Tell us a story...

[imaginethat]

What's a story you've always wanted to share?

[officerripley]

How it was kinda hard growing up in a neighborhood & attending schools with other kids who had plenty of $$ & made fun of my & my siblings' hand-me-down clothes, beatup furniture, getting cars re-possessed, mother (& all the subsequent stepmothers) having to work outside the home when theirs didn't even tho my dad worked in the defense contracting industry back in its heyday & therefore made just as much $$ as their dads did.  And being a stupid kid, I could never figure out why that was & didn't find out 'till in my 20s--I know, I know: I must be a slow learner--that when you have at least 1 mistress on the side all the damn time, of course that's gonna cut into the $$ available for the wife & kids at home. (And when helping said mistress[es] pay apt. rent, even back in those days, apt. rent in San Francisco wasn't cheap.)

[TeeBubbaDee]

This is a piece I wrote on the original TBD. I somehow ended up in a writer's group shortly after I joined. Not sure how I ended up in the group as I had never written anything except book reports in high school. This was actually a exercise where a story had to be told in 250 words or less.

Dad’s Last Laugh
 
Two phrases had been stuck in my head. Please don’t let him be in pain, please don’t let him be afraid. I had never watched someone die before. 
He was my wife’s Father, but I called him Dad too. An intestinal blockage had brought him to the hospital, but after three good years, the cancer was back. I was going to miss cooking dinner for him. I was going to miss rubbing the top of his balding head. Miss the smile on his face when he played with the dog. 
We stood around that bed, waiting, watching him die. I watched Dad, watched my wife. She had seen others die in this bed. She is a critical care nurse, and this is her unit. I wondered what would go through her mind the next time she walked into this room, watched someone else die in this bed? 
There had been five of us watching. My wife was at he head of the bed holding his hand. Our daughter stood next to her,. His son and daughter in law, were at the foot of the bed. I was at the top on the other side across from my wife. 
He had been unresponsive for several hours. But then his eyes opened, then focused. He smiled as he saw the people he loved. He looked at each of us. He started with my wife, then our daughter, his son and his wife. When he finally, he got to me, his smile turned into a chuckle, then a real laugh, and he slipped away. 

This is something I will never understand, and certainly never forget. 

[officerripley]

I was alone in the house with Mom when she drew her last breath. Taking care of her there in her last days, I knew she had always felt alone and invisible and would rather it had been my selfish sister who was there taking care of her, her wounded chick who took care of no one, whom Mom had tried to take care of but she never returned the favor.  And when Mom died, I thought the sadness would kill me too. But here's one way to look at it, and the only comfort I've found, she wasn't there for me emotionally, or anyone else but my sister, when she was alive and now she's not here at all anymore. And one day, I won't be here either anymore and that's just the way it is.

[imaginethat]

Wow TeeBubbaDee!! I am glad you were in that group and found the words, so simple and profound, to convey such a personal event. Thank you.

Officerripley, your poignant insight, and honest recounting of deep hurt and emotional scars that you thankfully survived, only makes me respect you all the more. I have always known that when our souls are seared in such a way, we can allow them to consume us, or when revisiting them, glean anything positive we can (if there is indeed anything at all) and move on. I remember we girls made our own clothes, and likely didn't have much because there were 8 kids in our family. I never remember a day that I even knew we had less because we were made to be proud of ourselves and never knew any different. I feel so lucky to have a Mom that enriched each of our lives. My Dad kept a roof over our heads and worked hard, but fell short to alcoholism, and ultimately ruined our family.  But, I still feel lucky.

[TeeBubbaDee]

Another piece I wrote back in the day.

Wounds, Scars, and Scabs

I try to not to poke at the wounds of my childhood, and try as hard as possible, not pick at the scabs that have formed over the scars. But sometimes, someone else rips those scabs open for me.
It happened today as I walked through the neighborhood park.

There was this little boy, couldn’t be more than five or six. I had come along too late to know what the little guy had done. He was cowering before his Daddy, who was obviouly drunk. Spit was flying as he screamed at his son, "You little shit!! Didn’t I tell you to never do that again?"

Well the scabs got ripped off and the wounds began to bleed. And there was my own child hood all over. But why should I have wounds and scars in the first place?

Maybe because I never once remember being held or cuddled. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, it’s probably just my bad memory.

I doubt it was because I had moved 5 times by the time I was 5, living in a shack. Three rooms, using two, cause the roof was on the floor of the third. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, didn’t I say we had a roof over two rooms.

It couldn’t be because I was standing between my parents trying to push them apart as they fought. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, they were hitting each other, not me.

Might it be the divorce from the crazy man that fathered me. Well only crazy if you consider getting drunk, taking off a boot and knocking out every light bulb in the place. Or kicking my pregnant Mother in the stomach so that my sister had to have her guts put back in as soon as she was born. No that shouldn’t leave a scar, we were good to be rid of him.

I can’t imagine it was the stress of eight more moves between 5 and 11. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, lots of kids have stress.

Inconceivable it was from the baby sitters sister, who happened to be a total stranger, standing over me with a belt and saying, "You will tie those shoes." No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, all little kids have to learn to tie their own shoes.

Can it be from the isolation brought on by going to five different grade schools. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, I just have a difficult time making friends.

It’s not likely it was my mom’s second marriage that lasted six months. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar. 6 months isn’t long enough to leave a scar.

Probably not an innocent question when I was 8, and my Mothers response was "If I thought you would grow up to be like your Father, I would just go ahead and kill you now!" No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, we all know he was a bastard.

It could not possibly be the third marriage, when I was 11. Hell, I was finally like everyone else, I had a guy I could call Dad. Of course then I didn’t know how sick he was, touching my sister, and my little brother too. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, he never touched me, only asked to look at my penis.

Presumably it’s not my uncaring Mother that raised an emotional cripple. No that shouldn’t leave a scar, it’s impossible to scar someone without emotions isn’t it?

It has to be true, you can’t scar someone with no emotions. Hadn’t that been the lesson of my entire life. With this thought in mind, I pulled the collar on my coat up as far as I could, and just walked away. But as I walked away, I could still hear that little boy crying, and I felt another scab forming on my heart.
]
Wounds and scars, scars and scabs, how did I get so many?

The parts about the little boy and his dad are fiction. The rest of this is how I grew up.

[officerripley]

Wow, teebub, my heart goes out to you and the older I get the more I despair of the human race, guess its true about  how not everyone is cut out for parenthood.

[TeeBubbaDee]

Here is one I wrote about my biological father.

The Old Man Didn’t Give A Shit

We’re not on any map, but this is Cumberland Furnace Tennessee. Population? Hell I don’t know. Maybe a little over a hunnert or so in "town", but I don’t think even the Good Lord knows how manys up in the hills. All I know for sure is population’s one short of what it was two days ago. Yep, one less tired old man in this tired old place. Everybody knew the old man that lived at the edge of town. Everybody knew Johnny. But, let me back up a couple days, and maybe you’ll see why the old man didn’t give a shit, and maybe why not many gave a shit when he died.
Cumberland Furnace is tiny, tucked way back in the hills, and practically cut off from the world. Yeah, everybody in town has indoor plumbing, but if ya take a look behind some of those houses, you'll still see outhouses. Some are leanin’ a little, but most are still standin‘.
Course "town" is just a small piece of Cumberland Furnace. The rest is a hilly, sprawling tangle of dirt roads, most entirely dead ends. If you care, or dare, travel them roads, you can see a tired trailer here, and a tumble down shack there. But in the hills, lots of places ain’t visible from the road. Out there those outhouses are still in use. Out there are the kinda folks who keep to themselves for the most part. They’ll come inta town to stock up, that is if they’re lucky enough for the truck to start.
Most all the good old boys get together around that still they have hidden in a small valley, away from prying eyes. They got one of them tumble down shacks to hold up in if the turns weathers bad. Sometimes they build a big fire, throw a goat on a spit, and make a night of it. If they’re in the mood, they’ll make it a two nighter. Hell, the worst of ‘em have been known to camp out there for a week at a time. And the old man was one of the worst that ever come along.
You just have to watch out for them damned cottonmouths, which is kinda hard to do after that jar of shine gets passed around enough times. Night time, them snakes want somthin’ warm to curl up next to. The old man learned his lesson the hard way. Musta been 30 years ago, and one of them two nighters. He was just sittin’ round, sippin‘ shine, and waitin’ for goat dinner. That’s when one of them damned cottonmouths bit his ankle. From what I heard, it pert near killed him. Also heard them ol’ boys skinned that snake and roasted it over the fire too.
Town ain’t much. A tiny church, with the town cemetery snuggled right up close. Three or four dozen houses, most needin‘ repairs of one kind or another. A one pump gas station, and a small general store
I own the store so I get the daily, hell, sometimes hourly scoop on all the dirty laundry hangin’ around. Since everybody shows up here sooner or later, I guess you’d call my store the heart of this ol’ place. Can’t say heart and soul. Nope, if this place ever had a soul, it dried up and blowed away when the iron works closed in 1923.
Feed and grain are big sellers. I move a few guns, and lots of ammo. I got some clothes, just the basics, which includes a fair amount of bib overalls, and heavy work boots. I got a grocery section, but nothing fancy. There’s a tired deli counter that’s never quite fully stocked. Bread, all of it white, and maybe a day old. There is an assortment of snacks, mostly chips, nachos, pork rinds and cookies. Better check the date on them too. Some penny candy for the kiddies. I got a wheezing old cooler in the corner. It’s rustin’ up round the bottom, but still chuggin’ along. That’s where I keep the milk, eggs, butter, a half dozen different kinds of sodas, even some Gatorade.
You want anything else, anything but the bare necessities, you have to go to the city. Well Dickson is 30 miles away, and not really a city, that’s just what folks call it. If you’re goin‘, you’re goin’ to the city.
I don’t sell no beer. No booze either. Nope, not in Cumberland Furnace. We’re sittin’ smack dab in the middle of a dry county. Course if you had a hankerin’, everybody knew who you had ta go see. Just go see Jonnny. Course everybody also knows he's die'n. This tiny, back woods, ass hole of the world, is a hell of a place to die. But if your born in these parts, you’ll just as likely to die here. The old man knew he was a die‘n, but he didn't give a shit.
When he was young, he had been a real lady killer. Just knocked them women right back on their heels. And if he got lucky, knocked em outta those heels, if you know what I mean. Good lookin‘. Coal black eyes, coal black hair, compact and wiry body. Dazzling smile under a straight narrow nose and high cheekbones. He got those cheekbones from his Cherokee ancestors. He’s not full blooded, but enough of that Indian blood was left so that his skin was kinda reddish gold. Most women just loved that damned, tanned all the time look.
Course he ain‘t young no more. The eyes haven’t changed, but everything else has. His hair's the color of dirty slate, that wiry body, now a bag of bones. The smile's long gone. The teeth that are left, have the stains of a life time of unfiltered Pall Malls. His skin is dusky gray. But he still has those eyes. Those piercing, penetrating eyes that can look right through a man. Yep. still has those coal black eyes, but that’s the only real color left in him as he sits on the stoop of the place he calls home.
Yeah, in his day, he had been a lady killer all right. Got himself hitched several times, Hell, even fathered a couple whelps with them bitches before his drinkin’ and whorin’ put a crimp in those brief mistakes. Sometimes he‘d just get tired of the whining’ and naggin‘. Sometimes he’d just get tired of beatin’ the same woman over and over, and need a new punchin’ bag. Sooner or later though, he’d just light out. Light out like his hair was on fire and his ass was a catchin‘. Yeah, they always cried about alimony and child support, but he didn’t give a shit then, and didn‘t give a shit now.
He sits on a beat up old rocker on his stoop. He built that stoop out of cheap pine many years ago. Now the stoop is like him, saggin‘, grayin‘, and on it‘s last legs. A yeller dog lays at his feet, chained to the post at the top of the steps. He loves that old dog, well, at least what passes for love in that stone cold heart of his. And he only feels this when he’s sober. If not, then he’d be just as likely to give that dog a kick if he was in the mood.
But he hasn’t kicked that dog in years. The last couple times he tried, he was too slow, and the dog too fast. And the last time he’d ended up on his ass to boot. He knows his kicking days are long gone.
He’s kinda like that yellar dog now too, chained up that is. Only stead of steel links, his chain is a thin plastic tube. It runs from his nose to the big oxygen tank standin’ next to the rocker. He has another big one in the house for when he’s inside, but when the weathers decent, he likes it out here on the stoop. There’s only three thing he cares about anymore. Sittin’ on his stoop. Smokin’ one more of them damn coffin nails, if he can catch a good breath. And of course, a little sip outta that pint jar every now and then. Yep, that’s all he cares about anymore. Everything else, he just doesn’t give a shit.
He likes it best on the stoop now, cause when he’s inside, Roussie drives him crazy. Just plain old bat shit crazy!
20 years ago it had seemed like a good idea to go up inta them hills and fetch back a woman to cook and clean. And maybe a little hanky panky if he wasn’t too drunk. And back then she kept her eyes down and her mouth shut. If he said "Jump", she didn’t ask how high. She just jumped as high, as fast, and as long he wanted. When he was drunk and on the war path, she’d always run and hide. But Roussie wasn’t too bright and the old man could always find her. It was real easy, the only place to hide in the house was in the cupboard under the sink, and she hid there every time. He’d just drag her out and give her the beatin’ he knew she deserved.
It had been like the dog, if he was in the mood, she was goin’ to get it one way or the other. But also like the dog, now she was faster than he was. As long as she stayed outta reach of his cane, he couldn’t beat her with anything but his sharp tongue.
But it’s been 20 long years since he‘d brought that girl outta them hills. Now it seemed like Roussie’s jaw is unhinged most of the time, always yappin’ and flappin’ about somethin‘. All that jawin’ just grates on him. Feels like 80 grit sandpaper rubbin’ inside of his head. And just lately, he sometimes catches a sly look in her faded blue eyes. Not often, but every now and again, there seems to be a tiny glint in those eyes that are usually flat and dead. He doesn’t like that glint, but he’s really to the point that he doesn’t give a shit.
Roussie had never stepped foot in a school house, but livin’ with the old man taught her a lesson or two. She wasn’t smart enough to find a new hidey hole, but she was sly enough to know where he kept his money. He had a pretty good stash, and she figured it would be her payback. Payback for the all the abuse, black eyes, and bruises. And that broken pinkey finger that never healed straight. And she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have to wait much longer..
He still got his Social Security check, not that it amounted to much. And before the oxygen chained him down, he used to have a steady income from selling beer, booze, shine, cigarettes, and sometimes a little dope out his front door. Yeah, I know Cumberland Furnace is right in the middle of a dry county. But once a week he would fire up his old Ford Galaxie, and head for the city.
He would pack that old Ford as full as he could with booze and beer from the liquor store, and he knew a fella that always seemed to have access to untaxed cigarettes, marijuana and some little pills. He’d take the load back to his place and just sit and wait. He never had to wait long, and did most of his business after dark. Sooner or later they’d be a couple of fella’s bangin’ on the door, hollerin’ JOHNNNYYY!!
This went on most all night. He made a little on the cigarettes, doubled his money on the beer n' booze, and made a killin’ on the dope. The alkies and stoners didn’t seem to care. If you asked the old man why these folks didn’t make their own trip to the city instead of payin’ him double in greasy bills, his reply was, "Well, I figure they’re just plain ignorant". Either that, or his patented, "Don’t give a shit."
But that was then. Now he’s got two choices. Sittin’ inside with Roussie, makin’ him crazy with that flappin’ jaw of hers. Or sittin’ out here on the stoop, chained up like a dog, smoking’ and sippin‘ shine.
These days the old man’s in bad shape. He’s been in and outta that V.A. hospital a dozen times. Let’s just say a life of drinkn‘, brawlin‘, and rough livin’ takes a toll on a man.
Like most old folks, he’s got the arthritis. Emphysema from them Pall Malls. Course cirrhosis from all that drinkin. He’s got more broken bones than most folks get in two lifetimes, hell maybe three. Took a beatin’ in a pool hall years back, and has killer headaches from a steel plate in his head. Prostates so bad he can hardly pee. Two knee replacements. A hernia that’s been fixed four times and is busted loose again. Now of course there’s the cancer. The radiation was bad, but the chemo’s what drained mosta the life right outta him.
Like I said, Roussie wasn't real smart, but she was finally right about one thing at least. Two days ago the old man took his last gasp of oxygen, and keeled over. Rolled right out of that rocker and landed face up next to that yeller dog of his. The only sound was the back of his head hittin’ the saggin’ stoop. The dog gave him a long stare, but didn’t whine, he knew the old man didn’t like no whining‘. He finally got up, and gave the old man one little lick across the stubble on his chin, and laid back down.
The funeral is small, Most of the "town" people stay away. It’s one thing to bang on the old man’s door at three in the morning, but another to let folks know how well you’d know’d him. Course Roussie is here, along with the old man’s two remaining sisters. And most of the good old boys have come down out of the hills. Come to see good ol’ Johnny one last time. Hell hadn’t they drank shine, and ate goat together?
There is one young fella here no one seems to know. Tall, with long hair tied in a pony tail. He has the look of a guy that ain’t never learned to smile. He sits in the back, and keeps to himself until after the service.
Once the church clears, he slowly walks over to the cluster of old timers. They’re gathered up under the tall oak tree next to the cemetery. They’re smokin’ cigarettes, havin a sip, and shootin’ the shit about the good ol’ days. And good ol’ Johnny.
The stranger hangs back for a while, but finally asks one of them if he had known the old man well. "Hell yea, he was hard ass, but most of us here liked him." The stranger says, "Just wondered, I just came out of curiosity. You see I really didn’t know him, but he was my father." "Hey Fellas! Hey!! This here’s Johnny’s son!" Well most of old timers walked over and gave the stranger a slap on the back, and told him what a damned fine man his Pa had been.
Somehow, I don’t think that son of his really gives a shit.

Author's Note:
This short story Is based on Alan Johnson Rector, my father. Much of this story is based on fact. Cumberland Furnace exists, and I did go to his funeral. Roussie is a real person. She really never went to school, and she did hide in the cupboard under the sink. He did sell booze out of his house, but as far as I know he did not sell drugs, although he did have a healthy supply of pain killers for a bad back. I exagerated some of his medical problems, even to the point of giving him my hernias and my cancer. I know he was not what most people would call a nice man. He was an abusive (physically and mentally) drunk. He never sent my mother a dime of support. He may have been my biological father, but he was never my dad. Still, the last line of the story is a lie. For some reason, I did give a shit.