The Long Walk

Memories are funny things, elusive at times and intrusive at others. Sometimes welcome, sometimes not, more often bittersweet; a knowing smile and a soft sigh, trapped where the shadows pool and pull. Childhood memories, wisps of smoke beyond my grasp and so much of that childhood is lost to me, or hazy and smudged, the result of traumatic brain injuries and additionally, I think, the willful suppression of most of whatever does remain, the memories that wait, like a trap to be sprung. And then, there are the things that I do remember, the monsters locked away in the closet and under the bed, where I’m afraid to look.

Sometimes, I look where I shouldn’t. I pick at the scars and the scabbed over wounds and I remember…

Memories truly are funny things. So funny. Memories of my mother, the little things that come to mind when I think of her and the complicated mix of emotions those little things bring forth, surging like a tsunami of childhood terrors brought forth by the ever-haunting ghost of her. How do I explain how the smell of soap makes me gag and remember the taste of every bar that she shoved into my mouth? One bar of soap that she’d forced me to eat, all because I’d asked her what a ‘grand prix’ was. I’d just wanted to know what the word ‘prix’ meant. She’d thought I’d said pricks, which was the way I’d pronounced it. One false word. 

Locked in the closet for hours, the darkness and isolation scratching at my soul, inciting shame, anger and madness. A betrayal of love, the smack of a paddle, a shoe, my father’s belt, his fist, in later years, a baseball bat; whatever might be within reach at the time. As I got older, the line between hidden and public abuse became blurred. I'm sure many of my friends remember my father beating me on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, or watching me flee, as I ran from him, or in later years, as I held my ground and stood up to him, fists flying. I never won.

Sometimes, I’d be punished for the things that I hadn’t been caught doing, misdeeds that existed only in my mother’s imagination. Not that any of it mattered, though, because I’m worthless and useless and stupid and a regret and so many other things that frankly, I’m sure I deserved all of it and who can deny the truth? 

I know this because my mother showed me the truth of all things and she told me these truths every day. Her truth, her fury, however she saw it at the time and her will was God’s will and it was God’s punishments that were being inflicted on me, in all His righteousness and wrath. That’s one story, one truth. And then there’s my story, my truth. The two truths are quite different. In my truth, I can’t place any real moment of affection, love or concern from my mother, but I can paint, quite vividly, so many scenes of her cruelty, both mentally and physically. I remember fear. I remember tears. I remember pleading, as only a small boy can, wishing for it all to stop and for me to go away, to cease existence, but it never did and I never did and my soul was kept in chains. Little things. The little things that come to mind when I think of my mother. Little things.

Soul killing things.

And with a strength borne from where I know not, I endured.

Somewhat perversely, I also loved my mother, and desperately so. I begged for her attention, her love and for her affection. I begged for these things, but I never knew them, not in anything other than the meager, measured and miserly fashion in which she dispensed them, only employed when she wanted something. It was pure manipulation and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker, every time. Desperation breeds fools. Love becomes a pyre and burns to ashes. All that remains are ashes, the burnt taste in my mouth. Love and loathing, a strange dichotomy to live with, to hate and love someone so much, at the same time. Strange indeed, but I’ve learned to accept it. Maybe it’s more like I just got used to it. Maybe there isn’t any difference between the two. And maybe I just don’t know anything. Whatever.

My parents were pretty hands off. They had rules, sure, but so long as I followed the few there were, they really didn’t care what I did, or where I went, so I had a lot of freedom at a very young age. I learned to take care of myself, because nobody else would do it for me. My parents just weren’t interested in being parents and so they abdicated all parental responsibility and I was pretty much left to my own devices. In my family, it was all about appearances, really. That and following the rules. If I screwed up in any way, if I were not the model child for all the world to see, there would be hell to pay and I paid Hell, almost daily, on a never-ending installment plan.

My mother had many strange obsessions, one of which was timeliness. She not only had to be on time for everything, she needed to be there fifteen minutes early, or she considered herself late and if I made her late, I’d be paying a little extra on that installment plan, so I usually had a bit of motivation. Usually, but not always. Being a young boy, I was perpetually tardy for everything, in the way that young boys are and I had the bruises to show for it. When I was seven years old, I had missed the bus to school and my mother was in a rage, because she had to drive me to school. That one incurred a beating both before and after school, plus, she locked me in the closet for hours. As did the second instance and once again, I was locked in the closet, a favorite and effective torment of my mother’s.

That closet…

A linen closet, just deep enough to wedge in a small boy in the space between the shelves and the door with no space to spare and none to move. A confined space, claustrophobic and made even more so by the absence of light and sound as the door would close and the darkness settled in. Nothing but the darkness and the smell of bleach to keep me company for all those hours spent in exile.

It was after the second time that I had missed the bus, my mother had told me that if I missed the bus again, I would be forced to walk to school. In my young mind, this was not a bluff. I’m sure that many mothers have uttered those words to their children over the years, but the difference is that my mother meant it and I’ve never had any doubt that she did. My mother always meant exactly what she said and she always followed through on her threats and promises. If she told you something, it was a one hundred percent guarantee of what and how it was going to happen.

I made every effort to get to the bus and school, on time.

Until that one day…

I had been waiting for the bus, my hands full of books, notebooks, folders, my lunchbox and pencil box. Backpacks weren’t really a thing back then, so you were stuck carrying everything by hand and it was always a juggling act, balancing more things than you had hands for. As the bus pulled up, I started making my way to the door as the other children started up the steps. Suddenly, I tripped and dropped my pencil box, spilling the contents out onto the sidewalk. As I stooped down to pick up my things, I could hear the other kids telling the bus driver that I wasn’t on the bus yet, but to no avail. I heard the familiar squeal as the door to the bus closed. I looked up in horror and panic as I watched the bus start to drive off. I dropped everything and chased after it, leaving my things behind and I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, which wasn’t fast enough, of course and I started crying in fear and frustration as I watched as the bus gained distance before it disappeared.

I went back to where I’d dropped my books, head down, walking like a condemned man to his execution.

I picked my things up, got myself situated and weighed my options. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared to go home and incur the wrath of my mother. I didn’t want a beating now and then another when I got home. And then another, when my father got home. Three for the price of one. Such a deal. Plus, my mother was only going to make me walk to school anyway, so why not just skip the beating and walk to school? In my mind that was the only option that was available to me and so I set off, determined to walk to school. It was only about a thirty-minute bus ride, so how far could it possibly be?

It was four and a half miles. I Googled it.

It was a typically hot, late spring day, in Florida, with no breeze to speak of. Traffic was heavy on Collins Avenue, but I paid it no mind as I put one foot in front of the other and trudged on, step after step, the blocks turning to miles. I walked and I walked and then I walked some more, the Bal Harbor Bridge in the distance and it seemed to pull further away with every step. I counted those steps until I lost count. Bored beyond words, I kicked rocks and squashed bugs. I lost myself in my own mind, daydreaming, and for a time, I rose and I soared above it all. But mostly, I was bored. I was also thirsty and hot, soaked in sweat, sore and tired, but I was scared, determined, angry and frustrated. I cried nearly every step of the way.

As I was passing the golf course at Haulover Park (about three miles in), a Ford Mustang Convertible pulled over onto the shoulder of the road in front of me and the driver turned his head and called my name. I was dumbfounded. Right there in front of me was my principal, Mr. Stearns, who had come to my rescue. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I was very familiar with my school principal, almost being a permanent fixture in his office, as I was always in trouble for something or other, whether it be fighting or just being a general annoyance and disruptive in class. These episodes were always followed by a trip to the principal’s office, a short lecture, a call to my mother and then, more often than not, the judicious application of corporal punishment that would be inflicted on my bottom by the school’s wooden paddle and the stern hand of Mr. Stearns.

I would be in the principal’s office, sitting across the desk from Mr. Stearns and we would discuss what happened and then the paddle would make an appearance. Our conversations would go something like this:

Mr. Stearns: “Now, I’m going to have to call your parents and get permission to spank you.”

Me: “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Stearns. You know my mother will say yes. You don’t need to call her, you can just go ahead and spank me.”

 I was more terrified of that phone call to my mother than I was of being spanked. That phone call meant at least two more beatings. Beatings and a punishment that would make whatever Mr. Stearns could do to me seem like nothing and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. Unfortunately, it never worked that way and he always made the call and then I’d spend the rest of the day in agonized terror of what would happen when I got home.

Anticipation.

Mr. Stearns beckoned me to the car, opened the passenger door and I got in. I’ll never forget what happened next. He looked at me and he told me that when the bus got to the school, the other kids had told a teacher that I had missed the bus and that teacher had reported it to the office. Concerned, Mr. Stearns told me that he had called my mother to see if I had made it home safely. I hadn’t and my mother had no clue where I was. I’m not sure that she even cared. After he hung up the phone, Mr. Stearns called the police and then he took it upon himself to go looking for me, while my mother stayed home watching soap operas, something I didn’t know until much later.

A stranger to come to my rescue when my own mother wouldn’t.

As I got into the car, Mr. Stearns admonished me for walking and he told me that he would call my mother as soon as we got to the school and let her know that I had been found, safe and sound. Mr. Stearns must have noticed something in my face, perhaps it was a moment of fear that I hadn’t covered up quickly enough, but whatever shadow it was that had crossed my face seemed to completely unnerve him and I watched as a look of compassion and sadness flitted across his face, as if he had an inkling of what would be waiting for me, once I got home.

Things were different back then.

“I’m sorry. It will be okay,” he said.

And then he hugged me and I buried my face into his chest and cried once more, warmed by his compassion and shamed by his pity.

Mr. Stearns took a bit of a detour, before he drove us back to school, allowing us to enjoy a small part of the day in that fast Mustang convertible. He opened it up and it wasn’t long before he had me laughing and smiling, a moment to soar above it all. A fleeting moment, for all too soon, we pulled into the school’s parking lot and then he shepherded me into his office and called my mother to let her know I’d been found. He had her on speakerphone so that I could talk to her as well. When confronted, she denied ever telling me that I’d have to walk to school, but then she caught herself in her own lie and asked why I’d ever believe such a thing in the first place. She didn’t seem unduly concerned, but I could tell by the timbre of her voice that I had embarrassed her and there would be hell to pay. Just another day.

After that, Mr. Stearns plied me with ice cream and asked me if I’d like to go back to class. He told me that I could hang out in his office and read, if I wanted to, but I wanted to go to class. I just wanted to be around the other kids and not think about what would be waiting for me when I got home.

The school day ended and I took my time leaving the classroom. Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough to miss the bus ride home.

And then I was home.

The next day, my mother called the school and told them that I’d had an accident and would be out for a few days. I ended up missing a week of school after I “fell” down the stairs.

I never missed the bus again.

If you liked this story, please give this one a chance:

O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

Need to laugh, instead? I've got you covered...

The Fugly Duckling

Every Picture Tells A Story

Some truths are just unequivocal.

A child will love their parents unconditionally, even if that love isn't returned. Even when that child is mocked and ridiculed, or told that they're less than nothing and worthless. The words we use; the things we say. The words of a parent hold such great power and great power must be brandished with great care.

My parents were firm believers in the art of ridicule and they used it to great effect. To them, I was stupid, I was never good enough, I was weak and I would never amount to anything.

Well, I was a straight A student all through school, with a steady 4.0 gpa, I was considered a leader at school (one of them, anyway), I was a big kid and I excelled at sports such as football, track, basketball and soccer. I also got into a lot of fights, I won the majority of them, mostly through luck and picking my battles wisely. I haven't really amounted to a whole hell of a lot, though, but hey, three out of four ain't bad. If it counts for anything, I've got three amazing children. I'm not convinced that I deserve points for my ability to procreate, though.

Still, no matter what I did, no matter what I accomplished, medals, trophies or scholastic excellence and recognition, nothing that I did was ever good enough for them. Nothing. I was shy and withdrawn as a child; socially awkward, as children with overbearing parents usually are.

After a while, you get used to it. After a while, you start to believe it. It's easier that way, it hurts less. Holding on to that belief scars your heart and your mind; yes, you get used to it, but you never get over it. It takes a toll and you either give in completely or you learn to stand up and fight for yourself. Thankfully, in later years, I found the courage to do the latter.

Outwardly my family was the perfect Potemkin village, but behind the facade that was presented to the world was a family that was torn apart by strife and dominated by cruelty; mental, emotional and physical cruelty. I'm not going to catalog a history of abuse, nor am I looking for any sympathy, I just wanted to give you a little bit of history about two of the people who will end up being featured in quite a few of my stories.

When I was eight years old, my parents took me on a two week long Caribbean cruise for Christmas and New Year's. I had a great time, even though they had mostly abandoned me during the trip and I was left to my own devices for the majority of the cruise. I was only expected to take meals with my parents; an accessory. Other than that, I didn't see them much. It was as if I were invisible.

During the course of the cruise there were many activities planned for the children and we were kept occupied and out of the way for some of the time. The activities director had scheduled a talent show for the kids and I immediately signed up and began working on a comedy routine. I begged my parents to come, I begged them to watch my performance. I so very desperately wanted them to be proud of me. They agreed to come. I was so excited.

I worked on my act all week long, rehearsing over and over. I knew my routine by heart and I was ready to go. The big night came and I waited backstage, bouncing up and down with excitement, waiting for my turn to come. I peeked through the curtain, scanning the audience, trying to spot my parents, but I couldn't find them; the only thing I saw were a bunch of parents, families and a scattering of old people that had nothing better to do. I peeked through the curtain again,but I still couldn't see them, but I knew they were out there, somewhere and I so very desperately wanted to make them proud of me. My name was announced and I walked onstage to polite applause. I tried to look for my parents once more, but I was blinded by the glare of the lights. I stood there in my cheesy clown makeup and performed my little act, telling a handful of lame jokes that elicited polite laughter, followed up by something that was much more risque; a little story of how I had been watching a cartoon about car racing and had seen a banner that read 'Grand Prix', Well, when I asked my mother what a Grand Pricks was, my horrified mother grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to the bathroom where she proceeded to wash my mouth out with soap over a slight mispronunciation of  an innocent French word. The audience roared with laughter and gave me a nice round of applause. My turn was over and it was time for the next kid to perform. As I walked offstage, I was congratulated by the other kids and and some of the cruise ship staff. I was stoked, as I walked out into the audience, searching for my parents. I walked up and down the aisles looking for them, but didn't see them anywhere. Thinking I must have missed them, I checked again, stopping at each row and checking carefully. Nothing. Frustrated, I checked one more time and then I gave up. I went over to sit with the other children whose parents hadn't bothered to show up.

A few other children performed. Some tried to sing and others tried to dance; some were just down right strange. The last act finished and the emcee took to the stage to announce whom the "judges" had chosen to be the winners of the talent show. The third place winner was announced and then the second place winner. The buildup of tension that followed was incredible and I thought that my heart was going to explode, because I had been holding my breath for so long.

The first place winner was announced.

It took me a moment to realize that they had called my name. I had won! I had really won! I couldn't believe it; it wasn't possible. My parents would be so proud of me when I told them that I won. I stood stunned for a moment and then one of the other kids pushed me forward, back toward the stage to accept my award and prize.

My smile was ear to ear.

The emcee shook my hand, and the audience applauded once more as he handed me a blue ribbon and a small, gift wrapped box. I shyly thanked everyone and practically ran offstage and out of the theater. I stopped in the hallway outside of the theater and I looked at the box. I shredded the gift wrap in my haste to open it and see my prize. I looked at my treasure and to my delight, it was an AGFA ISO - PAC 126 camera and two film cartridges.

It was perfect and something that I really wanted. I loved looking at great photography and now I would be able to create my own.

I ran off in search of my parents, with the voices of various crew members yelling at me to slow down, receding in the distance.

I caught up to my parents in the casino, where they had been since shortly after dinner. My mother looked at me, aghast. She stood there in her finest dress, baubles and fur, while I dared to show up and embarass her because I was covered in clown makeup. I tried to tell her about the talent show, but she would have none of it, cutting me off and sending me back to my stateroom to shower and get ready for bed. I was crushed, but did as I was ordered. You didn't cross my mother; not if you knew what was good for you.

The next morning, the ship docked in San Juan, Puerto Rico and my parents went ashore right after breakfast. I went down to the duty free shop and bought two more rolls of film and then I went ashore, as well. There was a really cool old fort that I wanted to see and I would be able to try out my new camera. I walked to the fort and I started taking pictures of everything. I remember that the view from the top of the wall was inspiring and it filled my little heart with joy. I had a great time, even if I was by myself and I used up all of my film.

It was starting to get late and I knew that I couldn't be too long, because the ship was pulling out around dinnertime. I asked an adult for the time and it was much later than I thought. There was no way that I could walk back to the ship in time and it was going to leave without me. My parents were going to kill me. They had already warned me about what would happen if I missed the ship and I really didn't want to endure the punishments that they had promised would await me, because if I understood them correctly, Satan would be building an entire new circle of Hell, just for me. I ran out the front of the fort and I saw that there was a taxi stand outside. I had money, so at least that wasn't an issue. I ran up to the first cab and I asked the driver how much it would cost to take me down to the harbor. He told me that it would cost me five dollars. I had two. Dejected, I turned around and started to walk away, but he called me back and asked me which ship I needed to get to. I told him and he said that it was leaving soon. I nodded and he told me to hurry up and get into the cab; he would take me to the ship, but we had to hurry. I jumped in the front seat and we took off. He asked me how much money I had and I told him two dollars. He nodded and said that would be enough. He told me that he had a son about my age and that if his son ever needed a little help, he hoped that someone would show him kindness. That thought has always stayed with me.

He drove as quickly as he dared, ignoring traffic laws and one way streets, while dodging chickens and pedestrians. Unfortunately, traffic came to a grinding halt, about two blocks from the harbor.

"Go, amigo, go!" shouted the taxi driver. "Run, amigo! You should make it there, just in time."

I paid the driver his money and thanked him for his kindness as I darted out of the door and started sprinting for the pier and the ship, weaving in and out of the crowds and evading more than a few startled goats. I was out of breath when I arrived at the gangplank, and luckily, just as they were about to pull it up and make way. I had barely made it, but I'd get to live at least another day and thankfully, my parents would never find out and I wouldn't be punished for almost missing the boat.

I ran back to my stateroom, accompanied by a chorus of "Slow downs!" Boy, the crew sure did like to yell a lot. I arrived at my room, hopped in the shower and got dressed for dinner. We had been invited to eat at the captain's table and I knew to keep my mouth shut and be on my best behavior.. My parents came to collect me, knocked on the door and came into the cabin. My mother straightened my bow tie and fixed my tuxedo, making certain that I looked presentable, but then she noticed the camera that was sitting on my bunk.

"What's that?" she asked, "And where did you get it?"

I started to explain about the talent contest, but my mother cut me off once more.

"Where did you take this from?" she demanded.

I was confused.

"I didn't take it from anywhere," I explained. "I won it in the talent contest that you promised that you were going to come to!"

My accusation hung in the air, an almost physical presence.

"Shut your damn mouth and get your ass to dinner," my father told me in a cold and warning tone.

"Yes, sir," I replied and I marched out the door and down the hall.

We rode the elevator in silence. Other than being congratulated by the captain for winning the talent show, dinner for me was nothing but silence. I tuned out the adults and their conversation. The waiter took pity on me and hooked me up with some extra desserts.

After dinner, I went and did the planned activities and it was movie night for the kids. I was told to go to bed right after the movie, but I snuck out and went to the casino to play on the slot machines. I won a few dollars and left, my pockets full of quarters. I went back to my cabin and went to bed.

Well, I guess that my parents must have eventually felt a little guilty over the whole talent show thing and the accusations over the camera and they tried to buy their way out of it as they always did, by throwing money at the problem, thinking that would make things better. They accomplished this by taking me back to the duty free shop and buying me twelve rolls of film, explaining to me that I could shoot all of the pictures that I wanted, but that they would only pay for one roll a month to be developed. They asked me if I understood and I said yes.

That night was New Year's Eve and I was allowed to stay up late, a long as I was with the other children and participating in the planned activities for kids. We ran around, played games and watched movies; it was a lot of fun, but the night, like all good things, came to an end. There wasn't much time left on the cruise and the ship was headed back to Miami. I snapped a few more pictures, but not all that many. I wanted to save the rest of my film for when I got home.

A few days after we arrived home, I was up with the sunrise. I grabbed my camera and hopped on my bike and rode down to the Intracoastal Waterway, just a few blocks behind our house. There were scattered storm clouds and a brilliant sunrise, a radiant backdrop to a stand of hibiscus that was in bloom. It was perfect. I raised my camera and I snapped away, frame after frame. It was a high that I just can't give words to; it was the beginning of my love affair with photography.

I finished off my roll of film and I headed home, ready to run down to the drug store and drop off the film for processing. I burst through the door of the house, a blur of energy and loudly informed the house that I was ready to drop off my film. The only problem with that was that I was the only one home. According to the note that I found, my parents had gone to breakfast and then they would be taking the boat out. I made myself a bowl of cereal and sat down to watch Saturday morning cartoons. After the cartoons were over, I packed myself a sandwich and spent the rest of the day fishing with some friends, topped off with a swim in the pool when I got back home.

The next day, my father and I dropped the film off at the pharmacy and the clerk told us that it would take at least one week to process the film, possibly two. They did offer a twenty-four hour service, but my father refused to pay the extra money for it.

Even though I knew it was going to be at least a week before I saw my photographs, that didn't keep me from stopping at the pharmacy every day, on my way home from school and harassing whichever unlucky soul happened to be behind the counter that day. Rather than be annoyed by my exuberance, the clerks were wonderful and they humored me by checking the incoming orders, every day. Being avid amateur photographers themselves, they also encouraged me and gave me photography tips.

After a full year of seven whole days of losing my eight year old mind with practiced impatience, my father and I went back to the pharmacy to see if the film had come in and as luck would have it, the film had just arrived.

The clerk handed me the envelope, but my father snatched it out of her hand and tore it open straight away.

"I need to make sure that they're the right pictures," my father said. It wouldn't be the first time they've gone and mixed things up."

My father had never seen my photographs. How was he supposed to know if they were the right ones or not? I was confused.''

"Where's the kid's pictures?" my father demanded. "These aren't the kids pictures. Where are his pictures?"

What? Not my pictures? It couldn't be! Then again, how could he know?

"Let me see," I said as I pulled at the envelope in my father's hand and it fell, the photographs scattering across the floor.

My father cuffed me hard, on the side of my head. I saw stars.

"Pick that crap up," he said and then he turned back to the clerk and demanded once more, "Where are his pictures?"

The clerk started to stammer out an apology while I knelt down to pick up the photographs from the floor. I recognized the images instantly; they were the ones that I had taken.

"Dad," I said.

He ignored me and glared at the clerk. She looked terrified.

"Dad." I said again, a bit louder.

He shifted his gaze and that angry glare settled on me. It was terrifying. I knew there was an explosion of violence that was close to being released upon me. I had to watch my step.

"Don't interrupt me again, if you know what's good for you."

I was scared, but I stood my ground.

"Dad," I said once more, quite loudly. "It's okay, these are the pictures that I took. These are the right ones."

"You didn't take those pictures. Don't you lie to me, you little shit," my father accused.

"I'm not lying. I took those; they're mine."

By this time, quite a few people had stopped to watch what was going on and the store manager was approaching the counter. My father was aware of their scrutiny, but I think that only made him angrier. The manager walked up to my father and asked if there was something that he could help my father with.

"You people messed up and gave my kid the wrong pictures. I'm not paying for these," my father said. The anger was evident in his voice and the set of his jaw.

"Sir," the manager replied, "Your son claims that the photographs in question are indeed his and in light of that claim, I'm afraid that I must insist that you do indeed pay for the photographs."

My father gave me a look that chilled the blood in my veins. I knew that look all too well; I had pushed my father too far and I knew that once we got home, things weren't going to be pleasant for me. I didn't care. I took those photos; they were mine and nothing was going to take them away from me. Unfortunately, I always seem  to pick the wrong time to be more brave than smart, After all, discretion truly is the better part of valor.

My father was silent, never a good sign, as he reached into his wallet and grudgingly paid for the photographs. He scooped them out of my hand and put them back into the envelope that they came in, turned, grabbed me by the neck and pushed me out the door, face first. I can still hear the smack that my face made as it hit the cool glass of the door. With his meaty paw on the back of my neck, my father guided me to the car, opened the door and threw me in like a sack of potatoes. I knew I was really in for it, this time. You could see my father's anger in the firm set of his jaw; you could see his rage in the pulsing of the vein in his neck. I was dead meat and I knew it.

My father and I drove home in silence. Before the car had even come to a stop in the driveway, I had bolted out the door and headed for safety. My father wouldn't chase me, I was much faster than he was and we both knew it. I was in the clear, for now, but I'd have to go home at some point. It wasn't an escape by any means, more like a stay of execution.

After a few hours of hiding out at a friend's house, I'd hoped that my father might have calmed down a bit and I headed home, mostly because it was almot dinner time and I was getting hungry.

Big mistake.

Moments after I walked in the door, my father grabbed me by the arm and spun me around until I faced him and he started yelling at me, calling me a liar and informing me that I was going to get what I deserved as he started taking off his belt.

The next part wasn't very much fun.

My mother watched.

And smirked.

When my father was finished with me, I could barely stand. My mother broke her silence and told me that I was to apologize to my father for embarassing him, I was to admit that I did not take the photographs and that I would have to pay for the film processing, because I had lied about taking the photos in the first place. I might have been able to stomach all of that, but there were two more things; the photographs would be destroyed and my camera would be taken away. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I refused. I wasn't going to apologize for anything; I took those photographs, they were mine and I wasn't going to give up without a fight. I tried to explain.

Bad move.

My mother started screaming at me as my father lashed out again, this time with his fists. I was given another chance to recant and once again, I refused. My mother then invoked her favorite puishment and I was locked in the closet. I can't even begin to tell you how much I hated that. As I stood there, in that pitch black closet, shaking with fear, frustration and rage, my heart shattered into a million pieces.  That was the moment when I lost all respect, faith and confidence in my parents; our relationship had fundamentally changed

After my release from the closet, my parents followed through on their threats. Over the next few days my camera was taken away, I was forced to pay for the film processing and I was told that the photographs were destroyed. I never apologized. After a few more days, things went back to normal and my parents shifted their attention back to themselves, once more. Eventually, my camera was returned. My parents may have decided to forget all about it, but I never did. Memories can smolder.

Twenty-eight years later...

In the summer of 2001, my ex-wife Medusa and I threw our infant son in the car and drove up to Atlantic City, NJ, to visit my mother for the weekend. My father had passed away in 1986 and not too long after that I became estranged from my family for over a decade, only reconciling with them shortly before my marriage and at my ex-wife's urging. We had a rather pleasant visit that weekend; my mother was head over heels in love with her grandson, who was named after her husband. My son had a very soothing effect on my mother; he kept her calm and rational, which was a good thing. Trust me on this.

We were all sitting in my mother's living room, cooling off, after a hot day at the beach. My mother was playing with the baby and Medusa and I were talking, when she noticed my mother's collection of photo albums. Intrigued, Medusa asked if we could look through the photographs. She had met less than a handful of my family and she wanted to learn more about them. We started leafing through the albums and I explained who everyone was and told her stories about them.

We were about halfway through the second or third book when she turned the page and I saw something that I hadn't seen for many years. I froze. Medusa looked at me and she asked me what was wrong. I asked her if she remembered the story that I told her about my first camera and she said that she did.

"These are the photos," I said.

Medusa looked about as confused as I felt. My mother was oblivious to what was transpiring; she was too busy cooing at the baby. She was about to get a rude awakening.

"Hey, Mom," I called to her.

She turned her head and looked at me. I held up the photo album.

"Aren't these the first photos that I took?" I asked.

My mother looked a little shocked. She knew that she was busted.

"Yes," my mother answered.

"You and Dad accused me of lying about taking these and yet you saved them?"

"We always knew you took them, that's why we saved them," said my mother.

"You belittled me and punished me. You took away my camera. You locked me in the goddamn closet! Why? Why would you do this? What the hell is wrong with you?" I demanded.

"When your father and I realized that you did take the photographs, we didn't want to give you false hope. We thought you were talented but didn't want to see you try to chase some crazy dream; we wanted you to have success and security, not foolishness. You've always been a very talented photographer and you take beautiful photographs, but it wasn't something that we wanted for you."

"So you just thought it would be best to crush every dream that I ever had?"

"And what have your dreams ever gotten you?" my mother asked me.

I pointed at my wife and son and I said, "Love. That's what they've gotten me. Love. But I guess that's something that you just can't understand. Your loss."

I looked at my ex-wife and I said, " We'd better start loading up the car. It's getting late and we have a long drive home."

I'm not sure that my mother got the message.

Medusa and I packed our bags and our baby and we loaded everything and everyone into the car. We said our goodbyes and we headed home. My mother had damaged our relationship once again; I don't know why I ever expected anything else. It took a while before I was able to speak to my mother again. My anger sat on simmer for quite some time, but my son deserved to kmow his family and so I put my anger behind me. At least I hope I did.

If your child has a talent or a dream, your job as a parent is to provide encouragement, not ridicule. This encouragement should be tempered with common sense and the need for a back up plan, along with an education, because sometimes the real world isn't  always friendly to talent and dreams. Our children do not exist to live our dreams by proxy, nor should they. Love your kids, nourish their hearts and minds. More than anything else, teach them to dream big and dream along with them.

Once again, a special thank you to Lisa and Kristina for their time and their help with proofreading and editing, My fumble fingers sure do like their typos.

Thanks to you, as well, for stopping by and reading.

If you enjoyed this story, why not another?

Patch

Want something to make you laugh, nstead?

Kill It With Fire

In My Father's Footsteps

Every little boy wishes to be just like his father. I've seen this in myself, with my own children and with every other little boy I've ever encountered. A father's habits are acquired by their sons, both consciously and unconsciously, and thus, these little quirks of personality are passed down through the generations. Sons learn to become their fathers both figuratively and literally. Be careful what you wish for may be borrowing an old cliché, but the truth rings through, and, like any other bargain made with Fate, you often find that you get more than you'd bargained for. Little did I know that when my grandfather died, it would echo down the years with a sense of déjà vu at the death of my own mother, and I found myself relying on the behavior and lessons learned from my father, for better or for worse, some twenty-five years earlier.

I don't remember much about my grandfather; he was already very old when I was born and sometimes I feel a little guilty that I can't remember him more, or better. The memories are small things really, more like vivid thoughts; there are no color to these memories. A gaunt and grizzled old man in a dark suit, standing in the doorway; a crown of gray hair and that enormous Roman nose. The ever present sparkle in my grandfather's eyes that spoke to me of youth and mischief, even though those eyes had grown weary, wrinkled and tired. What I remember most though, was when my father took me to say goodbye to my grandfather.

My grandfather, the patriarch of our family, had been in the hospital for some time and now he was quickly fading away. I hadn't known; it wasn't the sort of thing that adults tell a five year old boy. My father told me when it was time for a final goodbye and he took me to the hospital to see my grandfather one last time. To the eyes of a young boy, the old man seemed to have faded to almost invisibility. The tubes and wires coiled around his body like angry snakes, writhing, living beings. I took tentative steps toward the bed, trembling with, not fear, but perhaps nothing more than the infinite sadness of a young boy's heart, for I knew, as those too thin arms encircled me and pulled me close to him, his large, bony hands tousling my hair, I knew that this was the end. I remember all of the love that had the heart of that little boy bursting apart at the seams, as my grandfather spoke to me, telling me to be a good boy and a great man; he told me of all of the love in his heart, and then he told me goodbye.

As I left the room, there seemed to be a shadow hanging over my grandfather's bed, a sound that seemed to be almost a rustling of wings, half heard and haunting, it echoed through my mind as I closed the door. Moments later, my grandfather left the mortal prison his body had become; the betrayal of time chiseled so evidently upon his face. And I remember too, the realization of true loss, even at that age. I'm glad I was there, thankful to have had the opportunity to say goodbye.

The world turns, a carousel; years pass, life rises and falls. I had acquired all of the accoutrements of a family, a wife and two sons. Life was good, or so it seemed. The idyllic peace of a Sunday morning was shattered by the tortured shrieking of the telephone. My mother was in the hospital, the prognosis going from bad to worse; she wouldn't be leaving. The boys weren't told much, an adult shouldn't burden young children with these things, but as my mother started fading faster, the children were told and offered the opportunity to say goodbye to their grandmother. Of course they said yes. I remember standing in the hospital room with my sons, when I came to the realization that I was the same age as my father, and my oldest son, Anthony, the same age as myself when my grandfather died. I watched in almost disbelief, as history repeated itself and the scene continued to unfold.

Dominic, my youngest son, gave his grandmother a quick kiss and a hug before running out the door with tears in his eyes, whereas Anthony, at age five, was different. I looked up and I saw the tubes and the wires coiled around my mother's body, once again conjuring an image of angry, writhing snakes; her too thin arms encircling Anthony and pulling him closer. I watched as he held her bony, frail hand in both of his, and it seemed as if she had shrunk; Anthony's hands seemed to envelop hers. I watched as he gently patted her hand and reassured her that everything was going to be alright. I listened to my mother's voice, thin as a reed, as she whispered to him of her love, told him to be a good boy and a great man; how she didn't want to say goodbye. I was so proud watching my stoic little man, my heart bursting at the seams. When we left, he told me, with tears in his eyes, "I'll never see my grandmother again." And in that moment, I knew what he knew, and I knew that he had that same prescient knowledge of death that has haunted me through all of my days.

Despite the many similarities between the two scenes, they were each distinct in their own ways as well. My grandfather's death was caused by a stroke, my mother's was caused by lung cancer. My grandfather died in the hospital, whereas, my mother did indeed make it home once more. She passed away, in her own bed, three days after leaving the hospital, but it wasn't her, it was just the shell of her body; that was all that remained. In a sense, my mother never left the hospital at all; the person that came home just wasn't her. Yet it's only the similarities that seem to play through my memory.

I'm not sure if my father or I made the right choice. Was I condemned to suffer the same fate twenty-five years later? Have I condemned my children and grandchildren to the same fate as my father seems to have condemned me to? I feel that I am not fit to judge, but it would seem that even a history remembered is doomed to repeat itself. I always wanted to be just like my father, my sons want to be just like me. I'm afraid that we've all had our wishes granted, for better or for worse.

Growing Up the Neat Way

First and foremost, let me begin by stating that I am an unrepentant slob; always have been, always will be. I shouldn’t be this way, not after growing up in the white glove inspection household of my parents and attending military school for many years, but I am. Strangely though, I’m not always a slob; outside of my own home, I am one of the neatest, most organized people you will ever meet, and while sloppy at home, I’m still organized; I actually know where everything is in those mounds of paper and books that envelop my entire home office. Harking back to one of the oldest lines ever uttered by a parent, it’s my house and it’s my rules.

It wasn’t always like this of course. Once upon a time, I lived in a different house and under vastly different rules. My mother was, beyond a doubt, the most neurotic neat freak there ever was. A smudge on the refrigerator would have her get out the bucket and mop brigade to clean the entire house. Growing up in my parents’ home was like growing up in a living museum, and it certainly was. We were one of those families that had the showplace living room; the kind that no one was allowed to use, ever, under any circumstances. We had those horrible plastic covers on the couch and the drapes; antiques and artwork everywhere. One step into that room and the wrath incurred from my mother would be like having the flaming sword of God descending on you. I think that, perhaps, God may just have been a bit more forgiving. If you cleaned up any mess that you had made, it was imperfect and she had to reclean it herself. She would clean before the cleaning lady came and after she left. If toys were left on the floor of my room, I might as well have thrown them out myself. Even trying to keep my mess hidden and locked away in my bedroom was a failure. My mother was better at picking the lock on my bedroom door than a professional thief could have been. But what about my father, you may well ask. Dad was something else alright., he was a secret slob, one who’s many years of military training helped him in the arts of camouflage and subterfuge. My father had a secret stash of a pack rat’s nest hidden in the apartment above the garage; strictly man turf that my mother would not enter.

My father, the general, was almost kind of sort of a laid back guy, with the rod of military discipline shoved straight up his kiester. You would never imagine that outside of his job, he couldn’t even organize an expedition to the fridge for a midnight snack. Responsibilities? Bill payment? Forget it. Had that been left to my father, we would have lived as Neanderthals. Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair with my father. Dad was a highly decorated and terribly wounded veteran of World War II. Some of the things that poor man had been through and that had steeled his soul… he deserved whatever it is he wanted. The Air Force may have kept him around but it was more, I think, that they felt they owed him something. This was a man that had been through the veritable fires of hell and had returned, against all odds and he deserved a little slack, but jumping jehosophat, that man couldn’t bring himself to throw anything away. When I cleaned out his office after he passed away, I threw enough junk away to start up my own landfill; the junk seemed to be more treasured than the box of memories and honors that he had hidden away. Dad wasn’t going to be neat unless he was absolutely force to be, and while that may have been true in the main house, he was free to be a secret slob anywhere else.

And while I’m on the subject of secret slobs, it brings me to my tenure in military school; another home of enforced cleanliness and order. However, if you knew how to game the system, and I did, you could be a secret slob hidden under the very thin veil of neatness. For example, there was my footlocker, subjected to daily inspections. Everything in the upper layer of the footlocker was gathered in a tray and was always kept very neat and clean, except, well, don’t lift up the tray. Ceiling tiles above the bunk beds would hold all kinds of junk, and so would the locked dress uniform cabinet that I was expert at breaking into. In retrospect, I probably put more time and effort into hiding my messes than I would have spent just cleaning them up.

All in all, I would have to say that it was either the forced cleanliness and order or some kind of weird genetic mutation that has turned me into the slob that I am today. It certainly wasn’t hereditary. My sister and my brother both seem to have been bitten by the clean bug, although I do suspect that my brother is a secret slob just like my father was. It’s not that I don’t appreciate neatness, I just have more important things to do with my time.