God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
.
These are words we dimly hear:
.
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
.
Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.
.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousnes.
.
Give me your hand.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~
.
My Bruderhoff friend David sent this to me.
Pony tails are so not cool...
Science class experiment.
"Connecticut girl sets teacher's hair on fire." I can't resist headlines like this. Apparently the high school girl did not like her teacher's hair. So she lit George Lardas' pony tail on fire with a lighter. Mr. Lardas was not injured, but the girl was arrested. Story here.
UPDATE:
I received this email on the news story:
"For those of you that do not know, on Sundays George Lardas is Father George Lardas, a Russian Orthodox priest in Milford CT. (Actually he is a priest all the time, and a high school science teacher during the week.) He wears his hair long because it is a precept of the Orthodox church to which he belongs that clergy not cut their hair. Because he is so used to having his hair catch fire during church services. When you mix young altarboys, long hair and lit candles, getting your hair singed just isn't all that unusual. So when he smelled the not-unfamiliar odor of singed hair, he reached around, put it out, and sent the girl to the principal's office. (She was mad at him because of a bad grade, I believe.)"
Well, now I know why he wore the pony tail.
Pictures at an inquisition...
A phone conversation.
Me: Hello?
Caller: Oh, you did answer! Mr. Nelson, I have Monsignor Mussorgsky on the line, please hold on.
Msgr: Hello? Can you hear me now? (Laughter)
Me: Yes Monsignor, may I ask what this is all about?
Msgr: Oh, Mr. Nelson, you did answer the phone. wonderful, yes, His Eminence asked me to phone you for a short interview, would you be so kind...
Me: Monsignor, which Eminence and an interview about what?
Msgr: Oh, I'm so sorry, I should have explained myself better, didn't my secretary brief you first? Well, Cardinal Levada has been reading your blog and would like me to speak with you about your, er, ah - Catholic weblogs.
Me: You mean the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith has questions about my orthodoxy? Wow - that is so cool, is torture involved? Can I wear one of those yellow cone hats and be stretched out on a.........
Msgr: (Laughter) Oh no Mr. Nelson, it isn't that at all. (More Laughter, covers the phone and says something inaudible.) May I call you Terry?
Me: Please do Monsignor. I like the name Terrance, but you may call me Terry. Funny, when I was younger I wanted the name Ian, but of course I'd never change my name - too complicated I'm afraid, yeah, my friend Bob changed his name to Roberto - he's Italian - and.......
Msgr: Excuse me Terry, this is long distance from Rome and it's getting late, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get on with the interview.
Me: Oh, no Monsignor, I'm sorry, I'm not used to talking on the phone so I'm not sure who talks when or how much to say.... But before we get going, let me say this: I am not Larry Craig, nor have I ever been Larry Craig! (I'm laughing really hard after I say that.)
Msgr: (Silence, muffled sounds, as if he is talking to someone else.)
Me: Monsignor? Monsignor? I'm sorry about that. Larry Craig is a politician who had been involved in a scandal and local news is doing a segment on him, and they keep repeating the sound bite he made, "I am not g------"
Msgr: Terry, Terry, that's quite all right. Now we notice you have two blogs and both claim to be Roman Catholic, is that correct.
Me: Again, I apologize - when I get really nervous I just repeat things I hear. Anyway. Yes - well I had four blogs, no 5 blogs, and now I have 3, but the main two are the Abbey-Roads two - the other one is just a file for photos and lame attempts at poetry.
Msgr: That is interesting. The Abbey blogs are the only ones we read here at the Vatican.
Me: So you really read my blog there? I thought it was just Fr. Z reading it when he's at the Vatican Library reading the newspaper.
Msgr: Huh? who is Fr. Z? No, we read your blog periodically, don't you check your stats?
Me: Well not really, I have a neo-counter, but nothing else, I have no idea who reads my blog otherwise.
Msgr: Well Terry, we've noticed that one day you will have a post up and then the next time we check, the post is taken down. It is a little disconcerting, especially when we happen to be following comments others leave. Could you explain why you do that?
Me: Of course, I take them down if they are too controversial, or after thinking about what I wrote, I decide the topic isn't meaningful. I don't know - maybe I just think the post didn't work. Or if I do a post I think is funny, say exposing another blogger's drunken Lindsay Lohan fashion blunders at the races, and she doesn't respond laughing out loud, I usually take it down.
Msgr: What are you wearing right now?
Me: I'm wearing a sleevless sweatshirt torn down to my navel and ripped blue jeans and - what? Hey! Who is this? What kind of question is that?
Msgr: (Laughing, hand muffling the phone.) I'm just kidding too Terry. Just teasing. We at the Congregation have a crazy sense of humor - even Galileo thought so.
Me: (Nervous laughter) Oh - I get it - I think....
Msgr: Yes Terry, we do have our fun here too. But seriously, is that you in the profile photo? Is it a current pho.......
Me: (Laughing) I'm certain you have more serious questions... may we just move this along right now?
Msgr: Well frankly Ter, the Congregation wants to know... Well, the Congregation has noticed you write an awful lot about... I'm sorry, the Congregation has noticed you write rather extensively about... well, I'll just blurt it out! Chapel veils for women who wear denim jumpers. And we wondered if you wouldn't like to do a little manual for proper attire at Mass for women and men in the United States?
Me: Are you serious? I'd jump at the chance! I can see it now - very Vogue/Harpers/Vanity Fair type photography and graphics - Paper! The best paper - very important for crispy print and photos to look good. Annie Lebowitz - she must do the shoot! top models wearing th..............
Msgr: Terry, fine, fine - we will go over the details later, what we need is the text first. I'd also like to ask a few more questions, covering some other topics, if you have time right now.
Me: Oh certainly Monsignor, go right ahead.
Msgr: The Congregation has noticed you are writing a sort of memoir. First let me tell you, we are all very sorry, it's not coming off as funny as you thought it would is it?
Me: Gosh! I know! It is really a lot of work - comedy is hard.
Msgr: His Eminence is more than a little concerned about how much involvement, or rather, will there be anything surprising coming out of the story about priests or religious? Any scandalous items, and more importantly, we hope to make sure of no liability on the part of the................
Me: Oh Monsignor, I can assure you - whaddya mean - liability? Would you pay me off? Would you pay me for the book rights? Hey what kind of a cheap------------I can't beieve you'd suggest such a thing.
Msgr: (Dead silence)
Me: No Monsignor, I am not like that - neither will I be bought off. All I can say - the Church has nothing to worry about from me.
Msgr: That is good to hear, Terry. Can you tell me this however; does your story have anything to do with the recent abuse crisis that has afflicted the American clergy?
Me: Monsignor, Didn't you just ask me that question? Monsignor, I'm afraid I can't answer that, I can't give away the details. Everyone will just have to read along as I post the story.
Msgr: Well thank you Terry. Now, don't forget, start on that chapel veil thing as soon as possible. Chop! Chop! Bye, bye now!
End of conversation.
.
After we hung up, I thought to myself, 'That was an odd conversation.'
Before Juno and that other film Catholics were so hot for...
We had our little Catholic girl, Madonna with her pro-life message!
The Story: Chapter Three, Part Three
Chapter Three, Part Three
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well, but I’ll save them for later. Obviously growing up in such a household as mine was confusing at best, yet it seems I was remarkably blasé about life. For instance, I had no idea we were poor, and I assumed our family life was normal. I never believed my brother Skip disliked me, I just thought I embarrassed him, and accepted the fact I had to play by myself. I knew he loved me, because if someone bothered me, he usually came to my defense. Yet it was my sister Beth who took on the responsibility of watching over me, and it was through her I learned the most about being Catholic. She answered all of my questions about devotions, Mass, the Blessed Virgin and the saints. Religion began to be my solace and strength from that time, and I have my sister Beth to thank for it. It seems to me the verse from St. Paul was confirmed for us at that time: “Where sin abounds, grace super abounds.”
That said, wickedness seemed to stalk our family. It’s a phenomenon some people might refer to as a generational curse. Protestants believe such things exist, as do a growing number of Catholics. They base their belief upon Exodus 34:6-7:
“And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation."
A niche healing industry has been emerging to heal memories and generational curses. Believers who accept this notion insist the sins of the fathers follow each generation, and that a “familiar” evil spirit incites the same sins from generation to generation. Perhaps there is some truth in that, for instance, psychologists believe children of alcoholics may have some sort of predisposition for addiction, in much the same way physical diseases may be genetic.
I’m rather dubious about the fundamentalist belief in the generational curse thing; I doubt very much it is as black and white as all of that. On the other hand, I’m certain “demons” of some sort may follow families for generations, inciting family members to repeat the sins of their fathers – but not always. I see it more in terms of temptation – subsequent generations may endure similar temptations, yet are not compelled to repeat the same sins. I have always looked upon adversity as a challenge to rise above, as a sort of discipline that can make you stronger.
I’m convinced of this because of the doctrine of free will. This may explain the fact that although my parents may have been abused or “sexualized at an early age” they never perpetrated the same behavior upon us. (Except in the case of my sister perhaps.) What is more, neither my siblings nor I ever repeated such abuse in our own lives. In fact, all of us seem to have gone out of our way to avoid behaving anything at all like our parents, despite the fact their flaws left their mark upon our lives. When Skip and Beth had families, the family life they created was the opposite of how we had been raised. Both of my older siblings had been determined not to repeat the mistakes of our parents, although my younger brother has been less successful..
As for myself, I resolved at a very young age to never marry, I wanted to live a life of chastity, like the saints. In many ways, this led to even greater difficulties as I matured, as you’ll see. Needless to say, what I have written of my life before the age of reason, my behavior offers proof to the doctrine of original sin and its risidual effects.
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well, but I’ll save them for later. Obviously growing up in such a household as mine was confusing at best, yet it seems I was remarkably blasé about life. For instance, I had no idea we were poor, and I assumed our family life was normal. I never believed my brother Skip disliked me, I just thought I embarrassed him, and accepted the fact I had to play by myself. I knew he loved me, because if someone bothered me, he usually came to my defense. Yet it was my sister Beth who took on the responsibility of watching over me, and it was through her I learned the most about being Catholic. She answered all of my questions about devotions, Mass, the Blessed Virgin and the saints. Religion began to be my solace and strength from that time, and I have my sister Beth to thank for it. It seems to me the verse from St. Paul was confirmed for us at that time: “Where sin abounds, grace super abounds.”
That said, wickedness seemed to stalk our family. It’s a phenomenon some people might refer to as a generational curse. Protestants believe such things exist, as do a growing number of Catholics. They base their belief upon Exodus 34:6-7:
“And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation."
A niche healing industry has been emerging to heal memories and generational curses. Believers who accept this notion insist the sins of the fathers follow each generation, and that a “familiar” evil spirit incites the same sins from generation to generation. Perhaps there is some truth in that, for instance, psychologists believe children of alcoholics may have some sort of predisposition for addiction, in much the same way physical diseases may be genetic.
I’m rather dubious about the fundamentalist belief in the generational curse thing; I doubt very much it is as black and white as all of that. On the other hand, I’m certain “demons” of some sort may follow families for generations, inciting family members to repeat the sins of their fathers – but not always. I see it more in terms of temptation – subsequent generations may endure similar temptations, yet are not compelled to repeat the same sins. I have always looked upon adversity as a challenge to rise above, as a sort of discipline that can make you stronger.
I’m convinced of this because of the doctrine of free will. This may explain the fact that although my parents may have been abused or “sexualized at an early age” they never perpetrated the same behavior upon us. (Except in the case of my sister perhaps.) What is more, neither my siblings nor I ever repeated such abuse in our own lives. In fact, all of us seem to have gone out of our way to avoid behaving anything at all like our parents, despite the fact their flaws left their mark upon our lives. When Skip and Beth had families, the family life they created was the opposite of how we had been raised. Both of my older siblings had been determined not to repeat the mistakes of our parents, although my younger brother has been less successful..
As for myself, I resolved at a very young age to never marry, I wanted to live a life of chastity, like the saints. In many ways, this led to even greater difficulties as I matured, as you’ll see. Needless to say, what I have written of my life before the age of reason, my behavior offers proof to the doctrine of original sin and its risidual effects.
To be continued.
[Photo credit: Topper with George and Marion Kirby haunting in the background.]
Have you seen this man?
His name is Hunter Collingwood. Please contact Charlene Pfounman through the comment section of this blog with any information you might have concerning his whereabouts. DO NOT approach him or talk with him.
Question and answer.
My post-Oscar interview.
Question: Are you going to see the pope?
Answer: No
Q: Why not? You have plenty of free time, you could easily go.
A: Yeah. No. I'm not going.
Q: Why?
A: I can see him on television and read what he has to say online. I don't like big Masses anyway.
Q: So, what do you think about the pope coming to visit?
A: I'm very happy about it. I like this pope very much.
Q: More than John Paul II?
A: Yes, much more.
Q: Why?
A: Because he is more Catholic than the pope. (Laughs out loud.)
Q: What exactly do you mean by that?
A: Nothing... nothing, really.
Q: Are you happy with the Oscar winners?
A: Yes, very.
Q: Who is your favorite?
A: Favorite what?
Q: Actor, movie, director, you know, who is your favorite?
A: Can't say really... Daniel Day-Lewis is very good, he is talented and doesn't seem to be caught up in all the publicity and glamor. The British actors seem more grounded and much more talented.
Q: Yes, but many of them lead rather amoral lives. For instance, Tilda Swinton lives with her lover and her husband, and of course many Hollywood people live in morally irregular situations as well.
A: So?
Q: Okay then. Now how is that memoir thing working out for you?
A: I'm not sure, it is getting bogged down at the moment, much too complicated and wordy.
Q: What will you do?
A: Stop writing for awhile, I suppose.
Q: How is Lent going for you then?
A: Not very well, and it seems as if it is half over now.
Q: Do you look forward to Easter then?
A: Not really.
Q: Why not?
A: It seems artificial. You know, all sad and weepy on Good Friday until suddenly on Easter Sunday everyone is supposed to be happy and celebrating. I have a really hard time making that transition.
Q: I'm surprised to hear you say that, what do you mean by that statement?
A: Nothing... nothing really...
The end of the interview.
Question: Are you going to see the pope?
Answer: No
Q: Why not? You have plenty of free time, you could easily go.
A: Yeah. No. I'm not going.
Q: Why?
A: I can see him on television and read what he has to say online. I don't like big Masses anyway.
Q: So, what do you think about the pope coming to visit?
A: I'm very happy about it. I like this pope very much.
Q: More than John Paul II?
A: Yes, much more.
Q: Why?
A: Because he is more Catholic than the pope. (Laughs out loud.)
Q: What exactly do you mean by that?
A: Nothing... nothing, really.
Q: Are you happy with the Oscar winners?
A: Yes, very.
Q: Who is your favorite?
A: Favorite what?
Q: Actor, movie, director, you know, who is your favorite?
A: Can't say really... Daniel Day-Lewis is very good, he is talented and doesn't seem to be caught up in all the publicity and glamor. The British actors seem more grounded and much more talented.
Q: Yes, but many of them lead rather amoral lives. For instance, Tilda Swinton lives with her lover and her husband, and of course many Hollywood people live in morally irregular situations as well.
A: So?
Q: Okay then. Now how is that memoir thing working out for you?
A: I'm not sure, it is getting bogged down at the moment, much too complicated and wordy.
Q: What will you do?
A: Stop writing for awhile, I suppose.
Q: How is Lent going for you then?
A: Not very well, and it seems as if it is half over now.
Q: Do you look forward to Easter then?
A: Not really.
Q: Why not?
A: It seems artificial. You know, all sad and weepy on Good Friday until suddenly on Easter Sunday everyone is supposed to be happy and celebrating. I have a really hard time making that transition.
Q: I'm surprised to hear you say that, what do you mean by that statement?
A: Nothing... nothing really...
The end of the interview.
The Story: Chapter Three, Part Two (Sex in the city)
Chapter Three, Part Two
It occurs to me the house in my dream had to be the Bates house, and it makes no difference whatsoever if one believes in dreams or not, the imagery was definitely file footage from my unconscious. I suspect my search throughout the house is exactly what this memoir is about, my search for meaning in life – or more specifically, in what happened to me. As I mentioned, it was at that address I arrived at the age of reason, I learned the difference between good and evil, and although I was overwhelmingly attracted to all that was good and holy, evil robbed me of my innocence.
In the mid-1980’s, shortly after my mother died, I began to see a doctor for therapy. I wasn’t having any breakdown or crises, although I had some difficulties understanding certain behaviors. I kept it secret from friends and family simply because I was ashamed of seeing a psychologist, and I was afraid others would think I was crazy and “needed” psychiatric help. I also did private pay so that there would be no insurance record. Interestingly, the psychologist offered me medications almost immediately, although I refused, I knew I didn’t need them. Anyway, everyone knows how in the past, mental illness was a stigmatized disease, although that attitude has changed dramatically in the past couple of decades. Today, we recognize many illnesses, clinical depression, bi-polar, and others, that can be controlled with medication and therapy. Today, it seems a good portion of the population is on some form of anti-depressant or mood enhancing drug, so mental illness is pretty much out in the open. Therefore, discriminatory feelings against anyone seeking psychiatric help should be quite rare today.
That said, my therapist helped me immensely when he explained to me I had been sexualized at an early age, something I never even thought about until he said it. Certainly sexual things went on before the family had moved to Bates, although I’m not sure witnessing my parents making love while I was still an infant counts. (I'm sure it must have happened to countless kids who slept with their parents.) Of course, fondling a neighbor, the husband of a woman who happened to be a friend of my mom’s, as well as being molested by an older neighbor boy would fit the doctor's diagnosis. Being four years old at the time of these encounters certainly fits the description of, ‘sexualized at an early age’.
Something must have been very odd in that neighborhood, since it seems to have been a rather sexually active place. The boy who molested me, most likely had been abused by his dad, since some of the things he wanted to do to me fit the profile of adult on child sexual activity. The family lived next door to our building in a single family dwelling – with a garage – where it happened to me. My dad disliked the father, calling him a “god damned D.P.” – which stood for Displaced Person after the war. My dad referred to him as a “fruitcake” (another term for homosexual) and was clearly jealous of his immigrant status as well as the benefits he received from the Government. My brother Skip played with the son, although I have no idea if his friend Rudy molested him too. (After my brother died, Beth told me Skip had been molested in New Richmond. The subject only came up when I mentioned I thought he had been sexually abused as a child.)
My relationship with my brother was confusing at best. On one hand, he emerged as my protector against physical abuse from my parents, yet at the same time, he seemed to resent me. He made fun of everything I did; mocking my piety, my intelligence – I could read simple comic strips before I was 5 years old - and he made fun of my attempts at drawing. He never wanted me to play with his friends, and refused to let me do anything except sit on the sidelines when they played sports. (Privately, Skip could be very good to me. I honestly think his negative behavior towards me was the result of how mom and dad neglected him – something I’ll discuss later.) Feeling somewhat inferior to Skip and his friends became the perfect set up for his boyfriend to exploit me. When Rudy was kind to me, and seemed interested in playing with me, I was flattered and fell right into the trap. And I never told anyone about it – because I thought it had been my fault.
Of course, Beth wasn’t exempt from abuse either. One day Skip and I had been locked out of our apartment by the high school boy my parents hired as our babysitter. Beth was inside. Strangely, both of us knew something was going on, although Beth has no recollection of it. We told mom and dad what happened and they fired the boy for locking us out – but we never mentioned Beth had been inside, nor our suspicions of sexual abuse, for fear of what would happen to Beth. Looking back, it seems to me the kids in that neighborhood were exposed to sexual activity everywhere they turned.
The same can be said for the parents, remember all of these things happened before the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, and I’m fairly certain that when my parents were kids, things were pretty much the same for them. (I have reason to believe they too had been sexually abused at some point in their childhood – but that’s another story.) Obviously, as adults, sex was a big deal for my parents; I mentioned seeing/hearing them late at night, and witnessing other “inappropriate” behavior during the day. (Appropriate for marriage, inappropriate in front of kids.) Typically, when some of their friends visited, the conversation veered in that direction; not just jokes, but stories about sexual misconduct. For instance, once the parents of one of Beth’s girlfriends came over to talk to Betty and Kenny about the parish school. After a few beers, Mr. Rabbet, a door to door salesman, began telling stories of housewives who answered the door naked. It sounds rather juvenile, nevertheless for the time, these were titillating conversations, and totally inappropriate in front of children.
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well. (I call one of them, "Jill on the window sill.")
To be continued.
It occurs to me the house in my dream had to be the Bates house, and it makes no difference whatsoever if one believes in dreams or not, the imagery was definitely file footage from my unconscious. I suspect my search throughout the house is exactly what this memoir is about, my search for meaning in life – or more specifically, in what happened to me. As I mentioned, it was at that address I arrived at the age of reason, I learned the difference between good and evil, and although I was overwhelmingly attracted to all that was good and holy, evil robbed me of my innocence.
In the mid-1980’s, shortly after my mother died, I began to see a doctor for therapy. I wasn’t having any breakdown or crises, although I had some difficulties understanding certain behaviors. I kept it secret from friends and family simply because I was ashamed of seeing a psychologist, and I was afraid others would think I was crazy and “needed” psychiatric help. I also did private pay so that there would be no insurance record. Interestingly, the psychologist offered me medications almost immediately, although I refused, I knew I didn’t need them. Anyway, everyone knows how in the past, mental illness was a stigmatized disease, although that attitude has changed dramatically in the past couple of decades. Today, we recognize many illnesses, clinical depression, bi-polar, and others, that can be controlled with medication and therapy. Today, it seems a good portion of the population is on some form of anti-depressant or mood enhancing drug, so mental illness is pretty much out in the open. Therefore, discriminatory feelings against anyone seeking psychiatric help should be quite rare today.
That said, my therapist helped me immensely when he explained to me I had been sexualized at an early age, something I never even thought about until he said it. Certainly sexual things went on before the family had moved to Bates, although I’m not sure witnessing my parents making love while I was still an infant counts. (I'm sure it must have happened to countless kids who slept with their parents.) Of course, fondling a neighbor, the husband of a woman who happened to be a friend of my mom’s, as well as being molested by an older neighbor boy would fit the doctor's diagnosis. Being four years old at the time of these encounters certainly fits the description of, ‘sexualized at an early age’.
Something must have been very odd in that neighborhood, since it seems to have been a rather sexually active place. The boy who molested me, most likely had been abused by his dad, since some of the things he wanted to do to me fit the profile of adult on child sexual activity. The family lived next door to our building in a single family dwelling – with a garage – where it happened to me. My dad disliked the father, calling him a “god damned D.P.” – which stood for Displaced Person after the war. My dad referred to him as a “fruitcake” (another term for homosexual) and was clearly jealous of his immigrant status as well as the benefits he received from the Government. My brother Skip played with the son, although I have no idea if his friend Rudy molested him too. (After my brother died, Beth told me Skip had been molested in New Richmond. The subject only came up when I mentioned I thought he had been sexually abused as a child.)
My relationship with my brother was confusing at best. On one hand, he emerged as my protector against physical abuse from my parents, yet at the same time, he seemed to resent me. He made fun of everything I did; mocking my piety, my intelligence – I could read simple comic strips before I was 5 years old - and he made fun of my attempts at drawing. He never wanted me to play with his friends, and refused to let me do anything except sit on the sidelines when they played sports. (Privately, Skip could be very good to me. I honestly think his negative behavior towards me was the result of how mom and dad neglected him – something I’ll discuss later.) Feeling somewhat inferior to Skip and his friends became the perfect set up for his boyfriend to exploit me. When Rudy was kind to me, and seemed interested in playing with me, I was flattered and fell right into the trap. And I never told anyone about it – because I thought it had been my fault.
Of course, Beth wasn’t exempt from abuse either. One day Skip and I had been locked out of our apartment by the high school boy my parents hired as our babysitter. Beth was inside. Strangely, both of us knew something was going on, although Beth has no recollection of it. We told mom and dad what happened and they fired the boy for locking us out – but we never mentioned Beth had been inside, nor our suspicions of sexual abuse, for fear of what would happen to Beth. Looking back, it seems to me the kids in that neighborhood were exposed to sexual activity everywhere they turned.
The same can be said for the parents, remember all of these things happened before the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, and I’m fairly certain that when my parents were kids, things were pretty much the same for them. (I have reason to believe they too had been sexually abused at some point in their childhood – but that’s another story.) Obviously, as adults, sex was a big deal for my parents; I mentioned seeing/hearing them late at night, and witnessing other “inappropriate” behavior during the day. (Appropriate for marriage, inappropriate in front of kids.) Typically, when some of their friends visited, the conversation veered in that direction; not just jokes, but stories about sexual misconduct. For instance, once the parents of one of Beth’s girlfriends came over to talk to Betty and Kenny about the parish school. After a few beers, Mr. Rabbet, a door to door salesman, began telling stories of housewives who answered the door naked. It sounds rather juvenile, nevertheless for the time, these were titillating conversations, and totally inappropriate in front of children.
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well. (I call one of them, "Jill on the window sill.")
To be continued.
The 2008 Oscars!
The big upset of the night will be the Best Actress award.
Marion Cotillard will take the award. Most people seem to be betting on Julie Christie, whom I love, or the Juno star. But I'm predicting Marion Cotillard for her performance as Edith Piaf in "La Vie En Rose". Vive la France!
Then, the Oscar goes to:
Best Actor: Daniel Day Lewis for "There Will Be Blood" (I mean, how often is a real actor nominated for this award?)
Best Actor in a Supporting Role: Philip Seymour Hoffman for "Charlie Wilson's War" (He should win. He is probably one of the very best actors ever.)
Best actress in a Supporting Role: Cate for "I'm Not There" (She should win. Ruby Dee wasn't acting - she really is that old.)
Best Picture: "No Country For Old Men"
Director: the Coen Brothers, "No Country For Old Men" (I know! It's rare best pic and director both get the Oscar - but this year they have no other choice.)
Best original Screenplay: "Juno"
And just for Cathy:
Makeup: "La Vie En Rose"
Costume: "Sweeney Todd"
If I am wrong on any of these, the Academy made the mistake, not me.
(Posted at 1:25PM, February 24, 2008.)
The Story: Chapter Three; Part One
Chapter Three: Part One
If you are still reading this, it means you made it through the most boring part of my life – who wants to read the memoir of someone’s infancy? I had to do it however, I wanted to offer brief glimpses into the personality of a couple of the people who will come and go throughout the entire monologue – my parents. Without delving too deeply into why Betty and Kenny acted the way they did, I have revealed just enough for the reader to understand they came from rather difficult backgrounds, having been children of the depression and all of that. Indeed, both of my parent’s childhoods were marked by instability along with elements of abuse, although I will bring that out later in the narrative. There is no telling of a life story without understanding the family or milieu one grew up in, for better or worse, the manner in which one was nurtured has its effects.
The pattern of instability in my dad’s life, losing the farm, the divorce of his parents, moving from apartment to apartment with his dad, continued into his adult life. Our family life took on an aspect of a traveler family, or perhaps more accurately, a fugitive’s lifestyle. I actually credit this sense of exile as a sort of foundation for my spiritual life, especially as I got older. I grew in the awareness that life on earth is indeed an exile and human beings are pilgrims upon earth, as the scriptures tell us. Hence, my sense of home was always more interiorized, because we had no permanent homestead, much less possessions of any value. Feeling the outsider was something I became acquainted with from an early age, which isn’t a bad thing necessarily, except when a sense of shame causes it to seem so.
Our first apartment in the creepy mansion on Bates Ave. was upstairs on the 3rd floor. To get there one had to climb several turns and twists of staircase and narrow hallway, permeated with old cooking smells typical of canned food, escaping from transom windows. We were on a floor where the occupants of various apartments had to share the bathroom. In those days I guess it wasn’t so uncommon, although today it seems unimaginable. Just imagine yourself taking a bath in a tub other strangers used.
Years later, when we had to move into worse accommodations, I recall my mom crying as she cleaned the place, totally grossed out at the filth of the previous tenants, and even more despondent over the depth of poverty we had sunk to. I never remember any tears on Bates however. I’ve decided, since no one is here to contradict me, that with both parents working, there was enough income to maintain a certain comfort level. Actually, for my mom, she was happy if the house was immaculately clean, the cupboards and refrigerator were full of food, and we had beer. I should also mention that although my mother drank in those days, she wasn’t a heavy drinker then, only my dad was – he stopped after work only to return home drunk. It was kind of a workingman’s thing to do back then.
The very first thing mom did after we moved into Bates was sign the family up as parishioners at the Church of St. John on the eastside of St. Paul. Skip and Beth were immediately enrolled in the Catholic school, as they had been in New Richmond. To my mom’s credit, she insisted upon Catholic education for all of us, which I am sure contributed to our well being as we grew up. I of course wanted to go to school with Skip and Beth, but I was too young, although I remember going through their books to find holy cards and anything religious when they came home from school. Mom also contributed to the missions and sent offerings to various religious orders for Masses and prayers to be offered. These organizations often sent gifts, plastic statues and framed pictures, which were given to me for my altar. Thus, mom took care of our souls the very best way she knew how.
Eventually mom left her job at the motel and got a better one at Minnesota Mining, or 3M as it became known. She worked in a newly constructed modern office building on St. Paul’s eastside, a fact which for some reason impressed Skip and I very much. It was a glamour job in our eyes, mom dressed in very fashionable clothes, had her hair done regularly, and made a very good salary for the time – more than my dad earned. I can’t say for certain the circumstances of her leaving Lakes and Pines, although I suspect something may have been amiss.
Not with my mother, to be sure, but with my dad. About 6 or 7 years after they left employment at the motel, one April Fools day my sister played a trick on mom and dad that morning while they were yet asleep. In those days there was a number one could dial to have your own phone ring, which Beth did. As she answered the phone, she pretended the Comports were on the other end – they had been the owners of the motel. Beth covered the receiver just as my parents whispered, “Whoever it is, we are not home!” (I’ll bet that is where my habit of never answering the phone came from!)
Covering the receiver, Beth told them with a sense of urgency in her voice, “It’s the Comports! They want to talk to you right away!”
Well it hit the fan then, they leapt out of bed and my mom yelled at Beth that she specifically told her to tell them they were not at home. My dad was swearing and insisting he was not there and wouldn’t talk to anyone. It was chaos; finally, she grabbed the phone and said, “Hello?” The three of us kids broke out laughing and shouted “April Fools!” Unfortunately Skip and Beth and I were the only ones who thought that was funny – I don’t remember any hitting, but we were in trouble. Neither parent liked children’s humor very much.
I mention this because, knowing my sister Beth, she “knew” something as to why my parents left employment at the motel. (Of course, today she can barely remember living at the motel.) Looking back on how Kenny and Betty reacted to the pretend call from former employers they hadn’t spoken to in years; I’m convinced something happened at the motel they were covering up. I think my dad left employment first because mom discovered he had been dipping into the till. I should have mentioned that when they got into fights, mom invariably assaulted my dad’s character, by bringing up examples of dad’s dishonesty. One of the proofs for Betty Mae’s allegations had been the receipts she had saved from when they worked at the motel. (Obviously she had done her best to cover any discrepancy in the books.) Therefore, my theory isn’t such a leap. And my sister Beth, who was always such a quiet and well behaved girl, sweeter than candy, was actually kind of a stinker – which makes the whole story even funnier today.
If you are still reading this, it means you made it through the most boring part of my life – who wants to read the memoir of someone’s infancy? I had to do it however, I wanted to offer brief glimpses into the personality of a couple of the people who will come and go throughout the entire monologue – my parents. Without delving too deeply into why Betty and Kenny acted the way they did, I have revealed just enough for the reader to understand they came from rather difficult backgrounds, having been children of the depression and all of that. Indeed, both of my parent’s childhoods were marked by instability along with elements of abuse, although I will bring that out later in the narrative. There is no telling of a life story without understanding the family or milieu one grew up in, for better or worse, the manner in which one was nurtured has its effects.
The pattern of instability in my dad’s life, losing the farm, the divorce of his parents, moving from apartment to apartment with his dad, continued into his adult life. Our family life took on an aspect of a traveler family, or perhaps more accurately, a fugitive’s lifestyle. I actually credit this sense of exile as a sort of foundation for my spiritual life, especially as I got older. I grew in the awareness that life on earth is indeed an exile and human beings are pilgrims upon earth, as the scriptures tell us. Hence, my sense of home was always more interiorized, because we had no permanent homestead, much less possessions of any value. Feeling the outsider was something I became acquainted with from an early age, which isn’t a bad thing necessarily, except when a sense of shame causes it to seem so.
Our first apartment in the creepy mansion on Bates Ave. was upstairs on the 3rd floor. To get there one had to climb several turns and twists of staircase and narrow hallway, permeated with old cooking smells typical of canned food, escaping from transom windows. We were on a floor where the occupants of various apartments had to share the bathroom. In those days I guess it wasn’t so uncommon, although today it seems unimaginable. Just imagine yourself taking a bath in a tub other strangers used.
Years later, when we had to move into worse accommodations, I recall my mom crying as she cleaned the place, totally grossed out at the filth of the previous tenants, and even more despondent over the depth of poverty we had sunk to. I never remember any tears on Bates however. I’ve decided, since no one is here to contradict me, that with both parents working, there was enough income to maintain a certain comfort level. Actually, for my mom, she was happy if the house was immaculately clean, the cupboards and refrigerator were full of food, and we had beer. I should also mention that although my mother drank in those days, she wasn’t a heavy drinker then, only my dad was – he stopped after work only to return home drunk. It was kind of a workingman’s thing to do back then.
The very first thing mom did after we moved into Bates was sign the family up as parishioners at the Church of St. John on the eastside of St. Paul. Skip and Beth were immediately enrolled in the Catholic school, as they had been in New Richmond. To my mom’s credit, she insisted upon Catholic education for all of us, which I am sure contributed to our well being as we grew up. I of course wanted to go to school with Skip and Beth, but I was too young, although I remember going through their books to find holy cards and anything religious when they came home from school. Mom also contributed to the missions and sent offerings to various religious orders for Masses and prayers to be offered. These organizations often sent gifts, plastic statues and framed pictures, which were given to me for my altar. Thus, mom took care of our souls the very best way she knew how.
Eventually mom left her job at the motel and got a better one at Minnesota Mining, or 3M as it became known. She worked in a newly constructed modern office building on St. Paul’s eastside, a fact which for some reason impressed Skip and I very much. It was a glamour job in our eyes, mom dressed in very fashionable clothes, had her hair done regularly, and made a very good salary for the time – more than my dad earned. I can’t say for certain the circumstances of her leaving Lakes and Pines, although I suspect something may have been amiss.
Not with my mother, to be sure, but with my dad. About 6 or 7 years after they left employment at the motel, one April Fools day my sister played a trick on mom and dad that morning while they were yet asleep. In those days there was a number one could dial to have your own phone ring, which Beth did. As she answered the phone, she pretended the Comports were on the other end – they had been the owners of the motel. Beth covered the receiver just as my parents whispered, “Whoever it is, we are not home!” (I’ll bet that is where my habit of never answering the phone came from!)
Covering the receiver, Beth told them with a sense of urgency in her voice, “It’s the Comports! They want to talk to you right away!”
Well it hit the fan then, they leapt out of bed and my mom yelled at Beth that she specifically told her to tell them they were not at home. My dad was swearing and insisting he was not there and wouldn’t talk to anyone. It was chaos; finally, she grabbed the phone and said, “Hello?” The three of us kids broke out laughing and shouted “April Fools!” Unfortunately Skip and Beth and I were the only ones who thought that was funny – I don’t remember any hitting, but we were in trouble. Neither parent liked children’s humor very much.
I mention this because, knowing my sister Beth, she “knew” something as to why my parents left employment at the motel. (Of course, today she can barely remember living at the motel.) Looking back on how Kenny and Betty reacted to the pretend call from former employers they hadn’t spoken to in years; I’m convinced something happened at the motel they were covering up. I think my dad left employment first because mom discovered he had been dipping into the till. I should have mentioned that when they got into fights, mom invariably assaulted my dad’s character, by bringing up examples of dad’s dishonesty. One of the proofs for Betty Mae’s allegations had been the receipts she had saved from when they worked at the motel. (Obviously she had done her best to cover any discrepancy in the books.) Therefore, my theory isn’t such a leap. And my sister Beth, who was always such a quiet and well behaved girl, sweeter than candy, was actually kind of a stinker – which makes the whole story even funnier today.
.
As I write this phase of the story, my remembrance of the house on Bates evokes the backdrop of a recurrent dream I experienced as an adult. In the dream, I was sure to be on an upper floor of a very large old house, searching for something unknown. I would roam the floors of the house trying to look behind doors, peer into cupboards, looking under furniture for something, yet I never could find what I was searching for. As the dream progressed, I had a growing sense of foreboding about my search, afraid I would be discovered and accused of some crime. I sensed danger lurking in the house, not only as if it was haunted, but also as if someone, or something could leap out at me at any minute. Each dream sequence involved various stages of the search, yet every dream ended with my discovery of a trap door to the basement. I was never able to open the door, either because I was standing on it, or some other intrusion distracted me from doing so. Then I would usually wake up.
To be continued.
[Photo: Katherine Hepburn, Joan Blondel, Dina Merril, and Sue Randall - from the film, "Desk Set" - the photo depicts the type of glamour job we imagined my mom had.]
The Story: Chapter Two, Part Three
Chapter Two: Part Three
Exiled from New Richmond, the family headed back for St. Paul. Our first place of lodging was The Lake and Pines, a motel located in an area that was not even a first tier suburb of the city at the time, although today it is part of the city of St. Paul. Actually, it was a classy motel for the period; I think it eventually became a Holiday Inn. I know, it was by no means the Ritz, but at least it wasn’t a fleabag motel.
In fact, the owners hired my parents as managers, allowing us to have a small apartment there. I remember very little about the accommodations, although I have vivid memories of one Christmas there when I received a realistic looking choo-choo- train, as I called it, but it was rubberized and the wheels didn’t move. I recall being very happy with the train yet disappointed it did not have moving parts or a track. I believe I was still young enough to ask about that without being misunderstood as a total ingrate. I distinctly recall thinking, “No wheels… doesn’t move… looks like choo-choo… not real choo-choo.” (I was a smart kid, huh.)
I also have memories of lying in my crib crying and my parents yelling at me to “shut the hell up” and saying things like – “Keep it up! Keep crying – and you’re never getting up again!” I wonder if most parents just let kids cry themselves to sleep from time to time like that. When my younger brother Tim was born, eleven years after me, many times he was treated the same way when he refused to go to sleep or had an earache. It wasn’t uncommon for Betty or Kenny to slap him until he stopped crying, or yelled so loudly, he would be too scared to continue crying. Therefore, I’m fairly certain I received the same type of treatment. Betty and Kenny could be rather impatient parents, but at least none of us died from shaken baby syndrome.
I never asked why we left the motel, although my mother retained an office position there, taking the city bus to and from the ‘country’ to keep her job. I remember my mom wore make-up and perfume, and dressed up for her job. I was taken along everyday and dropped off at day-care in a garden-center/nursery, called Seifert’s, across the road from the motel. I loved it there, and looked forward to taking the bus every morning with mom. I remember the bus driver being very nice to both of us, and often giving me treats. Because of the experience, I had decided I wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up. The driver liked that, and sometimes, after we left the city limits, he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove. At that early stage of my development, the bus driver had become an important person for me. By his kind, friendly demeanor, he left the memorable impression he liked both my mother and me. Each morning he seemed happy to see us and was always kind. As an adult, his example stands out for me as to why it is so crucial we show kindness to strangers, especially children, since many may not experience it at home.
While my mom continued to work at the motel, my dad found a job as a laborer at Lampland Lumber, a lumber yard on the outskirts of downtown St. Paul. We also moved into a huge, wooden, Victorian apartment building at 252 Bates Ave. in St. Paul, I recall the address being repeated to me so that I would never forget it – just in case “someone kidnaps you.” To this day I can remember the telephone number as well, Prospect 1- 5256. Without doubt, it was a very creepy building, I never heard anyone describe it as anything better than a tenement slum.
Exiled from New Richmond, the family headed back for St. Paul. Our first place of lodging was The Lake and Pines, a motel located in an area that was not even a first tier suburb of the city at the time, although today it is part of the city of St. Paul. Actually, it was a classy motel for the period; I think it eventually became a Holiday Inn. I know, it was by no means the Ritz, but at least it wasn’t a fleabag motel.
In fact, the owners hired my parents as managers, allowing us to have a small apartment there. I remember very little about the accommodations, although I have vivid memories of one Christmas there when I received a realistic looking choo-choo- train, as I called it, but it was rubberized and the wheels didn’t move. I recall being very happy with the train yet disappointed it did not have moving parts or a track. I believe I was still young enough to ask about that without being misunderstood as a total ingrate. I distinctly recall thinking, “No wheels… doesn’t move… looks like choo-choo… not real choo-choo.” (I was a smart kid, huh.)
I also have memories of lying in my crib crying and my parents yelling at me to “shut the hell up” and saying things like – “Keep it up! Keep crying – and you’re never getting up again!” I wonder if most parents just let kids cry themselves to sleep from time to time like that. When my younger brother Tim was born, eleven years after me, many times he was treated the same way when he refused to go to sleep or had an earache. It wasn’t uncommon for Betty or Kenny to slap him until he stopped crying, or yelled so loudly, he would be too scared to continue crying. Therefore, I’m fairly certain I received the same type of treatment. Betty and Kenny could be rather impatient parents, but at least none of us died from shaken baby syndrome.
I never asked why we left the motel, although my mother retained an office position there, taking the city bus to and from the ‘country’ to keep her job. I remember my mom wore make-up and perfume, and dressed up for her job. I was taken along everyday and dropped off at day-care in a garden-center/nursery, called Seifert’s, across the road from the motel. I loved it there, and looked forward to taking the bus every morning with mom. I remember the bus driver being very nice to both of us, and often giving me treats. Because of the experience, I had decided I wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up. The driver liked that, and sometimes, after we left the city limits, he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove. At that early stage of my development, the bus driver had become an important person for me. By his kind, friendly demeanor, he left the memorable impression he liked both my mother and me. Each morning he seemed happy to see us and was always kind. As an adult, his example stands out for me as to why it is so crucial we show kindness to strangers, especially children, since many may not experience it at home.
While my mom continued to work at the motel, my dad found a job as a laborer at Lampland Lumber, a lumber yard on the outskirts of downtown St. Paul. We also moved into a huge, wooden, Victorian apartment building at 252 Bates Ave. in St. Paul, I recall the address being repeated to me so that I would never forget it – just in case “someone kidnaps you.” To this day I can remember the telephone number as well, Prospect 1- 5256. Without doubt, it was a very creepy building, I never heard anyone describe it as anything better than a tenement slum.
While we lived on Bates, I arrived at the age of reason, as well as the realization our family life was anything but happy.
End of Chapter Two
End of Chapter Two
My new patron saint...
Claude NewmanI first read about him on Fr. Blake's blog, and continued on Paul Priest's blog, and did more research and found detailed information on this site. The icon is by Br. Claude Lane of Mt. Angel Abbey.
Chronology of Claude Newman's life.
Fr. Robert O'Leary, SVD (1911-1984) seems to have condensed and slightly altered the circumstances leading to Claude's imprisonment, perhaps for the very simple reason that he wasn't perfectly certain just what all the facts were, or, since it was only 20 years after the events he relates in the radio recording he made of the story (1960's), many of those involved were still alive and kickin'. In the end, his main concern was Claude's miraculous conversion, which he did know about first hand. The trail is a bit cool now, 60 years after his execution. Claude Newman Chronology:
-1923- Dec.1, Claude Newman is born to Willie and Floretta Young Newman in Stuttgart, Arkansas.
-1928- Claude and his older brother are removed from their mother by Willie, who takes them to be raised by their grandmother, Ellen Newman, in Bovina, MS, east of Vicksburg.
-1930- 6-yearold Claude appears in the Federal census, living with his Grandmather in Warren County. They reside on the Ike Henry place.
-late 1930s- Claude spends time in the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp)
-c.1939- Ellen Newman marries Sid Cook. Soon he becomes sexually abusive toward Ellen.
-c.1940-41- Claude works on Ceres Plantation in Bovina, owned by U. G. Flowers. Sid Cook was born and raised on this place. If Claude Newman has married, it was not registered in Warren Co. Perhaps he was married in another county, or parish of Louisiana. In any case, he is no longer with her by Dec. 19, 1942.
-1942- Dec.19, Egged on by dominant friend Elbert Harris, Claude lies in waiting in Sid Cook's house (Cook and Ellen Newman have separated). Shoots Sid as he enters. Takes his money, then flees to his Mother in Little Rock, AR., arriving on the 20th. First time she has seen him since he was five. She is now re-married to a man named Rogers, who finds Claude a job. Claude goes by the name 'Ralph'.
-1943- Claude has been apprehended, returned to Vicksburg, and makes a coerced confession on Jan. 13. Despite protests of Claude's lawyer Harry K. Murray, confession is admitted as evidence. He is found guilty by an all white jury. Is to die in the electric chair on May 14, 1943. Appeal to re-try the case is rejected by State Attorney General. Sid Cook's patron, U. G. Flowers, has too much influence. Jan.20, 1944 is given as new date for execution.
-1943-44- Probably sometime late in 1943, Claude puts on a miraculous medal, begins having visions of Mary. She encourages him to find a priest and become a Catholic. Fr. Robert O'Leary, SVD of St. Mary's for Colored, and Catholic County Doctor Augustine Podesta, minister to him.
-1944- Jan.16, Fr. O'Leary baptizes him 'Claude Jude' in jail, with Sr. Benna Henken, SSpS standing as his sponsor. Just before Claude is to be executed on Jan. 20*, a stay of execution of two weeks arrives. He is finally put to death on Feb.4, 1944. Claude has his favorite dessert, coconut pie, on the night before he dies. His body is taken the historic Black cemetery, Beulah, for burial. Some months later he appears, along with the Blessed Mother to a reprobate, who is himself seated on the electric chair. The man repents and is saved from eternal damnation-- at the very last moment.
-1945- Fr, O'Leary founds Immaculate Conception Parish (for Colored) in Clarksville, MS
-1960's- Fr. O'Leary records Claude Newman Story for radio broadcast.
-2001- Claude Newman Story appears on internet.
-2002- While looking for information on Cardinal Newman, Br. Claude Lane of Mount Angel Abbey, happens on the story.
-2003- In the early summer, Br. Claude is inspired to write the icon "Mary, the Teacher." Began the task of researching Claude Newman's life with initial help from Catholic Family News, and the researches of John Sharpe, Sr. of Phoenix.
The Story: Chapter Two, Part two
Chapter Two: Part two
Although life must have been relatively happy while dad was away, it wasn’t exactly Sunnybrook Farm for mom. Grandma Eliason, my father’s mother, often came up from the cities to lend a helping hand to her new Catholic daughter-in-law. Granny’s name was Della, and she had been married to Oscar Nelson, my paternal grandfather – a gem of a man, an artist and a scholar. He came over on the boat as they say, from Sweden; his family settled in North Dakota where they established the beginnings of a rather prosperous farm, until the depression. I have no idea how he met Della, herself a first generation Norwegian, but they married and had four children; Hermann, my dad Ken, Viola, and Jim. They divorced after they lost the farm in the depression and moved to St. Paul. The boys finished high school and lived with their dad, and Aunt Viola finished school while living with Della.
Betty Mae despised Della, and Della supposedly hated my mom. Although later, while I was in grade school, when the rather fashionable Protestant matron came around, she usually seemed very respectful of my mother, if not afraid. I often noticed how grandma visibly bit her tongue, then her lips, with tears welling up in her beautiful hazel eyes, while mom berated her. Suddenly, her hands shaking as she grasped her handbag, she would be off, placing a slobbery kiss on my lips before she ran out the door.
I believe I mentioned that we kids found letters of my dad’s from Japan, some were love letters between Betty Mae and Kenny, and others were penned arguments between Kenny and his mom. Dad was kind of a mama’s boy – he idolized his mother. I don’t know if it was because the divorce was Oscar’s fault and she came off as the victim, or what. At any rate, he found himself in an awkward position, love for his mom and love for his wife. The first strike against my mom had been the fact she was Catholic and intended to raise me a Catholic. Della was furious that I was baptized in a Catholic church.
Though born and raised a Lutheran, Della remarried after the divorce, becoming the wife of “Daddy Ed” a Pentecostal tent preacher, with the reputation of being a lascivious man. Della played the tambourine at the prayer meetings, always wearing her characteristic v-bodice dresses, swinging and swaying to the music. Grandma Eliason was quite a beauty, and probably something of a draw for the men folk to come out to the revival meetings Ed conducted. I actually remember him – without hearing anything from anybody, he just came off creepy and mean to me. Betty Mae later claimed he had put the make on her, touching her breasts and other parts south. In mom’s eyes, that somehow made my grandmother a slut for marrying Daddy Ed.
At any rate, while dad was gone, granny often stopped by between gigs to check in on mom. Unbeknownst to Betty Mae, grandma had been writing to my dad claiming mom was cheating on him – I have no idea if it was true or not. The upshot of their correspondence led Della to take it upon herself to rescue me from my unfit mother. One day, while mom was coming out of the dime store downtown, ‘Della’s car screeched to a halt, almost driving up on the curb. With the engine still running, she jumped out of the car, lunged upon my mother and attempted to snatch me out of her arms. A huge struggle ensued, lots of screaming and tears, until a policeman came over and ordered granny back into the car and off she went. I was saved from being raised a Protestant!
Naturally, I have no recollection of the scene since I was no more than a year old, although it must have impressed me and contributed to my love of drama. Nevertheless, my recollection of the episode is limited to what my mother told everyone, over and over; when she attempted to convince her listeners my dad’s mother was insane. At the time mom was successful in getting a restraining order against Della and her preacher man husband. (He kind of looked like President Truman.) It wouldn’t be the last restraining order against Della, and mums liked them so much, she would come to have them served on others from time to time. She loved restraining orders as a form of punishment – better put, harassment - against people she wasn’t fond of. They were easier to obtain than say, commitment papers, arrest warrants, reform school admissions, what have you. Mom reserved these threats to be used against immediate family members only and then just for special occasions.
Although life must have been relatively happy while dad was away, it wasn’t exactly Sunnybrook Farm for mom. Grandma Eliason, my father’s mother, often came up from the cities to lend a helping hand to her new Catholic daughter-in-law. Granny’s name was Della, and she had been married to Oscar Nelson, my paternal grandfather – a gem of a man, an artist and a scholar. He came over on the boat as they say, from Sweden; his family settled in North Dakota where they established the beginnings of a rather prosperous farm, until the depression. I have no idea how he met Della, herself a first generation Norwegian, but they married and had four children; Hermann, my dad Ken, Viola, and Jim. They divorced after they lost the farm in the depression and moved to St. Paul. The boys finished high school and lived with their dad, and Aunt Viola finished school while living with Della.
Betty Mae despised Della, and Della supposedly hated my mom. Although later, while I was in grade school, when the rather fashionable Protestant matron came around, she usually seemed very respectful of my mother, if not afraid. I often noticed how grandma visibly bit her tongue, then her lips, with tears welling up in her beautiful hazel eyes, while mom berated her. Suddenly, her hands shaking as she grasped her handbag, she would be off, placing a slobbery kiss on my lips before she ran out the door.
I believe I mentioned that we kids found letters of my dad’s from Japan, some were love letters between Betty Mae and Kenny, and others were penned arguments between Kenny and his mom. Dad was kind of a mama’s boy – he idolized his mother. I don’t know if it was because the divorce was Oscar’s fault and she came off as the victim, or what. At any rate, he found himself in an awkward position, love for his mom and love for his wife. The first strike against my mom had been the fact she was Catholic and intended to raise me a Catholic. Della was furious that I was baptized in a Catholic church.
Though born and raised a Lutheran, Della remarried after the divorce, becoming the wife of “Daddy Ed” a Pentecostal tent preacher, with the reputation of being a lascivious man. Della played the tambourine at the prayer meetings, always wearing her characteristic v-bodice dresses, swinging and swaying to the music. Grandma Eliason was quite a beauty, and probably something of a draw for the men folk to come out to the revival meetings Ed conducted. I actually remember him – without hearing anything from anybody, he just came off creepy and mean to me. Betty Mae later claimed he had put the make on her, touching her breasts and other parts south. In mom’s eyes, that somehow made my grandmother a slut for marrying Daddy Ed.
At any rate, while dad was gone, granny often stopped by between gigs to check in on mom. Unbeknownst to Betty Mae, grandma had been writing to my dad claiming mom was cheating on him – I have no idea if it was true or not. The upshot of their correspondence led Della to take it upon herself to rescue me from my unfit mother. One day, while mom was coming out of the dime store downtown, ‘Della’s car screeched to a halt, almost driving up on the curb. With the engine still running, she jumped out of the car, lunged upon my mother and attempted to snatch me out of her arms. A huge struggle ensued, lots of screaming and tears, until a policeman came over and ordered granny back into the car and off she went. I was saved from being raised a Protestant!
Naturally, I have no recollection of the scene since I was no more than a year old, although it must have impressed me and contributed to my love of drama. Nevertheless, my recollection of the episode is limited to what my mother told everyone, over and over; when she attempted to convince her listeners my dad’s mother was insane. At the time mom was successful in getting a restraining order against Della and her preacher man husband. (He kind of looked like President Truman.) It wouldn’t be the last restraining order against Della, and mums liked them so much, she would come to have them served on others from time to time. She loved restraining orders as a form of punishment – better put, harassment - against people she wasn’t fond of. They were easier to obtain than say, commitment papers, arrest warrants, reform school admissions, what have you. Mom reserved these threats to be used against immediate family members only and then just for special occasions.
I expect many of the fights which ensued between Kenny and Betty Mae upon his return from Japan, may have centered on the tumultuous relationship with her mother-in-law. I’m sure there were many stories about mom that grandma had written to my dad, needing clarification. Obviously mom was successful in convincing my dad that grandma was a liar. No doubt the “grandpa’s hands” story may have convinced dad to renew the restraining order against the Eliason’s. Although that may have cut some of the funding grandma supplied dad – she had always been good for a loan. That lost resource may have been another motive for dad embezzling funds at work.
To be continued.
To be continued.
(I'm doing shorter segments per post.)
The Story: Chapter Two: Part One
Chapter Two: Part One (Sorry, graphic language.)
Leaving New Richmond was very difficult for my mother. Life in a small town was not at all about night-clubbing and partying, I’m convinced this period represented a new beginning for her. My dad had more than a good job; he had a position, a career full of potential. They owned a house – the last house we ever owned. My mother had her gardens, which Beth, Skip and I helped her to tend.
Leaving New Richmond was very difficult for my mother. Life in a small town was not at all about night-clubbing and partying, I’m convinced this period represented a new beginning for her. My dad had more than a good job; he had a position, a career full of potential. They owned a house – the last house we ever owned. My mother had her gardens, which Beth, Skip and I helped her to tend.
In fact, when she was dying, before anyone knew she had incurable cancer, she asked my dad to call me to let me know she was in hospital. She told him to be sure and tell me she had been thinking about how we gardened together and how I invited everyone to come and “smell all the ‘putty pews’” – my words for pretty flowers. Dad called me and told me that over the phone. Oddly, her reminiscence had been my signal she was dying, and before leaving work to visit her in the hospital, I called my friend Fr. Gerry to set up a time for him to come to hear her confession. I surprised her at how quickly I showed up at her bedside.
“You didn’t have to rush over here, I just wanted your father to let you know I had fallen and they are doing tests. The doctors were just here. I’m glad you came though.” She said, clasping my hand.
“When dad said you brought up the ‘petty pews’ I knew it was serious. You’re going to die aren’t you.” I stated that so matter of fact, I startled the two of us. It almost took my mom’s breath away, prompting her to reply with stunned surprise.
“How did you know that? Have you spoken with the doctors? You saw them before you came in here! Don’t tell your dad yet, I want to tell him when it’s time. He won’t be happy about this; I’m scared I’ll get beat up for it.”
She kind of shrugged her shoulders with a giggle, and then we both laughed, not that it was so funny, it was simply the absurdity of the situation; my dad angry because she was dying and taking it out on her – nothing ever changes. I then explained that when she mentioned how we used to garden it was like a clarion call to me that she was dying. I had no idea she had been sick since the previous Christmas, nor had I talked to her until that July day. No doubt, God or our angels had a hand in our silent communication; however, I think it was mostly based in nature, the bond between a mother and her son. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself – the story of her death is an entire chapter to itself.
Throughout my childhood, mom loved to recall life in New Richmond, once again providing evidence it was the happiest time of her life. She loved our dog Hermann, the big Labrador who had been a babysitter for all of us until my sister was old enough to supervise even him. Hermann went with us to play at the park across the street. He took us to Mass and was so well behaved; the ushers allowed him lay beneath our pew at the back of the church. Mom and dad never attended Mass, so Hermann accompanied us, with Beth, who had already made her First Communion. The church wasn’t far from the house, a mere two blocks down the street.
In a special way, Hermann was most especially my dog, since he never left my side, although he also knew I was his meal ticket. We used to hide in the cupboard under the sink and take naps – after we ate our dog biscuits. Mom loved to repeat the story, “Terry and Hermann would be under the sink, with the doors closed and you could hear Terry, ‘One for Hermie, and one for Terry’ until they had their fill of biscuits and fell asleep. When I’d open the door Terry would be lying on the dog, with his thumb in his mouth and holding the tip of Hermann’s tail in his ear.” That memory delighted her for the rest of her life.
I think mom found a certain bliss after my dad went into the Army, she was alone with the three of us, and she settled into domesticity. I’m quite sure she attended Mass each Sunday with all of us, and knowing her piety, she must have prayed numerous novenas for my dad and for all of us kids. Something also tells me she consecrated all of us to the Immaculate Conception at the time, which may account for my particular devotion. I’m quite sure she would have requested nuns she had known from her school days with the Notre Dames, to pray for us as well. (There must be some reason that my brothers and sister turned out as well as we did.) Her devotion to St. Therese of Lisieux had been intense all of her life, and when I was born, she named me after her – not the name Therese of course, but Terrance, with the nick name of Terry. Several years later I had lamented my lack of a patron saint, and nagged mom to tell me who mine was. Short fused as she was, she slammed the lid down on a pan and shouted, “St. Teresa!”
“Which one? Which one?” I asked eagerly.
“Jesus Christ! THE LITTLE ONE! Are you happy now?” She was going way over the top, and I knew I better leave her alone.
Indeed I was happy though, Therese had been a favorite saint of mine even back then in 2nd grade, and I immediately adopted her as my godmother. Looking back upon the incident, I’m fairly convinced my mom’s ‘high anxiety’ was not only related to her neurotic guilt about her spiritual state, but she may have been concerned about gender issues.
While my dad was in Japan, she never cut my hair while I was growing up. No, she was not trying to make me a little girl; she just loved my hair – which strikes me as very funny today. “Ooooo! Love the hair!” Anyway – it was special – it was almost white blonde and wavy. Don’t worry; I’m a male, and I have always been duly embarrassed by photos from that time. Thank God when dad returned from the service, he immediately took me to a barber and had it all cut off, telling my mom, “He looks like a God damned little girl.”
End of 1st part of chapter two. 1st rough draft.
“You didn’t have to rush over here, I just wanted your father to let you know I had fallen and they are doing tests. The doctors were just here. I’m glad you came though.” She said, clasping my hand.
“When dad said you brought up the ‘petty pews’ I knew it was serious. You’re going to die aren’t you.” I stated that so matter of fact, I startled the two of us. It almost took my mom’s breath away, prompting her to reply with stunned surprise.
“How did you know that? Have you spoken with the doctors? You saw them before you came in here! Don’t tell your dad yet, I want to tell him when it’s time. He won’t be happy about this; I’m scared I’ll get beat up for it.”
She kind of shrugged her shoulders with a giggle, and then we both laughed, not that it was so funny, it was simply the absurdity of the situation; my dad angry because she was dying and taking it out on her – nothing ever changes. I then explained that when she mentioned how we used to garden it was like a clarion call to me that she was dying. I had no idea she had been sick since the previous Christmas, nor had I talked to her until that July day. No doubt, God or our angels had a hand in our silent communication; however, I think it was mostly based in nature, the bond between a mother and her son. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself – the story of her death is an entire chapter to itself.
Throughout my childhood, mom loved to recall life in New Richmond, once again providing evidence it was the happiest time of her life. She loved our dog Hermann, the big Labrador who had been a babysitter for all of us until my sister was old enough to supervise even him. Hermann went with us to play at the park across the street. He took us to Mass and was so well behaved; the ushers allowed him lay beneath our pew at the back of the church. Mom and dad never attended Mass, so Hermann accompanied us, with Beth, who had already made her First Communion. The church wasn’t far from the house, a mere two blocks down the street.
In a special way, Hermann was most especially my dog, since he never left my side, although he also knew I was his meal ticket. We used to hide in the cupboard under the sink and take naps – after we ate our dog biscuits. Mom loved to repeat the story, “Terry and Hermann would be under the sink, with the doors closed and you could hear Terry, ‘One for Hermie, and one for Terry’ until they had their fill of biscuits and fell asleep. When I’d open the door Terry would be lying on the dog, with his thumb in his mouth and holding the tip of Hermann’s tail in his ear.” That memory delighted her for the rest of her life.
I think mom found a certain bliss after my dad went into the Army, she was alone with the three of us, and she settled into domesticity. I’m quite sure she attended Mass each Sunday with all of us, and knowing her piety, she must have prayed numerous novenas for my dad and for all of us kids. Something also tells me she consecrated all of us to the Immaculate Conception at the time, which may account for my particular devotion. I’m quite sure she would have requested nuns she had known from her school days with the Notre Dames, to pray for us as well. (There must be some reason that my brothers and sister turned out as well as we did.) Her devotion to St. Therese of Lisieux had been intense all of her life, and when I was born, she named me after her – not the name Therese of course, but Terrance, with the nick name of Terry. Several years later I had lamented my lack of a patron saint, and nagged mom to tell me who mine was. Short fused as she was, she slammed the lid down on a pan and shouted, “St. Teresa!”
“Which one? Which one?” I asked eagerly.
“Jesus Christ! THE LITTLE ONE! Are you happy now?” She was going way over the top, and I knew I better leave her alone.
Indeed I was happy though, Therese had been a favorite saint of mine even back then in 2nd grade, and I immediately adopted her as my godmother. Looking back upon the incident, I’m fairly convinced my mom’s ‘high anxiety’ was not only related to her neurotic guilt about her spiritual state, but she may have been concerned about gender issues.
While my dad was in Japan, she never cut my hair while I was growing up. No, she was not trying to make me a little girl; she just loved my hair – which strikes me as very funny today. “Ooooo! Love the hair!” Anyway – it was special – it was almost white blonde and wavy. Don’t worry; I’m a male, and I have always been duly embarrassed by photos from that time. Thank God when dad returned from the service, he immediately took me to a barber and had it all cut off, telling my mom, “He looks like a God damned little girl.”
End of 1st part of chapter two. 1st rough draft.
(Photo credit: Little Shirley Temple. LOL!)
The Story Continued - Chapter One - Part Two...
CHAPTER ONE: Part Two
That said, my second memory around the same period is of her lying at the bottom of the stairs in a navy blue satin robe with rose piping, whimpering. My dad had pushed her. That is all I remember however. My sister Beth has no recollection of the incident, although she does recall my father beating up my mother at that early stage of their marriage.
From what I can determine, the Nelson’s lived in New Richmond for about 6 years. Unfortunately, it remains a sketchy period for piecing together family history. What I can figure out – mostly from various accounts retold by family members now deceased - Kenny and Betty Mae moved to New Richmond soon after they married. However, they were surely seeing one another before my brother Skip was born, which means they were a couple when my mother worked as a black-jack dealer in Reno, while waiting for her divorce to be finalized. Although, I doubt my dad joined her there.
I know that Beth was sent to San Francisco to live with Nana and Bumpa during my mom’s sojourn in Nevada. And I believe my dad continued working as a shoe salesman at a department store in downtown St. Paul while mom was away. Skip was 3 years older than me; therefore the year of the divorce had to be 1946. This timeline makes more sense, since, soon after my mother’s return from Reno, Skip was born. According to my father’s account, he was present for Skip’s birth.
Though dad never adopted Skip, he often tried to prove his love for him by repeating the story of how he had been there for my mom during his difficult birth. (This was because, so the tale went, the rotten first husband had deserted her.) Dad also claimed to be responsible for naming my brother “Skip”. We all had been told this story over and over, until it became fact. Oddly enough, my brother was given the same name as his father, Robert, although mom insisted he had been named for her brother Robert – not his father. At any rate, the reason Skip was given that name should have been obvious, yet for our family, it became sort of a multiple choice answer, depending on the condition of my dad when he told the story. Thus, any of the following explanations might apply.
A) The birth was difficult but the strong baby boy “Skipped” into life.
B) He was such a little commander; he was just like a “Skipper” on a ship.
C) My dad didn’t name him and may not have been at the birth.
D) My mother and dad called him Skip so she wouldn’t have to call him “Bob” like his real dad.
E) Who knows – they lied about everything.
Okay, so at some point, maybe a few months after Skip was born, Betty and Kenny were married at the courthouse in downtown St. Paul. They and the wedding party then drove up the hill to the Cathedral to have their wedding photos shot there. I know this because they had a photo, just one photo. Of course, I don’t really know if they had simply posed on the steps of the Cathedral on another occasion, only to represent the same photo in later years as a wedding picture. Whatever the case, when I happened across the photo, my mom passed it off as from her wedding day. I suppose I was about 6 or 7 years old when I asked about the picture. I clearly recall asking her why she hadn’t been wearing a wedding dress, and she quietly explained it had been fashionable at the time to get married in a suit. (This would hold true during war time and in cases when the bride couldn’t afford a gown.)
Obviously impressed my parents had been married in such a grand church, I pressed mom for more details. I wanted to know where all the pictures from inside the Church were. She quickly stated the priest did not allow photos in the Church. (That was probably true for the time as well.) Excited about anything to do with the Catholic Church and sacraments, I eagerly asked if the Archbishop had married them. Suddenly, exasperated with my incessant questions, she grabbed the photo from me and shouted, “That’s it! I will not be brow beaten like this! Get outside!” Shortly after that, Beth explained to Skip and I how it came to be that she and my brother had a different dad. That day Beth taught us the definition of divorce and how it applied to mom. She did her best to explain why they could not be married in the Catholic Church, which meant they lied about the Cathedral wedding and had really married before a Justice of the Peace instead. Then looking at me, knowing how religious I was, she added that they were probably going to hell too, all because they got married outside of the Church. But I’m jumping way ahead here.
Back to New Richmond. Somehow, sometime, after the wedding, mums and dadums bought a house in that quiet, idyllic, unsuspecting little Wisconsin town. Dad had been hired by a plastics company there. From what I understand, he was in management, and worked in accounting. I was born in 1949, and baptized at the Church of the Immaculate Conception in the town – my baptismal certificate is the only evidence I have that we really did live there. Unfortunately, anyone who could help me out with memories from the time as to what life was like for the Nelsons, have either died, or repressed their memories – which is pretty much what my sister has done. As I mentioned, what memories she does retain are all mixed up as far as the timeline of various events. Thus, to make a long, boring story short, I’ll cover that ground quickly with what I’m able to recall from the anecdotal evidence repeated to me throughout the years my parents were alive.
After I was born, my dad was soon drafted into the Army to serve in the Korean conflict – which began in 1950. In his tour of duty, he never saw combat, although he had been a medic stationed in Japan. I know my parents corresponded, but the letters have since been lost. Dad returned home and was reinstated to his position with the plastics firm. As mentioned, Beth recalls our parents fighting a lot, and by that time, dad had already escalated to physical abuse, behavior I thought relatively uncommon for newlyweds. Why he would get so angry that he physically abused my mother, I am unsure, but I have my theories.
From the moment of my birth, my Catholic, wanted-to-be-a-nun, guilt-ridden, neurotic mother decided I was a bastard in the eyes of the Church, since I was born “out of sacramental wedlock”. Naturally, that idea never sat too well with my dad, a born and raised Lutheran, who was sure to knock mom around every time she brought the subject up. (Which she seemed hell bent on repeating throughout my childhood, especially when she got angry with me or my dad.) As I said, I have no recollection of any violence at that time, except for the time my mom was lying at the bottom of the steps – in her silk robe. Turns out, that robe was a souvenir my dad brought back for her from Japan.
I suppose I ought to have mentioned that my mom and dad were party people, sort of Nick and Nora Charles types. Amongst their circle of friends were cocktail lounge lizards, a couple of close relatives who liked the night life, along with a few other shady characters. My dad was an excellent dancer; my mom was not, although what she lacked in dance floor grace, she made up for with her seductive charms. Dad danced with other women, mom flirted with other men. (No offense to be-spectacled women, but in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s, I had the impression women who wore glasses were considered unattractive, therefore, as a child, I couldn’t imagine what men saw in her?) That said, I’m fairly certain Kenny and Betty’s social life became the main source of their problems, not simply because of mutual jealousy and insecurity, but because finances were strained as well. In a small town, although they didn’t have the night clubs they enjoyed in the city, Betty and Kenny were regulars at the local taverns, and adjusted quite well to the “common life”. In fact, I think they must have had starring roles as the down-to-earth, sophisticated city slickers who moved to the country to settle down.
As their social life gained momentum, so did the drinking, and as I hinted, the money was apparently running low. Soon my dad started appropriating funds from the company he worked for – to supplement their lifestyle and probably meet house payments. It wasn’t long before he got caught – it was a small town – everyone knew each other, and the Nelson’s were living the high life. I have no idea how he got caught, all I know is, he lost his job and went to jail. Neither do I know what happened at his trial, much less who his lawyer would have been. My dad was a charmer and must have presented very sincere, so it is not surprising the judge let him off with a suspended sentence. Of course we lost the house and moved back to St. Paul, Minnesota… and no one - except my mother, would ever again dare to bring the matter up.
Earlier I mentioned the verse from Psalm 50, "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived." I hope you are beginning to see how that verse fits in with the story of my life. Although, as my story unfolds, I’ll explain how guilt had been perverted to become synonymous with shame. Guilt is about something we did, shame is about who and what we are. Yeah, guilt can be expiated… shame is far more destructive and debilitating.
End of Chapter One.
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Note: This is a very rough draft, so expect some editorial changes. Photo: Nick and Nora Charles.
Georgette - it is your feast day!
Or maybe not.
In Auvergne in France, St. Georgia, virgin. - Roman Martyrology, February 15.
Happy feast day anyway!
(I was unable to find any images of her. Otherwise she was a virgin anchorite who lived around the year 500.)
Goin' back, back to my roots...
A revolution! A revolution!Vincenzo found the original negative of the psychedelic-dance-trance-rave image I posted the other day. Obviously the People's Global Action committee had photo-shopped the other pic. In this photo shown above, we see the movers and shakers who represent the benign public face of the Novus Order Seclorum at a "love-in" (think "novus ordo-agape-rave" fest - this one may have been held at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco).
These people have been in it from the start - Bill Clinton may have claimed he never 'inhaled', but it looks as if they all pretty much 'dropped'.
Vote for any of them - it shouldn't make much difference dude.
Peace, love, and all that jazz.
What I think of Valentine's Day...
Not much.
I thought I should mention him though - since he is a saint - although there are several Valentines, three commemorated in the old martyrology on February 14. I know the Roman Church celebrates Cyril and Methodius on this date, therefore I assume St. Valentine is no longer celebrated universally. The 'holiday' in the U.S. is little more than a spectacle of sentimental camp and romance.
I chose this picture of St. Valentine as patron of epileptics. He is depicted healing an epileptic young man.
Life doesn't have to be ugly. See, look at the birds out there. Listen to their call.
"Tooweet! Tooweet!"
I woke up this morning and I thought to myself, "People are jerks!" They discriminate against one another, lie, cheat, steal, rape, and murder.
The other day, a local woman reported that her girlfriend abducted the little four year old boy she had been caring for. Her girlfriend had taken him from her home and just disappeared. Just like that!
Huge uproar. Everyone in the Twin Cities was looking for the little boy named Demond Reed. Turns out the woman beat him to death, while two of her own little kids held him by the arms. She then stuffed his dead, unrecognizable body in a garbage bag. Afterwards, she called the police to say her girlfriend had abducted him. "Tooweet! Tooweet!"
God bless the poor little boy.
He is much better off dead. Much better off.
(Photo: Demond and his murderer, Carla Poole. Kare-11)
Stirring the pot...
Pa Kettle's politically-incorrect take on the Democratic candidates.I don't like Barack Obama. I would much rather see Hilary win the nomination.
Now, just being a farmer here in Minnesota, I don't trust Obama. Barack is a name from the Koran you know - it means "blessed" and his middle name is Hussein - didn't Bush just start a war to get rid of a fella named Hussein? His early education was in Indonesia. Aren't terrorists from that area of the world? He says he's Christian, but his dad and his name is Muslim. I know that sounds all narrow-minded and stuff, and like I'm trying to cook up some kinda conspiracy theory that he is really a Muslim plant, and if elected he will establish Sharia law, but I'm not goin' there.
Conspiracy theorists are already having a field day because the drunken faction of the Kennedy clan is endorsing him. Teddy and Caroline think he is another Jack. Well, the Kennedys have jacked us enough over the decades, don't you think?
And don't forget New Age guru Oprah's endorsement... "He's sooooo evolved, Gail!" What the hell does that mean conspiracy theorists of the world? Huh? The guy is only a first term junior senator from Illinois - he came out of nowhere - has no experience to govern - plus, he's been campaigning for president since entering the Senate. So how could he have been a decent senator?
And "black man, black man - where do you come from?" Definitely not from the same background and experience of most African-Americans, who should never forget that Bill Clinton was our nation's first black president in the first place. (Obama is also half white - so he isn't really black.) The guy is more like an Ivy League pod-person from the "Body Snatchers"... he is synthetic and manufactured.
“American life is a powerful solvent. It seems to neutralize every intellectual element, however tough and alien it may be, and to fuse it in the native goodwill, complacency, thoughtlessness, and optimism.” - George Santayana
If you are a Democrat - vote for Hilary, we already know what's in her closet.
It's Poetry Tuesday Now...
Those darn flashbacks!
I'm so confused with this autobiography b*** s*** - I can't remember what day it is. Anyway - here is a beautiful piece of lyric poetry from a moment in time in my life...
Grace
.
When the truth is found to be lies
and all the joy within you dies
.
When the garden flowers baby are dead
and your mind, your mind is full of red
.
Your eyes, I say your eyes may look like his
yeah - but in your head baby I'm afraid you don't know where it is
.
Tears are running, ahhh, running down your breast
and your friends baby they treat you like a guest.
.
Don't you want somebody to love
don't you need somebody to love
wouldn't you love somebody to love
you better find somebody to love!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
While "researching" this literary gem, I happened across some very interesting sites dealing with the psychedelic-trance-rave-anarchist culture. I once viewed a documentary about dance-trance-rave, featuring Buddhist monks who felt the movement would be beneficial in unifying humanity in a new world order of peace and love. Does anyone know more about this than I do? Paul Priest maybe?
[Lyrics: Grace Slick, Jefferson Airplane]
The Grammy's
REHAB - Amy Winehouse won big!
Even though the song cracks me up - and she does too - I really like it a lot. I'm guessing she will probably die young if rehab doesn't work. God help her.
Chapter One - for real!
Chapter One - Part One
I expect it all starts with the parents, doesn't it. I mean, they are the ones who fell in love and got married, and I was born - they started it. "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived." (Ps 50) I've noticed at Mass, whenever Psalm 50 is used as the responsorial psalm, this particular verse is often skipped over. Despite the fact the verse refers to original sin, I sometimes imagine its deletion may be more of a politically correct over-compensation. Considering the contemporary situation of so many children born out of wedlock, or in irregular circumstances, such as in a petri dish, the liturgists may leave it out so as not to offend anyone. However, that would never have been a concern in my family.
My mother Betty had been married to Bob before she met my dad. My uncle Tom once explained to me how my mom had been pushed into an arranged marriage by my grandmother. Therefore, even though she had two children by him, my brother Skip and my sister Beth, uncle Tom claimed mom could have had her first marriage annulled - although she ended up with a divorce. I know my grandmother liked Bob - aren't those typical 1930's names - Bob and Betty? I'm also fairly certain my grandmother thought Bob would be a successful businessman. Always the status conscious snob, my grandmother very well may have insisted my mother marry him. That entire story is so sketchy however, and since most of my relatives lie, I'll probably never know for sure what happened. Why are these details important? Because of the "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived" reference. The reader will find out it was the source of all the insanity.
Weighing all the stories as to what happened with the first marriage, I can't imagine my domineering mother consenting to an arranged marriage in the first place. My grandmother - Nana -as we called her, Ethel to her husband Frank - is that name funny or what? Which reminds me of a fight my brother Skip and I once got into. Somehow Nana's name came up - Ethel - and I cracked up. I said she was Ethel the ape from the Laurel and Hardy film Swiss Miss. Skip thought I was being disrespectful and started yelling at me, then crying, as if I killed Nana or something. Anyway - I felt pretty ashamed, especially since I had also been accused of not loving my mother for disagreeing with Skip who had insisted mom was more beautiful than the Blessed Virgin. Even then I thought he was a tad too obsequious in his relationship with parents and relatives. But I digress.
Getting back to the subject at hand, I'm pretty sure Ethel would have preferred that Betty remain an old maid at home, working, and continuing to supplement the household income, rather than marrying her off. Indeed, when my mother tried her vocation at convent school, Nana had her drop out, called her home, and sent her out to get a job to help both of my uncles through seminary. Which leads me to believe my mother either 'had' to get married, or rushed into the marriage to get away from her mother. Their mother-daughter combination was an epic love-hate relationship if there ever was one. My mother described her life with my grandmother as difficult and abusive when she was sober, when she had been drinking the language was much more colorful.
For whatever reason, my mother left her first husband, often repeating stories of poverty and abuse as the motive, and I have no reason to doubt it. In those days, especially amongst German Irish Catholics, divorce was absolutely the last resort - in fact, it would be better to die than get a divorce. However, Betty Mae did it. She met my dad Ken while waiting for the divorce to be finalized. My dad had first dated my mom's sister, Mary, as well as Ethel - they're mom. My grandfather Frank knew about Mary, but not about his wife Ethel. I think he knew, he was simply a meek man and wouldn't have said anything. That's a whole story in itself; think of Ethel as Kathleen Turner in Serial Mom, and you might understand the relationships in that family. I'm not kidding. My mother knew about everything that had gone on, but fell in love with my dad anyway. My dad was a charming fellow.
Mums and dadums were married by a court clerk and I was born soon after. I don't remember the birth of course, yet strangely enough, I have vivid memories from my infancy. The most unbelievable memory marks a time when my family lived in New Richmond, Wisconsin. We moved there before I was born, and due to complications in mom's pregnancy, I was born in St. Paul. Hence the trips back and forth across the Minnesota border to Miller hospital in St. Paul, for follow up procedures. At birth, my dad was asked by the doctor which one of us he should save if things went wrong. Dad told him to save the mother.
As for my uncanny memories from the time, the way mom told it, I would have been about 6 months old, and therefore unlikely to remember anything from that period. Nevertheless, I distinctly remember being carried by my mother down the steps of a train in winter. (Of course I wouldn't have known what a train was until later.) I clearly remember feeling the cold air and snow flakes blowing across my face. Although it was night time, I recall seeing lights and the white of the snow. I felt my mother shivering from cold and covering my face with a blanket. I also sensed what I later came to understand as fear or insecurity. Although my mother always insisted living in New Richmond was the happiest period of her life.
That said, my second memory around the same period is of her lying at the bottom of the stairs in a navy blue satin robe with rose piping. My dad had pushed her. (Perhaps to be continued.)
.
[Photo at top: My Grandparents on a return trip home to visit us. Nana and Bumpa had moved to San Francisco, he had a printing business, she worked in fashion at I. Magnin. Yes I know - the photo is Ma and Pa Kettle - but they kind of looked like this to me. Although, Nana would have been wearing rhinestone-studded cat glasses with a jeweled neck chain. The above photo of Peggy Guggenheim is to illustrate the eyewear fashion of the time for another blogger. Nothing is made up in the above narrative.]
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NOTE: This is my attempt at writing a story of my life. I think it will be too difficult to construct a text - and I don't know if I want to expend the energy. What do you think? And be honest.
The Story of My Life.
Foreword
This is no joke, I've always wanted to write my autobiography, even from a very young age. Since it is Lent, and I have to be charitable, I decided I'll write about myself directly, rather than in veiled references to other people's lives and actions. At the moment I can't remember where I read it but a philosopher or psychologist said every man should write the story of his life, which made me realize one doesn't have to be famous to bore people with the details of one's life - in this case, the documentation of what made me like this.
Of course this isn't going to be great literature by any means, far from it, more like notes from a psychiatrist's couch than anything. I have no idea why I've wanted to write something autobiographical - but it seems I have had the same ambition since childhood. Omigosh! It was the Diary of Anne Frank that did it! No wonder I had gender identity issues when I was little! Or maybe it was the Little Flower's Story of a Soul? I never read a guy's story of his life until I met Holden Caulfield in Catcher In the Rye - which may explain some other stuff about me - but we will get to that latter.
I attempted to write about my life several times in really funny "novels" - nothing printable at all, mind you - and they were only funny because they were so badly written, pretentious, completely dumb. The first one was titled, The Cardinal In the Bushes - a direct rip off from Salinger. My mother found it and freaked out completely. I burned everything. The second novel, I Am My Own Experiment (LOL!), was burned immediately before entering the monastery. I just burned the last one a few years ago, just in case I died and my family found it. I can't tell you the title - it is too insane - and to think I read it to my writing class. I'm pathetic - but I make myself laugh - and hopefully you will too.
So anyway - there is no escaping it - I've decided to write my life story on the blog, and hopefully it will be made into a movie - starring Aaron Eckhart naturally. Okay! That was funny! More seriously, this may answer the one question many people have asked me over the years, "Wha' da' hell wrong wit' you?"
(Now remember, if I really decide to follow through with this and actually post, it will simply be 1st draft stuff. I have never written beyond 1st draft stage.)
This is no joke, I've always wanted to write my autobiography, even from a very young age. Since it is Lent, and I have to be charitable, I decided I'll write about myself directly, rather than in veiled references to other people's lives and actions. At the moment I can't remember where I read it but a philosopher or psychologist said every man should write the story of his life, which made me realize one doesn't have to be famous to bore people with the details of one's life - in this case, the documentation of what made me like this.
Of course this isn't going to be great literature by any means, far from it, more like notes from a psychiatrist's couch than anything. I have no idea why I've wanted to write something autobiographical - but it seems I have had the same ambition since childhood. Omigosh! It was the Diary of Anne Frank that did it! No wonder I had gender identity issues when I was little! Or maybe it was the Little Flower's Story of a Soul? I never read a guy's story of his life until I met Holden Caulfield in Catcher In the Rye - which may explain some other stuff about me - but we will get to that latter.
I attempted to write about my life several times in really funny "novels" - nothing printable at all, mind you - and they were only funny because they were so badly written, pretentious, completely dumb. The first one was titled, The Cardinal In the Bushes - a direct rip off from Salinger. My mother found it and freaked out completely. I burned everything. The second novel, I Am My Own Experiment (LOL!), was burned immediately before entering the monastery. I just burned the last one a few years ago, just in case I died and my family found it. I can't tell you the title - it is too insane - and to think I read it to my writing class. I'm pathetic - but I make myself laugh - and hopefully you will too.
So anyway - there is no escaping it - I've decided to write my life story on the blog, and hopefully it will be made into a movie - starring Aaron Eckhart naturally. Okay! That was funny! More seriously, this may answer the one question many people have asked me over the years, "Wha' da' hell wrong wit' you?"
(Now remember, if I really decide to follow through with this and actually post, it will simply be 1st draft stuff. I have never written beyond 1st draft stage.)
Fasting...
“Your fast ends in quarreling and fighting, striking with wicked claw.” - Isaiah 58
Be careful not to take on too much this Lent.
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