My first memory

My first memory is of my father beating me in a baby crib. I was in a house with Victorian doors that came out of the wall and closed in the center. Laughter came from the other room. I was alone and crying. I don’t remember why. The reason doesn’t matter anyway. All babies cry. Suddenly the doors flew open. My father stood over me, shouting at me to shut up. Somehow in my hysteria, I observed my surroundings. My mother and another couple were in the front room. My father’s hand came down on me hard. I cried louder. My mother fought with him and tried to grab me, but he kept spanking me, telling me to shut up.

The doors closed and I was alone again. The wallpaper was brown with a paisley pattern. Odd as it sounds, it comforted me to stare at it. I followed the patterns up the wall.

When I was six or seven, I shared this memory with my mother while riding in the backseat of her station wagon. She circled the town square in Bowing Green, Ky., and drove down Main Street. She talked incessantly whenever she had an audience. That day she bragged on her memory and said she never forgot anything. As all boys, I wanted to impress my mother, so I shared my earliest memory with her. She turned her head around and stared at me in disbelief, then suddenly veered into a parking space in front of the Spot Cash store, where she bought my Levis jeans.

“But you were just a baby,” she said. “You weren’t but a few months old. I can’t believe you remember that.” 

She said my father only beat me that one time, and that he felt sorry for it the next day when he sobered up. The two of them divorced soon afterwards, but she still loved him. You could hear it in her voice. She even said so. “There was a time when I’d have gone to the moon and back for your daddy,” she’d say. “I still love him, but I wouldn’t have him back for love nor money.”

I never really believed her. I think if he had only halfway tried, she would’ve jumped into his arms and never looked down. 

My dad loved his whiskey. I got to know him when I was in my twenties; some of my fondest memories are those of him sharing a drink with me. He was a good-hearted drinker and a happy-go-lucky sort of guy most of his life. I never mentioned my first memory to him. We all make mistakes. 

Be Happy

Today is the first day I've felt happy in several years. I suppose that statement begs the question, "why?" The answer is easy. I finally decided to live my life for myself, and not for others. I was able to sit down and write on this blog today without the guilt of not doing something for someone else. It felt good to not have the cloud of servitude hanging over my head.

No news is good news

I took a personality test on facebook yesterday and the result was that I am a realist. I consider most such tests foolish, but I perceive this one to be very credible, no doubt because I agree with its results. I have always considered myself to be a realist. I look at the world the way it is. My outlook on life is probably one of the main reasons I was a good reporter. I taught myself to ask questions, to view any given scenario from every different angle I could imagine and then to make a logical conclusion.

Being a realist isn't always a good thing. People often think I'm judgmental or cold hearted. I think most people are generally an optimist or a pessimist; although I have no scientific proof to back up my theory. For instance, three weeks ago my wife's ex-husband, whom she had not seen for 18 years,  paid her an unexpected visit. He walked into her office unannounced, sat down and stuck up a conversation. She said he talked as if he wanted to renew their friendship and even invited the both of us to pay him and his new wife a visit if we were ever in their neck of the woods. Almost everyone we have spoken to about this event has said his behavior was BIZARRE. And they have all said his actions were inappropriate. But I think, or I'm assuming, most people generally believed that the matter should be dropped unless he visits her again. But I strongly disagree. The reason being is that I look at the situation logically. I cannot help but do so; after all, I'm a realist. Remember? And as said, being a realist isn't always a good thing; people often draw inaccurate conclusions about realists: because I was upset about his inappropriate visit, some people assumed I was jealous. But I would say I was much more selfish than jealous: I like my life the way it is! I'm very reclusive and I'm very happy being that way. My wife is very reclusive, also, and she often says how much she likes our seclusion. We don't have a lot of company; we don't go out with people often. Neither of us have any desire to attend high school reunions, so why would either of us want to have "reunions" with a former spouse? I know I'm speaking for her, and I probably shouldn't, but we have discussed these things countless times. We both run interference for each other and make excuses so we don't have to visit anyone no more than it is absolutely necessary. We are very reclusive. We try not to talk about it because we don't want people to think we're snobs, but we enjoy each other's company. So, when I consider this intrusion into our lives by her ex-husband, I cannot envision any outcome that would not result in conflict of one form or another.

Let's assume that I had walked into my wife's office the day he was there. I frequent my wife's office occasionally and am friends with several people at the university where she works. So, it is very conceivable that I could have walked into her office that day. As a matter of fact, had I not been lollygagging around, I would have. My brother was in town for a visit and we had already planned on meeting my wife for lunch. Following this train of thought, it is only logical to ask myself what my reaction would have been had I walked in while her ex-husband was there. I think it would have not been that different from most husbands in that scenario. I doubt very seriously that I would've been overjoyed and turned cartwheels. I don't think I would've given him a big hug and and handshake. I would have probably said hello and then asked, "what are you doing here?" Then I, more than likely, would've asked again with much greater inflection,

"What the Fuck are you doing here?"

Obviously, the scene could have played out in several different ways, but any way you look at it, the outcome would not have been good. Even if none of us had lost our tempers, it would have still been stiff, rigid and extremely uncomfortable. As mentioned, I cannot envision any outcome that would be wholesome.

And since I desire a peaceful and secluded life, and because I'm a realist, I tend to disagree with the opinion that we should just all sit back and wait to see if he visits my wife again. Because, after all, the next time might just be the time I unexpectedly walk in to her office while he's there.

So my wife sent him a note telling him she was glad they had a chance to catch up, but added that things have been fine and dandy without any communication between them for the last 18 years and that she saw no reason to communicate any further. I included a note telling him that he had no sense of proper protocol and informed him that had I walked in on his little office visit, that I would have not been cordial.

I suppose some would see my behavior as rude. Many would think that we should just sang Kumbaya, be the best of friends, hold hands and go skipping off into the sunset. But I, however, am a realist; I know that would never work. Hells-Bells, I never even knew the guy. I met him twice. So viewing the situation realistically, I do hope he adheres to my wife's letter. The holidays are coming up, and I want nothing more than to celebrate good tidings of great joy. And in this case, no news is good news.