When I was growing up, my parents defined the term “dysfunctional.” People looking in would think it was a great family. Sometimes it was. Sometimes, not so much. Most of the memories I have are ones most people would consider nightmarish. For my brother and I, it was normal. We learned at an early age how to survive in the chaos. A few important things we learned was how to disappear when the fighting started and to never tell on each other unless absolutely necessary. One other thing we learned was how to cherish the good times because they wouldn’t last.
I have this memory that wasn’t a nightmarish event. My dad was teaching me how to work on his old white Chevy pick-up truck. We were switching out the bearings.
“Hand me that wrench, Sis,” my dad asked.
“Okay, dad,” I said as I handed him the wrench by the toolbox just out of his reach.
“You should never have to depend on a man for anything, Sis. Fixing a vehicle isn’t that difficult if you know your tools,” he reminded me, as he tried to turn a stubborn bolt.
“Hand me the WD-40. This bolt is not coming out easily.”
“Sure thing, dad.” I dug around in the back of the truck, found the WD40, and handed it to him.
I watched as he sprayed the bolt and let it sit for a minute. He put the wrench to it and put some serious torque to it this time. Little by little, the bolt began to turn. He gave one final turn and the bolt broke loose from the housing.
“Yes!” I cried as dad pulled the bolt out.
“See, Sis?” he said, “All it takes is a little patience and the right tools. Sometimes, that just means a can of WD-40.”
Dad was always showing me how to fix things. Sometimes it was vehicles like his truck, and other times, it was plumbing or making a shelf. My dad was a jack of all trades. Once, when I was four or five, he made me a bed where the head inclined and declined. He also made me a dollhouse that he painted white and blue with a red front door.
My dad was invincible to me. I never thought he would get old. To me, he would live forever. He hasn’t died, thank the gods, but he was aging. Even at 59, he was still teaching me how to be independent. He didn’t want me to depend on a man for anything. Through the years, my dad gave me the skills I would need so I could fix my car, the plumbing, build shelves, etc.
Unfortunately, things were not always this wonderful with dad, or mom for that matter. When dad lost his temper, things would get nasty real quick. I remember a time when I was five or six. My mom, dad, brother and I were going to go out for dinner. Mom and dad got into an argument before we could even leave. My brother and I just walked away to my brother’s room to play while they argued. We were used to it, you see.
“We don’t have the money, Bob!” she screamed at him.
“It’s not a big deal, Sharon,” he replied in a nasty tone. “I can make more.”
“You would have to go to work for that. If it weren’t for my mother helping with the bills and me working, we wouldn’t have this house!” she said.
I knew he would eventually lose his temper and hit her. I was right. From the doorway of my brother’s room, we watched my dad slap my mom across the face. Mom didn’t take that real well and proceeded to punch him in the face. The fisticuffs commenced. Keep in mind, my mom was a blonde-haired spitfire only four-foot-nine-inches and my dad was a dark haired firecracker who was six-foot-one-inches.
My dad slapped her some more as they screamed obscenities at each other. The fight moved into the hallway. My brother and I backed into his room. My mom completely lost it and grabbed him by the shoulders, slammed him through the wall in the hallway, and he landed on the dryer in the bathroom where he fell to the floor. Mom wasn’t done. She jumped through the hole right after him. She got on top of him and started bouncing his head off the floor.
My brother and I ran out of his room screaming for her to stop.
“Stop, mom! You’re going to kill him!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. This sort of thing was normal for us. We just didn’t want mom to go to jail. We would be stuck there with dad. That would be bad. When he got mad and couldn’t take it out on the person he was mad at, we became the object of his anger. No, it wasn’t fair. But then life back then wasn’t.
He threw mom off of him. She got up and walked calmly into the kitchen, lit up a joint, and was smoking it when he came out of the bathroom biting his tongue. We knew shit just got real. We backed further down the hallway to stay out of his way.
“You dumb cunt. You’re going to pay for that.” He said in a deadly quiet voice. My mom just looked at him. I had to hand it to her, she never showed fear to anyone. Honestly, I do not think she was afraid of anything, least of all my dad.
“You mean more than I already have, Bob?” she asked. I knew she wasn’t done being pissed off. I never let mom’s tiny size fool me. She knew how to defend herself.
He walked over to her and grabbed her by the throat and threw her to the ground. He sat on top of her, started punching her in face and was screaming at her, calling her names and telling her to die. At this point, my brother and I knew we weren’t going to be able to stop him just by yelling at him to stop.
The fight that ensued was horrible. Of course, though it was normal, it also made my brother and I sad and scared. We hated the fighting and it sickened us. There were times we were afraid to have friends over because we never knew if they would get into a fight. I didn’t like seeing my mom abused. I knew in my heart she only stayed because she didn’t want my brother and I to grow up in a single parent household. My brother was more along the lines of he wanted to grow up and kick my dad’s ass. He used to tell me he was going to smack him over the head with a shovel. I told him it wouldn’t end well.
We came back home a week or so later. They didn’t fight and they didn’t argue. Mom kept on working and dad did whatever it was he did. We played with the neighbor kids and went to school. No mention of the fight whatsoever from either of them. Nothing. In time, we knew it was live with mom or live with dad. It was just a matter of time before the divorce was final. We couldn’t have been happier for mom.
When mom left, we both went to live with her. However, in time, my brother and mom couldn’t get along and Robert went to live with my dad. He ended up in juvenile jail, and then prison several times. Obviously, our lives growing up affected us in different ways. I was more reserved around people I didn’t know. My mom was more open about it all. She never had a problem telling people about our past and it used to really make me mad. I felt like it wasn’t her place to tell people about things that happened to me. It was mine. I felt betrayed. Now I understand she was simply seeking the attention she never got from dad.
Living with mom was much better, but I still faced difficulties. Mom didn’t realize the party life wasn’t for me. I remember one time I had a dance at school. I was super excited to be going. While I did my hair and make-up, mom sat and smoked a joint. She was always smoking a joint. I don’t think there was a time when her eyes weren’t red from smoking.
“Do you really have to do that right now, mom?” I asked. “You’re going to make my clothes smell like pot.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll put it out,” she replied. She pinched out the cherry and put the joint in her cigarette pack.
“Thank you.”
“Yes, dear. Are you about ready to go?” she asked.
“Yes, I am ready. Don’t forget to pick me up.”
“I won’t, Sis. I’ll be waiting on you to walk out of the school,” she said.
We got into the car and she drove me to Dixon Middle School on California School Rd. This was outside of Eaton, way in the country. This school was as old as Moses, or so it seemed. It was falling apart when I was going there.
Mom dropped me off and left. I had a great time dancing and singing along to the music. I talked to my friends and when it was time to go, there she was, waiting on me like she promised. That was one thing I could count on. Mom was always there, even if she was stoned out of her mind.
“I have to make a quick stop. It’ll only take a few minutes. You can wait in the car,” she told me.
“Okay mom. No problem. Thanks for taking me to the dance,” I said, kind of tired.
Mom stopped at her friend’s house in town and I waited and waited. Finally, tired of waiting, I fell asleep. After nearly two hours, she came stumbling out, half drunk and stoned. She got in the car.
“I’m sorry, Sis. I couldn’t just leave. It would have been rude,” she said in a slurred voice.
“It’s okay, mom. Can we just go home? I am tired,” I said.
“Sure thing, Sis.”
She started up the car and swerved all over the road on the way home. I am surprised she didn’t get pulled over. I really didn’t think my mom wanted me to be just like her. She must be miserable to have to stay drugged just to feel happy. I felt bad for her. She always used to beg me to not leave her when I grew up, but I couldn’t wait. As much as I loved her, I wanted my freedom and I didn’t want to live like that.
