effort to get things straight, but with penalties and interest the IRS wanted something like $80,000 for those three years.  He was never going to have that kind of money and didn’t have the patience and negotiating skills to get a better deal.  He entered the underground economy and stayed there the rest of his life.

I don’t recommend this lifestyle to anyone.  In 1983 the IRS tracked him down and seized a checking account to the tune of a few hundred dollars.  I was still living with him. I was a college student at University of Houston and working for the Alief Kmart and dutifully filing my taxes every year.  We were living in a rent house in Alief when the IRS came to our door we packed up and moved out that week. We moved into the mobile home where he lived until he died. 

He filed for Social Security at the age of 65 and amazing enough they enrolled him. He got something like $550 a month. He sure was happy to get that money.  There were cost-of-living increases over the years, so he was getting $767 a month when he died.  He was able to supplement his income with handyman type jobs over the years, but the past couple of years had been pretty hard because of his age and failing health.

Sometime in the mid to late 80s he came up with a plan to buy a bar in Alief called The Gin Mill. It was his favorite hang out at the time and the owner had died or was in failing health.  As an unofficial member of the underground economy, there was no way he could buy a bar, but he had a plan.  He wanted to buy the bar in my name and have an accountant do the taxes along with my Kmart income.  All government paperwork including the Texas Liquor License would be in my name as well. 

I was freaking not happy about this plan for so many reasons. My dealings with the IRS were clean and I wanted to keep them that way.  The liabilities involved with owning a bar were pretty scary.  And the idea of a drunk running a bar was bad on so many levels.  I decided that if push came to shove, I would have to tell him “no.”  I wasn’t looking forward to telling him that I wouldn't help him with this crazy plan.  There are things you will do to help a family member, but this was too much for me. In the end he couldn’t come up with enough money to buy the bar and I was so glad to be off the hook.

Pineapple and Mayonnaise Sandwich

We went out to eat tonight with some friends at Salt Grass Steak House.  I had a T-bone steak and baked potato in his honor.   I think that a T-Bone, salad and baked potato were components of his favorite luxury meal.

Dad was one of those guys who liked to grill meat. He liked to grill steak, chicken, pork chops and sometimes pork ribs.  I learned how to preseason the meat the way that he liked it. For steak he liked Worcestershire Sauce and garlic salt. For chicken, ribs, and pork chops he liked to grill it with a wet bar-b-que sauce made from Kraft bar-b-que sauce with a splash of Tabasco sauce.  I learned how to de-skin pieces of chicken.

I came to live with him in Houston in early 1977, around the time of Mom’s death.  On the weekends, he loved to go out to eat at Steak and Ale restaurant.  The salad bar was big treat and I learned the hard way that those green pickles were actually jalapeno peppers. One time at Steak and Ale, during rodeo week, I found a wad of cash under my chair that turned out to be two twenties. With that money I bought my first camera, a 126 Instamatic camera, from Ritz Camera on Stella Link just east of the West Loop.

He would sometimes bake cornbread (no sugar!) and cook up some black-eyed peas and butter beans.  He liked to break up the corn bread into chunks and stuff them into a glass and then fill the glass with milk. He would then eat the soggy corn bread with a spoon or fork. 

In a recent conversation about grits, he says that had never eaten or even seen them until he joined the Air Force. 

He hated smoked Texas brisket, but loved pulled pork and pork ribs.

 

When I was a kid in Florida in about the seventh grade, he taught me about the wonderful pineapple and mayonnaise sandwich.  In later years when I mentioned them in conversation, he said he didn’t remember anything about them. 

I still like black-eyed peas, butter beans, and corn bread.  But I’m not a fan of steak or pork chops.  

The last couple of years I know that his overall nutrition was getting worse.  I bought him some strawberry flavored Ensure hoping to help, but he complained that it was too sweet.  I’m really confused by that because when I cleaned out his kitchen this week, there were a lot of Blue Bell ice cream cartons and the meat drawer in the fridge was full of Little Debbie snacks.  

On Suicide

Like most of you, suicide has touched my life many times. 

When I was 13, my mom died young from a blood disorder called TTP.  It caused a lack of oxygen to her brain which left her brain dead.  She died or was allowed to die (I don’t know which) a couple of weeks after that.

But she had tried to kill herself by overdosing on pills at least a couple of times when I was younger than that.  Her despair was tied to Dad leaving her.  I remember one those times clearly from when I was about 10.  It was in our house in Longwood, Florida.  I think it was a Saturday night.  She wouldn’t let me watch the color TV in the family room.  I had to watch the crappy black and white one in the formal living room. 

While I quietly watched the Saturday night monster movie, she wrote a note and took a bottle of pills, probably Valium.  She fell asleep in the recliner, which was something she never did.  When we got up the next morning, she was still asleep in the recliner.  We couldn’t wake her up and eventually called an ambulance.  I remember visiting her in a psych ward behind locked doors with reinforced glass windows once or twice while she recovered.

 

More recently we’ve had a couple of friends take their own lives.  An old friend of my wife’s overdosed on pills and wine after a fight with her husband.  A couple of years before that a friend from work shot herself in the abdomen and bled to death. 

Three years ago my brother drank himself to death.  While not quite the same deliberate act as most suicides, he had a hand in his own death even if it was guided by the demon of substance abuse.

Suicide is usually such a private and lonely affair. In 2013, there was a sportswriter, Martin Manley, who blogged his own suicide in detail, explaining everything he did and why.  The blog is gone, but you can read about it here and many other places.  At the time, I read the whole blog and my take away was that he gave up too soon.  He was still healthy and wasn’t poor.  But by god he wanted to be sure he died before his health or money gave out. 

Addendum: I found a mirror site of Manley's suicide blog.  It is morbid but fascinating reading. 

Dad's Garden

Dad and I were not close, and so he and my wife were even less so. Over our 24 years of marriage, we had Dad over for most Thanksgivings and Christmases and a few other holidays here and there.  

So her image of him is probably too colored by my own comments and discussions about him. 

When we visited his mobile home that first night after his death, she commented about his garden. She found it curious that such a gruff and negative man kept a lovely little water garden. 

So somehow there was this nurturing side to him that took care of these plants and carved out a little pocket paradise for himself.  Nurturing plants is much easier than nurturing relationships with people, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the best at either one myself. 

Attached are a few pictures from his garden that I took just a few days after his death.  

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