Genesis

I’m guessing it was sometime in January of 1955, in the steamy backseat of a Cadillac that I was conceived. Sometime later when my mother informed Mr. Sterile of my presence, he flew the coop and his Adventist mother denied that her little angel could do such a thing.

It was just my mom and her mother living in a small house in the sticks, replete with the finest outhouse and outdoor laundry.  Her father had passed away years before, and her two brothers were wrapped up in their own lives.

Don’t recall if it was before or after my birth that Mr. Second Thoughts returned and a sketchy plan of marriage began to form.  It was all for naught due to his early death in a car accident while he and his brother were out celebrating – about what, I have no idea.  As such I never knew my earthly father which – according to my first wife and her mother – bothered me greatly.

I have a very foggy memory of just beating the absolute stuffing out of a very large (in comparison to me at the time) red teddy bear.  I wasn’t being violent. I was grooving on my mother’s love of rock-n-roll; like the Drifter’s, The Big Bopper, and yes…Elvis the Pelvis.  Evidently my love for music began while I was in my crib, and I would bounce up & down to the beat one of her many 45s.

My grandmother worked as a cook at the local hospital and my mom was a waitress for a fine 35 cents an hour; plus tips.  The culture of the day strongly suggested that single mothers should give their children up for adoption. My mom wasn’t playing that game and had me anyway. Constant exposure to estrogen during my early formed the foundation of how I interacted with women.  Soft tones, lots of hugs; none of that macho crap – however – mom was a tomboy thanks to her two brothers so I wasn’t completely ‘feminized.’

Sometime before I entered school she met Mr. Fake Nice (aka “The Pig”) and they got married. My mother’s rationale was that I needed a father; undoubtedly she needed a husband because it was hard raising me given the conditions.  My only recollection of him prior to their marriage was throwing a fit because he didn’t cut my pancakes right. That should have been a clue for him to bolt, but he married my mom nonetheless – much to our later dismay.

We moved a couple of times to follow his work, then returned to the homeland before I entered school.  His life was hunting, fishing, working, and drinking in some disorder or combination. It wasn’t until I was older that I started to see his dark side in the form of a backhand or leather belt, although there was no shortage of negative praise. I had to have been a preteen when I was told that it was a good thing that I was smart cause I couldn’t do anything right, and would never amount to ___.  I was painting a picket fence white at the time; still can’t figure how much talent it takes to paint an old outside fence.

I learned very quickly the importance of ‘the quiet inner voice,’ to become, and stay as invisible as possible. I followed the doctrine that I should not be seen or heard; you can’t hit or yell at what you can’t see. He and I would go on outings to fish (which I detest to this day) and hunting (which also sucks).  I have to admit that I did enjoy skeet shooting, or what was referred to back then as ‘blue rock’ or ‘clay pigeons.’ My mother told me years later that she was afraid that I would go step-father hunting some day and that was her primary reason for her divorcing him.

I would have been happy if she would have left him before getting blistered for walking home instead of riding the bus (got home just as bus drove by).  Or before the two of them went out to celebrate New Year’s Eve which resulted in my mom getting a black eye and the car plowing into garage. Enough of him…how about some elementary romance?

Please continue to the Formative Years – Getting Schooled or intermediate Reflections – Genesis.

Or go back to the home page Who Am I.