Part Two–with feeling

My mother had terrible taste in men. It seemed each of her many husbands was worse than the one before, and each of her husbands had nicknames, applied (I think) by my brother. My first stepfather was “Frank-the-Pig.”

Let me give just one disgusting example to illustrate how much of a pig he was. My sisters, both older than me had a bedroom that Frank vacated to move into a larger bedroom on the second floor. One sister was a young teenager, and the other was probably a pre-teen. As they were cleaning the room from Frank’s mess, they found (left very prominently) in the room a polaroid photo of Frank completely nude and fully erect.

I was big for my age. One time Frank decided that I needed to be punished, that is physically. It was not going to be a spanking but rather a thrashing. As Frank tried, it quickly became a fight. As we wrestled as each tried to get a better position, I remember (with gusto) managing to put the sole of my shoe directly and swiftly into his crotch. The exhalation of breath accompanied Frank’s releasing of his grip. That was the only time Frank tried to physically take me on.

However, there was another time I tried to take Frank on. This was a memory I had blotted from my thoughts, probably for the best. It was told to me by my sister Marilyn and as she started to tell the tale, the sensations flowed once more and the scene was renewed.

My sister Pamela died from cancer and as she slowly succumbed to the disease, she became weaker and more dependent. Frank objected to many aspects of this, including at one point objecting to her inability to continue working and the results of her no longer paying him rent.

That was not the event that triggered my memory being restored. I am not sure what the event was, but because Pam could no longer use stairs, she had the bedroom on the main floor just off the living room. As Frank “dealt” with Pam, I remember Pam crying. I can remember my mother standing in the hall outside the bedroom crying. And I can remember my sister slumped in the living room, adjacent to the hallway where my mother stood, unmoving to help her daughter. Marilyn was bawling as she hugged her knees, her back to the trauma.

Across the living room was the fireplace and on the mantle were two large brass candlesticks. I must have been there as I remember having one of the brass cudgels in my hand and I see again my sister Marilyn rising up and grabbing at me. Here I recall one of the two strongest parts of my restored memory. I have come close to killing several people in my life, and all but one were when I was a cop. This memory is so strong as I knew I was going to crush Frank’s skull with the candlestick. He was my first of those I might have killed.

Marilyn could not stop me but as I entered the hall, with Marilyn clinging in desperation about my person, my mother leaped on me. What I next recall with clarity restored was the look on Frank’s face. I have no doubt he knew what I was going to do and I know he believed I would do it. As my mother and sister restrained me, Frank fled.

I cannot truthfully say I remember all of this as it was related to me by Marilyn, but I recall my desire to hit Frank and Frank’s face as his awareness of my intent became clear.

Some memories are best buried, at least until a person can better deal with them.

“The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” Horace Walpole

Part One

This is another remembrance blog. It is of events that I rarely think of and, in one case, blotted from my memory until a witness brought it to my forethought. I still “feel” these events.

In our house on 30th, the upstairs had three bedrooms and for this memory, I had the smallest which faced north. Being an old house, the glass was single-paned, and the wooden windows leaked air. On this night, it was a bleak January with the inside of the windows frosted over, the wind rattling the loose windows, and a cold seepage of air penetrating into the room. What I first remember was the sensation of security, of comfort, and of warmth. We did not have electric blankets and so to keep warm, we piled several blankets on top of us, pushing into a cocoon of smothering warm weight. Being six, I would curl into a ball so that the upper portion of my bed was toasty and the bottom two-thirds an ice field that would freeze my feet if I stretched out. But within that bed I was safe within my dreams.

The memory then moves to me being awakened. An adult came into my room to wake me. It might have been my uncle Stu, but I do not recall. I recall being asked to get out of bed, I recall how very cold the bare wood floors were on my naked feet, and how I was ushered away from the warmth of my bed and into the cold hall. The adult, whomever it was, kept an arm around me, half cuddling, half pushing me into the largest bedroom of the three on the second floor. I cannot remember who was in that room, but there were many adults. Both of my sisters were there, crying. I cannot see my brother in my memory, but he was old enough for me to have just lumped him into being one of the adults.

I can then see an adult woman taking me into her arms and telling me that my father had died. It wasn’t my mother. I think it was my aunt Maida. I do not recall crying. I do recall being moved/pushed over to my mother who sat on the large bed. There she took me into her arms, but it seemed to be a brief hug and then I was removed from the room. I know not where I was taken.

There are huge gaps in this memory beyond this most vivid portion. I can see the open casket. I can see my mother leaning over and kissing my father’s corpse. And I can smell the flowers, mostly lilies. To this day I hate going into a florist shop, particularly if the lilies are out and the aroma strong. Every time I smell those flowers, I am mentally transport to my father’s funeral.

I am sure that these feelings constitute a tragedy for the small boy who lives in my memory.

The next two memories reside in a teenager and will be parts two and three.

The Redmond House is HISTORY

I was in Redmond last week to get the house ready to sell. The agent said it was ready and the house went “live” on Saturday at about 11:45 am. By 4:15 that afternoon, I had a full price offer.

There is a house in my development that is about 600 square feet larger, has one extra bedroom, and was asking just $625,000. It has been on the market for about 40 days. I asked $610,000. I think the solar panels helped a lot. And considering that I bought the house for $396,000, I am content.

I/we are still looking for our “next” house. That will be another blog, I am sure.

Bad Boy Tales

Emily asked for more….

My very first encounter with the police was when I was four or five years old. I decided I wanted to visit my Aunt Mae and so started from my home on NE 30th and Stanton with the destination of NE 13th and Wygant. My memory recalls a lovely warm day, so it was probably summer.

My native instinct of route finding was developed early, I guess, as I recalled I made it to around NE 21st and Fremont, not quite halfway. A Portland Black and White picked me up. There were two very kind officers who gave me cookies and put me in the back seat. It was, in my mind, either a Ford or Chevy of around 1956 vintage. The cops drove me home with me beaming at the pleasure of riding in a police car and eating cookies.

I was still very happy when the police escorted me to home and my waiting parents. One of my very few memories of my father is what happened next. I was turned over his knee as he sat in on a dining room chair and started to spank me. I also recall spewing my mouth full of cookies onto the floor (I can even recall that I spewed them toward the fireplace). The application of a memory strengthening spanking makes that memory standout.

Much later (and not in chronological order) was the time one of my neighbors called the police. Our detached garage had an attic area accessible by a hatch which we climbed up into. There we had our “fort.” Within it we planned many an adventure but where we also did other things such as made candles. And that was the triggering event when we had some string catch fire. We tossed it out the back window. That neighbor, always on alert for the trouble we caused, called the police. They arrived to check on our “reckless burning” and after investigating, told us to “cut it out.”

The one neighbor often called the police. We used to make black powder (one part Sulphur, one part potassium nitrate, and one part charcoal). I am amazed I have all my fingers…. What we did with it was blow things up. It wasn’t very good black powder and often burned more than went bang, but it was fun. In fact, we might have been making fuses with black powder when we tossed the string out the window above, fearing it was going to ignite the rest of the powder. I cannot remember for sure anymore.

Another time the police were called (and I do not recall what this event was that caused the neighbors to call) and I stood waiting on the sidewalk for the cops to arrive. I knew the police were on their way as the neighbors had warned me (“I have called the cops on you, you little….”). They arrived and asked to speak with my father. I explained that my father was dead, but my stepfather was inside. Leading the way to the backdoor and into the kitchen, the cop stopped following me. My sister Marilyn, probably 16 or 17 at the time, was standing on the kitchen counter to reach a high shelf and wearing a very short skirt. I recall the cop looking up and admiring Marilyn’s southern exposure. To be honest, I do not recall what the cop said to Frank (my stepfather) or if there were any consequences from the conversation.

One possible explanation for the police to be called was that the neighborhood boys often engaged in what we innocently thought of as gang fights. Using garbage can lids as shields we would hurl things at each other. One of the more effective innovations my side had was grenades. We would capture bees in glass jars and shake them up to get them angry. Once sufficiently aroused, we would hurl our grenades at the other side which was usually enough for us to “win.” I do remember getting a lot of neighbor complaints about the broken glass so that could be why the cops were called as related above.

When I was 7 or so, I was at the drugstore at 33 and Knott Street. I can recall wanting a small plastic 707 plane, so I walked out with it. The druggist hauled me back in and demanded I give him contact information for my father. Again, I said my father was dead (and I think this was before my mother had married Frank) so I offered my mother’s number. The druggist called the number, slammed the phone down and started yelling at me that he was calling the police. He said I was a little sneak (well, that was not the word he used but it did start with an “s”). He said the telephone number I gave him was to US Bank. Crying, I explained that my mother worked at the bank. The police did not get called, but I do not recall what happened.

Another neighbor complaint was really for something quite innocent. The second story of our house on 30th had three bedrooms and a bathroom. The front bedroom overlooked the street and at this time had the bunkbeds. So, we tied sheets together, secured the sheets to the bunkbed and hung them out the front window. We then took turns sliding down the sheets. It was great fun. Slide down, run to the front door and back up for our next turn. I remember it all came to halt when the neighbors objected but I do not recall the consequences.

My last confession was criminal, but I was never caught. The confession is of how I was a bootlegger. In the “old” days, six-packs of beverages were not secured with plastic rings but instead had a stiff paper enclosure. What I did was to take a six-pack of 7-Up, pull out 4 cans, put two cans of beer inside, and then put the 2 cans of 7-Up back in, so both ends of the six pack matched the paper covering of “7-Up.” I would take orders from neighborhood kids for the type of beer they wanted, and I could deliver a 6 pack of their beer choice at a steep price. Not only did it cover the price of the 7-Up (which was my favorite beverage) but gave me a handsome profit which kept me in spending money. I am not sure how long I did that (perhaps only one summer) but it was very profitable.

There are other bad boy tales, but these help to explain my fascination with the criminal justice system. I always thought I was destined to be part of the criminal justice system, but in grade school, I was not certain what my future role would be.

The worries that keep me up at night

I worry for my country. Yes, there is some worry what a second term Trump presidency might do domestically, but as ACP assures me, the institutional mechanisms will hold. I am not quite that confident as I can think of the October 1973 “Saturday Massacre,” some other failures, and people such as Jeffrey Clark. However, I think we will not lose our democracy no matter how much Trump wants to be a dictator–at least we won’t lose it internally..

My biggest fear is through Trump’s espoused foreign policy, that of “America First” and ditch our allies. Getting out of NATO would be a disaster but not the worst thing. Even if Putin tried to take back the Russian Empire (think of the Baltic States at least), with the addition of several countries to NATO, even without the US, Nato would prevail. Of course, unless Putin started using tactical nuclear weapons. That leads to a nuclear exchange.

What worries me more is if Trump announces a withdrawal of support for other places, such as South Korea or Taiwan. If we withdrew troops from South Korea, Kim Jong Un would attack immediately. And if China was convinced we would not support Taiwan, China would attack.

Either attack could involve nuclear weapons. Or, it could include chemical weapons. Chemical weapons are not a thing of the past (read WW I). Iraq and Iran both used them in the 1980s. Assad used them in the 2000s. Or an attack could be preceded with biological weapons. Imperial Japan killed thousands (at least) in WW II with biological weapons and the United States has been attacked (fortunately not successfully) with anthrax in the recent past.

No, my fears rest not so much with domestic disaster (although it remains at least a possibility) but with a foreign policy as espoused by Trump: Go ahead and attack other countries as the United States will do nothing.

In far too many ways I feel as if we are reliving the 1930s.

Summer Nights

Emily asked me to write more memory blogs (I guess she figures my mind is going so I had better do it while I can). I am toying with a political blog so I guess a boyhood blog would be better.

I truly pity kids today. We had it so much better. By the 1970s, society had changed enough that what I had as a boy was going fast. I think perhaps my generation was and will be the last to have the freedom to roam, an almost 20th Century Huck Finn existance.

Summer was fun. I can remember jumping on a Rose City Transit bus–the red buses–going downtown (alone at say age 10), wandering throughout downtown or transferring to another red bus and playing in Washington Park. Or buying a ticket on the Tualatin Bus lines–the blue buses–and going to see a friend who had moved to Lake Oswego.

Of course, during the day, we had lots of fun. There were enough kids in the neighborhood that we could field baseball teams, using the corners of an intersection as the bases. I still remember how good it felt when a fast pitch came toward me at the plate and I swung. The solid feel of the bat hitting the ball, the hit streaking outward was thrilling. UNTIL it went through the picture window in what would have been left center field. True, my hit cleared the bases as well as the field. Everyone took off running leaving me to answer for my crime.

But I mostly remember the fun of warm summer nights. Some fun was innocent. We might spend the night with my telescope, viewing the planets or watching the August meteor shower. It was great fun to stay up all night.

Or perhaps earlier we would play hidie-go-seekie (Hide and Seek), or my favorite, Kick the Can. In my memory I still feel the excitement of making a dash evading the tag and kicking the can.

Still, there was mischief to be had. Throwing eggs had the limitation of quickly running out of eggs. Instead, we would have three or fellow kids on each side of the street and as a car approached, we would pull an imaginary line up as if to have it cross the road. The car, not seeing a rope but us “pulling” on a rope would slam on the brakes. That was our starting gun to break and run for cover. Oh, what fun.

Summer nights in my youth made being alive so much fun.

Reminiscing

With politics and international affairs a constant intrusion, or perhaps I am just getting old, I have thought of the past. I look to history to help me understand today and to ponder the possibilities of tomorrow. But I also think of my own history, of my past.

In my youth I was a paperboy. It used to be that cities were judge by the sports team, the population, and the number of newspapers it had. Portland had two: The Oregonian (the morning Republican paper and The Journal, afternoons and Democrat declared paper). I had paper routes for both (even had both for a short time).

I have many memories regarding both the papers themselves and my delivering them. I had to collect the money from the clients for the daily delivery. Looking back, I am amazed at how many people were willing to stiff a young boy for the cost of the paper. And of course there were perverts. I can remember one client (on 15th near Siskiyou) who always took his time answering the door. The reason for delay became apparent quickly after the first time: He needed time to take his pants off. He always came to the door nude from the waist down. I got my money, but I guess he thought seeing him was my “tip” as he just paid the exact amount.

One route extended from Union Avenue to the east (I cannot remember the exact boundary). As I was collecting my delivery fees, I walked through Irving Park (7th and Fremont). And it was there I had my first experience in being a crime victim. Two or three teenagers walked up and punched me in the mouth (well, only one punched me) and took my pouch with my money. I think that route was the Oregonian route which I gave up for the Journal which was much further to the east.

And it was the Journal that fills the rest of this blog. I grew to love the paper. It had the Oregon Territory’s motto on its masthead (“She flies with her own wings.” Much better that the State’s (then) official motto: “The Union.”). Far more poetic, if not exactly as historic. The writing I thought was better (more below on that), the comics were better, and it was in the afternoon.

It was during Rose Festival that I recall one incident with The Journal. I was playing third base in a Little League game. The batter hit a hard grounder right toward me. As I bent over with my glove on the ground, the ball hit something in the ground and popped up. Instead of catching it in my glove, I caught it in my face. My upper lip split open, and I gushed blood (I believe the batter got a called double out of it as I did get the ball, but time-out was called because I was bleeding). I was taken out of the game and had an ice pack on my lips for a while. Then told to call it a day and go home. Alas, I still had to deliver my papers.

When I was done throwing papers onto houses’ porches, I always enjoyed being able to open a fresh newspaper and read. It was a small fringe benefit for delivering the paper. And on that day, with a swollen lip still tender I finished my route and once home, opened MY paper and started to read. My sister Marilyn came into the living room and demanded the paper. She wanted to see who the Rose Festival queen was. I said she could have MY paper after I was finished. Demand followed my “no” which was then followed with a right fist into my one lip that was not injured. Both lips were now bleeding (over and onto MY paper, soon to be in my sister’s hands) and with my crying. I can recall my mother coming into the room and demanding to know what I had done to provoke my sister’s anger. I was left to my own devices to get the ice from the freezer to stop the bleeding.

As I noted earlier, the writing seemed better, crisper in the Journal. I always looked forward to one columnist’s writings. Doug Baker would write about local politics, about local interesting people (I will brag and say my name made his column TWICE!), and interesting places and events in The City of Roses. One of his favorites was his musings regarding Mills End Park, the world’s smallest park. It was in a traffic island on Front Avenue across from the old Journal Building. It had been where a pole once was, and weeds had grown when the pole had been removed (it has since been made an official City of Portland park–sign and all). Baker would write of it, imagining little people in it and all sort of things happening there, often using it allegorically to address issues in the city.

Within his column, “Bakers Dozen,” he would sometimes write of his wife. I do not believe he ever said her name, but if he did, I do not recall it. Instead, he would refer to her as “A Certain Person,” or more commonly, “ACP.” “ACP corrected my column yesterday….” or “ACP agreed when I wrote….” Do not be surprised if I start to use ACP in my writings….I really liked Bakers Dozen.

This is getting way too long and now I have to go back and proof this (and as my regular readers know far too well, I do not proof very well). And with that, I will end my thinking of my past for now.

Rogue River

I have been visiting every boat ramp in Josephine County. I was finishing the Rogue River ramps today and to do so meant heading west through the Hellgate Canyon area. The river is ripping right now with the spring run-off. It is such a lovely river.

This portion is a National Wild and Scenic River.

Portions of the river are wide and then as the canyon walls close in, the river really picks up speed.

I love to go out and drive, exploring the region.