Rudacks, bookmarked a season in my life, a time of parting ways . . . and pages, forever turned. This, was when, I lost my father. I don’t know how it happened, or how it was that I never noticed. Once my mother took me over, I guess, Dad didn’t stand a chance. He was virtually stripped of all power. I’d ask him a simple question, like, “Can I go hang on Vermont Ave.?” and all he would ever say is, “I don’t know, ask your mother.” Once in a while he would sign a bad report card just to have peace in the house. Receiving a C- was verboten, in my mother's opinion.
It wasn’t good in my home and it just got worse and worse. It was so confusing. My mother yelled at my dad, grimaced at the sight of him, and, or, basically ignored him; except to flip him off behind his back. I think these actions were pretty strong subliminals, given to us kids. “Either you are with me or against me.” I read this loud and clear. It became a way of life, these concealed messages. I learned that people really didn’t communicate much on a verbal level, about too many things, much less, the deeper essences of life. We did not have physical contact in my home. My parents never touched, kissed, held hands or laughed together, so I, in turn didn’t learn to interact on a physical plane. There was only, the mandatory kiss on my mother’s cheek, at night, before we went to bed. Couple that, with the taboo put upon physicality, by the Catholic Church and it was no wonder that I had developed a sensory antennae that jolted at human touch.
My dad drank and dropped out. He was a shell of a man who just hung on to a life that he was never cut out for. I didn’t see it then, and I believe I made up for that later. My father is always with me. At certain moments, when I least expect it, comes the cool morning breeze, the pungent scent of sage and our hiking trail. I picture my siblings and me, all together, there . . . and him, with a smile on his face. I find myself smiling, too. But, back then, a furious resentment slowly emerged. Our days of hiking stopped and I don’t know why. Our weekend outings, also, ended. My younger sister and I still raked pine needles with him, but basically, he became the butt of a joke; my mother’s scorn. She wanted nothing much to do with him and made it very clear. He’d come home most nights reeking of alcohol, making stupid jokes and poking, as we all cringed. Mercifully, he was a happy drunk who after an hour or so of nonsense, would fall fully clothed, on the den couch, to snore the night away. Before I went to sleep, I would go into the den, to take off his shoes and cover him with a blanket. Sometimes, I just stood there and watched him a while; his eyes puffy, from drink. It broke my heart.
Awwwww, Paula...what a sad time for you... just when you needed your Dad the most, he was essentially emasculated. You were subjected to domineering people harrassing, disrespecting, or intimidating weaker people both at school, and at home.
I'm so glad you had lots of good memories with your Dad, before he withdrew from his situation..he must have really loved life until he became worn down and browbeat into submission.
I think I know how you must have felt. I loved my Dad...he was everything to us kids, and my Mother was the bully. He couldn't do anything right in her eyes. Dad would take us camping, and to lakes in Iowa to learn to swim, and give us big hugs. And Dad was always the one we went to with a problem - my Mother would blow up. But Dad eventually turned to alcohol...until my Mother had him arrested one night, and then he just became resigned to his circumstances...sort of subservient to her.
But your heart-spoken line, 'My father is always with me...' says it all.
..My understanding is with you fully. You went through a very similar experience. It is very difficult when one is younger to witness that. The forces are stronger than a child can contend with, or anyone for that matter. thanks-you so much Anna for you honest and brave comment. I deeply appreciate it.
My sister alona wrote in e-mail: Floods of memories came to me as I read your excerpt. They are still even now too hard to think of.
So I think I'll stay in denial a bit more until tax time overload of work for me has passed and then revisit, perhaps it might be good for me?
As we've talked about, it must me so hard to write about one's past, I don't know how you do it. For me I am okay with fleeting moments of remembrance. I find that is hard enough.
This is very sad and conveyed in a simple a powerful way.. What we do and don't to and for each other.. The unmerciful cruelty of the casual.....Again superb work of how the adult world cripples it's children and expects the best from them....
EASY TO BE HARD
Often, there was the question of how, when or where. What matters most is why...
They say there is but five degrees of separation between all of us.
This is my story and observations about growing up under the infamous Hollywood Sign, in the 50's 60' and 70's. This is also a story of my entering the fast lane, and finding that if I wanted to survive, I had to get off it, but... it wasn't that easy.
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