I wrote the below essay about nine months ago. I submitted it to Real Simple magazine for publication. They said if I did not hear back from them by December 1, I could submit it for publication somewhere else. Well, I gave them a few extra months, but still didn't hear back. I've not submitted it anywhere else, but do feel safe that I can publish it to my blog. I hope you enjoy the journey into my childhood memories.
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My dad was from Chance, Kentucky, which made him as much of a foreigner as the Polish parents of my friends on the southwest side of Chicago. Don't bother trying to locate Chance on a modern map. It's no longer there, except in the hearts of the few people who once lived there. My mom was also from the South, a proper Southern Baptist Christian woman. Her main goal in life was to be the perfect stay-at-home mom.
My dad's first language was Mountain English, with an accent that sounded like a mouth full of marbles. He would say her for she, as in "her so pretty," knewed for know, as in "I knewed it," and fire tower, would sound like fur tire. Because of this, people in Chicago had a difficult time understanding him, but I could -- loud and clear. Lord help me if I didn't. A leather belt was ready to improve my hearing. My dad did not spend a lot of time with my younger brother, Jimmy, or me, except for when he would come home tired from the steel mill at 11:15 pm. He and I would sit together silently watching Johnny Carson. Dad would smoke his Kool cigarettes and drink his beer. Affection never entered the room. Dad worked the three to eleven shift with a lot of extra overtime, sometimes sixteen hours a day for the first part of my childhood. No matter if it were a school night or not, my mom let me stay up to see him. Jimmy was sound asleep. I felt special being allowed to share in my dad's presence.
In 1976, when I was ten, and already 5'7" tall, my dad gained enough seniority to work the day shift. Five fifteen AM his alarm would sound and he would jump out of bed. There was no snooze alarm, at least not in our home, in 1976. He would go to the bathroom, have his first Kool cigarette, dress, then walk downstairs for his first cup of Hills Bros. coffee and his second cigarette.
As he made the coffee, I would slip out of bed, use the Kool scented bathroom, and creep downstairs. I knew he wanted silence, so I did my best to keep quiet. He would sit at the kitchen table, staring out our patio window at his latest vehicle. Cars were his greatest source of pleasure. I would pour myself a cup of coffee, and sit silently beside him. Wrapping my hands around my cup of coffee, and crossing my legs, just like my dad did.
The winter months in Chicago next to that patio window could be bone chilling, but I continued my ritual so that I could spend time with my dad.
Everything seemed perfect -- at least in the mornings. Unfortunately, Dad's
new work schedule had a negative side effect. It allowed him more social time to drink beer, which he did nightly in large amounts. We no longer watched Johnny Carson. Dad would pass out well before the show started. He talked even less in the mornings, most likely due to hangovers which he never mentioned. The more he drank after work, the more unsettled my world became. He would go from absolute quiet to plate throwing outbursts of rage within seconds. Where the anger come from no one knew.
The more my dad drank, the more my parents fought. Mom mainly wanted my father to spend time with us, stop drinking, and give us more money for groceries. Dad saw no reason to do any of these things.
A few days after one of my parents' frequent fights, I silently drove home with my dad in his new 1977 steel grey Pontiac Grand Prix from Jimmy's Little League game.
My mom and Jimmy were driving home from the exact same game in her 1976 red Pontiac Grand Prix .
As I stared out the window towards Resurrection Cemetery, my dad simultaneously swore and accelerated. I had to brace myself against the dash in order not to hit the windshield. After we fishtailed to a stop on the main road, I saw that our neighbor, Old Man Macaroff, had run my mom off the road. He was out of his car yelling at Mom and Jimmy.
Old Man Macaroff had once owned all the land in our area of Chicago. In the
early 1960's, he sold his cornfields to developers. The only thing left was his original ranch house at the end of our street which stuck out so wide that the street had to curve around it. Now the cornfields were subdivided into smaller suburban ranch homes and split bi-levels. We were certain Old Man Macaroff had made money on the deal, but that didn't mean he had to be friendly with his new neighbors. What we kids did know for certain was to avoid his house on Halloween.
My dad reached below the driver's seat and grabbed a crowbar, surprising me because I didn't know it was there.
"Stay in the car," he said.
Of course I was staying in the car. It seemed like the only safe place at that moment.
Dad made his way through the oncoming traffic.
I'm not sure exactly what my dad said while he threatened to bash in Old Man Macaroff's car. Next, Dad went for Old Man Macaroff. He didn't hit him, just threatened.
I rolled down the window to listen.
"Stop, please, stop!"
"I don't want to ever see your god damned face around my family again. Do you understand me? Apologize to my wife and son."
Old Man Macroff apologised. Mom drove away, clearly shaken. I quickly
rolled up the window as fast as I could as Dad walked back to the car. Without a
word, we drove home.
My chest burst with a sense of pride. My dad actually spoke and was clearly understood. But more importantly, he had acted in my mom and brother's defense.
In 1994, after a near death experience, my father finally gave up drinking. With a lot of hard work on his part, he became a loving father and husband to our family, including the most doting grandfather to my daughter. But, at that moment in 1976 out by Resurrection Cemetery, I knew that in his way, my Dad truly loved us.
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