Father's Day 2018 and a Bonus Trump Rant

What do two men who are not fathers do on Father's Day?  We visit the Laurel Flea Market.

One of our annual summer traditions living here in southern Delaware is to visit the Laurel Flea Market. This is where we get a taste of the real Sussex County, Delaware. 

Delaware has three distinct demographic groups. There are folks like me and Bill, transplants from another state who moved to Delaware because of the low taxes and milder climate. Most of us live near on or near the Route One (Coastal Highway) corridor which includes Rehoboth Beach, Lewes, Milton, Dewey and Bethany Beach. We are a diverse group of folks. Many of us are old folk, retirees. Also there are many gays and lesbians, looking to live in a more tolerant climate. 

The population of inland Sussex County Delaware are more of the many generation Delawareans. Often called rednecks, sometimes with justification. 

The third demographic group are the Hispanics, many from Mexico and also many from Central America. This group are the people who do the work many of the longtime Sussex County residents don't want to do like mowing lawns, laying mulch, landscaping, and working in the chicken processing plants.  Many of them would rather go on disability and look for their next meth hook-up. They're the people who attend the "Make American Great Again" Trump rallies, ratifying racism and hatred in our country by our ten-cent Mussolini wanna be dictator president. You the know the one, who took over 2,500 children from their parents who were seeking legal asylum in our country and dispersed them throughout our country, without any plan to reunite them with their parents. Yes, this president who has made me ashamed for the first time in my life to be an American. This president who lies every day, spreads hatred and divisiveness among us and our closest allies and can't get his nose far enough up the asses of Putin and the world's worst tyrant dictators like Kim Jun Un, Rodrigo Duterte, and Recep Erdogan. This man who is the most reviled person on the planet now except for his ignorant racist supporters who would literally still support him (as Trump bragged) "If I shot someone on Fifth Avenue".  Yes, THOSE people.  Those people who never got over that a black family occupied the White House for eight years. But I digress. Back to our wonderful Father's Day visit to the Laurel Flea Market. I felt I had to do this rant after "Mellissa" (a commenter) accused me of being a racist.  Apparently she failed to note my tongue in cheek reference to "right, white guys" (we're white but anything but rich, believe me) or she disapproves of my term "redneck" when referring to native Sussex Countians. That's a term I learn when I used to visit my friend Bob McCamley in the 70's and we had to keep very low key, lest one of the "natives" burned down his single wide as they did other gay men and two gay bars (The Renegade and The Boathouse).  I know these folks, they're dangerous just as the Trump supporters and enablers are dangerous. Sure, there are some well meaning people who voted for Trump, hoping to either shake things up or they just couldn't bear to vote for Hillary (I never got the "Hate Hillary" thing but be that as it may). But how anyone could still support Trump these days after witnessing how ignorant, incompetent, hateful, and destructive he is, truly baffles me. I heard last night that Sarah Huckabee, the "Good Christian" who lies every day at the press briefing was asked to leave a Virginia restaurant last night, I thought "Good, here's a taste of your own medicine. You think it's alright for a baker to exercise their "religious freedom" and deny service of making a wedding cake for a gay couple, goes both ways Sarah. Maybe that restaurant owner doesn't like the damage you're doing to our country every day by lying for Trump, justifying his destructive and divisive policies. Maybe that restaurant owner's "religion" not to despoil her restaurant with a known liar and enabler of a wanna be despot. 

While at the Laurel Flea Market, with the exception of me and Bill, I only saw the two demographic groups of rednecks and Hispanics. I didn't see any fellow rich, white, retired transplants like me and Bill ("rich, white" being a tongue-in-cheek reference sometimes lost in translation to the written word). Did we feel like a fish out of water?  Oh yes!  But still, we do enjoy our occasional foray deep in the Sussex County culture. 

When we returned home we met our neighbor's new pooch, "Roxie Mae". We have the best neighbors!

And this is these two old gay guys spent their father's day.

Note: this blog was rewritten with the "Trump Rant" after one of my commenters called me a racist. I've been called a lot of things in my life (some earned, some not) but this is a first. Oh well.

Pop

"Ike" Tipton, 1940

"Pop".  That's what we called him, "Pop."  My two younger brothers and even my mom called him "Pop."  We never called him Father, dad and, God forbid "Daddy."  No, he was always "Pop." A force larger than life....to us.

My father was born near Pigeon Roost, North Carolina in April of 1920.  Pigeon Roost is a "holler" up in those mountains of western North Carolina that border the Tennessee border.  Yes, it was and is hillbilly county.  

Pigeon Roost Road, Green Mountain, North Carolina - 2012

My father was the fifth son of nine sons born to Fieldon and Hester Lewis Tipton.  When he was nine or ten years old (don't know the exact date) his family moved from their cabin in the mountains to southeastern Pennsylvania to a tenant house on his uncle Don Byrd's farm.  My grandfather had nine boys thus cheap labor.  This was during the Depression and times were hard for the sawmill business in the mountains, which was my grandfather's occupation.  Two more sons were born in Pennsylvania.  My father had no sisters.  

My father tall in the back on the left with the hat) with nine of his brothers (one was taking the picture) and his Mother after the funeral of his father - 1939

My father met my Mother when he was driving his friend Charlie Hancks to a date Charlie had with my Mother.  My Mother's girlfriend Edie Lemon had a date with my father. However, when my father drove up in his rumble seat car and my Mother took one look at this tall, lanky, charming hillbilly, she told her girlfriend "You sit in the back, I'm sitting up front with him!" She was 15 years old and he was 18 years old.

Mom with the car (with a rumble seat) that she met my father - 1940 - my father carried this picture in his wallet until the day he died August 2000

Love at first sight?  Absolutely.  Shortly before she died my Mother told me "Your father was the only man I was ever with.  He was the only man I wanted to be with."

My father, Isaac "Ike" Tipton at his charming best - the man my Mother fell for - 1940

They began dating.  My Mother had a difficult home life.  Her mother had died before she was two years old and my Mother grew up with a succession of step-mothers.  Her father often beat her for silly things like not coming home from the store on time when it was raining.  Or for not peeling the potatoes right.  My father told her "I'm going to get you out of this mess" and he did.  They eloped and got married in November of 1940.  My Mother was still going to high school.  She returned to her classes that Monday.  However, her father soon found out that she got married and she left home with my father.

My grandfather, George Lincoln Hadfield, Sr. at the family home in Downingtown, PA -1940

They had nothing.  My father was a truck driver.  He rented a house in the country that didn't have running water or an inside bathroom. Soon my Mother was pregnant with her first child....me.  

Mom and Pop's first home - that's my Mom pregnant with me - 1941

Mom and Pop and.....ne - 1941

Life was not easy but my Mother said she was happy.  She was out of "that mess" and with the man she loved.  

She became pregnant with two more children, both boys born in 1943 and 1944.  This was during the war years.  My father was exempt from serving in the armed forces because of a head injury. Instead he was part of the war effort in cross country truck driving.  He was gone for long periods of time which my Mother was left to fend for herself to feed three young boys who always seemed hungry.  

"Pop" and his three sons - 1947 - that's me to the right with my hand on his back

My father wasn't an easy man with his sons.  I sometimes think he didn't want us but I won't go into those reasons now.  My brothers and I joke about it now but one incident illustrates his attitude towards us most of the time.  We were all sitting around the dinner table eating corn on the cob (that he grew in his own garden, he loved to garden).  He put his ear of corn down and looked around the table at his sons and with a look of disgust said "I must have the dumbest bunch of kids in the world." I don't remember what prompted that remark but it doesn't matter because it seemed nothing we did could ever please him.  However, he did love my Mother and never once did I ever hear him raise his voice to her.  Never.  

Pop with his three sons - 1980 - that's me to the right dominating the conversation (of course) 

However, he did raise his voice to his sons, often.  We learned to stay out of his way.  He never abused us.  Oh, there were the occasional "whippings" with his belt but they were mostly harmless, more noise than anything else.  

Tipton Family Christmas photo 1971 - this was after I came out to everyone.  I think Pop still didn't know quite what to make of his oldest son

We were lucky, my father wasn't an alcoholic.  He was just hard to please.  However, he did treat his youngest son as his "pet." And of course my brother John is the most well adjusted of all of this three sons.  Isaac, Jr. (the middle son) and me are continuing to adjust to our "I got the dumbest kids on earth" upbringing to this day.  I don't think I'll ever completely rid myself of my inferiority complex nor will my brother Isaac.  That, unfortunately was one of my father's legacy to us.

My parent's 50th wedding anniversary photo - we took them to dinner at the Black Angus in Eagle, PA - My Mother thought it was too expensive and never stopped talking about "All that money wasted."  That was Mom. - 1980 (this picture was taken before the dinner - that's why she's still smiling)

My father smoked his whole life.  He was told to stop smoking many times.  Being the bullhead he was he ignored the doctor's advice.  On my birthday November 9th, 1979 he had quadruple heart bypass surgery.  

Pop with Mom after his heart bypass surgery 1979

After his surgery he was never right.  He complained about the pain in his chest.  He would get so tired and out of breath that he had to stop halfway up to his garden (which he loved) to get his breath.  Six months later we found out that source of his pain was inoperable lung cancer.

Pop in his garden - his favorite place on this earth

My father died August 22, 2000 from lung cancer. He suffered a lot during the last two weeks before he died.  He had to have oxygen fed to him.  He also was on morphine to help control the pain.  

The Saturday night before he died I visited him in at Brandywine Hospital in Coatesville, PA.  A lot of people had visited him but that night we were alone.  I just sat with him while he struggled to breath.  He opened his eyes and looked at me.  We never did say much to each other but I think he understood why I was there.  He was my father.  He is who I am.  Many people say I resemble him not only in physical appearance but in mannerisms.  I've seen myself on video and I have to agree, much to my chagrin.  

My Father motioned to me to help him get out of his bed.  He said "Help me."  He wanted to take a pee and didn't want to go in the bedpan.  Yep, we're alike.  I wouldn't go in a bed pan either.  

Me with Pop a few days before he died - 1980

I helped him up out of his bed.  He put his bare feet on the cold hospital floor and leaned on his bed while I braced the bed so it wouldn't roll in its wheels.  He reached for the portable urinal and turned his back to me and peed in the urinal.  

He put the urinal back and looked to me to help him back in bed.  As I was helping him back in his hospital bed I said to his ear (he head was turned away from me) "I love you Pop." He paused for about two seconds, like he was thinking of something to say....but he didn't say anything.  I finished helping him back in his bed.  I think he understood.  He did understand.  His first born just buried our life long acrimony by telling him that he loved him.  

I sat with him for another half hour until he feel asleep. Then I left him in that hospital on that dark, hot, humid, August Saturday night.  That was the last time I saw him alive.

The following Monday, as I was opening the door to the bank office where I worked in Downingtown, I heard the phone ringing.  I knew why it was ringing.  I just knew.  I unlocked the door and rushed to the phone.  My sister-in-law Barbara (John's wife) was on the other end of the line.  She said "Ronnie, Pop died last night."  Even though I knew why she was calling, I felt like I just took a tremendous punch in the stomach.  I couldn't breath.  This man, this force in my life was.....gone.  

Barbara then told me "Ronnie, no one told Mom.  Could you tell her?" Thus, I as the eldest son, had the responsibility of telling my Mother that the man she had been married to for sixty years was gone.  

I left the bank and somehow drove home.  I felt like I was out of body.  I still had trouble breathing.  When I got to my parent's home my other brother Isaac, Jr. was there with our Mom.  They knew why I was there.  They knew.  

Pop at his home with his dog Pepper, June 28, 1976

Thirteen years later as I type this scene, I still get choked up.  I've played this scene so many times in my life since my father died thirteen years ago.  

As I've said before, I was never close to my father.  Neither were my brothers, although John may have been a little closer to him that Isaac and me.  But the one thing we always knew, he loved our Mother.  Theirs was a love story that ended that day in August. One of my father's favorite songs was by George Jones.  It was called "He Stopped Loving Her Today."  I made sure that song was played at his funeral.  

Pop, July 1967 showing off his crop of tomatoes

Father's Day 2012

Young Ike Tipton (not a mug shot but an employee ID for Lukenweld Steel)

My father would have been 92 years old this year.  He died August 22, 2000.  He was 80 years old when he died.  He died of lung cancer.  He smoked all his life.  He was told to stop smoking but he never did.  Stubborn to the end, that was my father.

I normally don't post anything on Father's Day just as I never did much to celebrate Father's Day when my father was alive.  We weren't that close.  I was the oldest of this three sons.  I fit the gay stereotype in that I had a distant relationship with my father and a close relationship with my mother.

Since I was 22 years old I have been in a 48 year relationship with an older man (13 years my senior) who in many ways was like my father.  In fact, when my father was alive my partner/spouse/whatever and he were very close.  They were buddies, on the same wave length.  Ironic, no?

I decided today to post a photo montage as a tribute to the man who brought me into this world (as he often reminded me which he finished with "and I can take you out."  Oh yes, he did say that on more than one occasion when we had a disagreement).

Before you view the photos here is a little of his background.  He was born near Pigeon Roost, North Carolina.  He was the fifth son of a total of 12 sons (no daughters) of my paternal grandparents Fieldon Jacob Tipton and Hester Lewis.  My grandparents and father (and uncles) were Appalachian Folk or what is more commonly known as "hillbillies."  My grandfather Fieldon moved his family from the mountains of western North Carolina in 1930 to southeastern Pennsylvania to work as field workers at his brother-in-law Don Byrd's farm in New Garden, Pennsylvania.  Many of the mountain families moved to southeastern Pennsylvania during the Depression to find a better life for their families.  My father met my Mother when he was 19 years old on a double date (he was the other date).  About a year later they eloped to Elkton Maryland (my Mother was still in school and only 16 years old) and got married November 2, 1940. I was born almost one year later on November 9, 1941.

The following is a photo history of my father, Isaac "Ike" Tipton:

My dad liked to play guitar and sing hillbilly music - another Hank Williams - 1938

Ike Tipton still strumming away on his guitar at his first home after he married my Mother

Isaac Walter Tipton, Sr. - tall, blonde, handsome, charming - Ladykiller

Mom, Pop and me (a few months before I was born) - 1941

Pop, Me (the chubby baby) and Mom in Mineral Springs, PA - 1942 - I have arrived

Me with Pop (far right with my hand on his shoulder) and my two brothers John and Isaac, Jr.

Pop (tall man on right in back) with 9 of his 10 brothers) - 1961

Pop with the love of his life - my Mom - 1960

Pop with my two brothers John and Isaac - 1960

Pop and Mom - with his ever present cigarette 

John, me and Pop - 1962

Pop with his dog Pepper, Mom and me  - 1972

Pop making his famous vegetable soup recipe with veggies from his own garden - 1978

The last time I saw Pop  a few weeks before he died August 2000 

Father's Day 2009

April 18, 1920 my Father was born in the hills of western North Carolina. His name was Isaac Walter Tipton. He was named after his maternal grandfather, Isaac Ledford Lewis. His middle name of "Walter" was taken from the doctor who delivered him. My grandmother named the middle name of most of her sons after the doctor who delivered them. My Father was born and brought up in an Appalachian community, or as it is more commonly known, "hillbilly country."

He and his parents and eight of his brothers moved to southeastern Pennsylvania in the late 1920's to seek a better way of life. The family was hired as migrant farm labor on my grandfather's brother-in-law fruit and vegetable farm near Unionville, Pennsylvania. Two more of his brothers were born in Pennsylvania, for a total of eleven Tipton boys to pick the fruits and vegetables on their Uncle Don Byrd's farm.

My father met my Mother when he was 19 years old (she was 16 years old.) It was love at first sight. They eloped and got married a few months after they first set eyes on one another. The year my Mother was to graduate from school, 1941, she instead delivered a fine and healthy baby boy. That fine and healthy baby boy is the writer of this blog. In subsequent years my parents produced two more children, my brothers Isaac, Jr. and John.

In August of 2000 my Father died from complications of lung cancer. He was a lifelong smoker and it finally caught up with him despite the many warnings from his doctor.

When I got the news of my Father's death I was shocked. He was a major force in my life and now he was gone. Hearing my sister-in-law tell me over the phone "Ronnie, Pop died last night", I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. All the air went out of me. I didn't immediately feel sadness, only a sense that my life would be forever different now that this towering and intimidating presence was gone forever from my life.

My Father and I were never close. I'm not ashamed to admit that nor am I proud to make that statement. It is just a fact. While I envied some of my classmates and friends who had close relationships with their fathers, I knew it was never to be with me. Sure, I would have liked to went to a ball game with my Father. He was a big Phillies fan. It never happened. I can still remember the pain of participating in high school activities like band, chorus or high school plays and being one of the few students who did not have a parent attend the event. My father didn't even attend my high school graduation despite the fact I was the first person in our family to graduate from high school. I could cite many more instances of his neglect and indifference to me but it would only be redundant. I felt that my Father wasn't interested in me.

I think the greatest hurt I ever felt was sometime after I had left the service (U.S. Army, 1960-1963.) My Mother casually mentioned to me one day "Pop was surprised that you made it though." I said "What? Made it through what?" She said "The Army." I felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart. While I did have some initial problems in basic training (mainly due to a malfunction rifle which caused me not to qualify on the rifle range), it never once entered my mind that I wouldn't "make it" through the Army. I never debated it because the question never came up in my mind. As a matter of fact, once I got over my initial problems in basic training, I did quite well. I left my three year tour of duty with the U. S. Army with the rank of E-5 and had served 2 1/2 years in the Army Security Agency at the National Security Agency in Ft. Meade, Maryland. One month I was even selected soldier of the month. And my father didn't think I would "make it." I was very disappointed when I learned of his lack of confidence in me. I didn't know it went that deep.

Sometimes I'm surprised I have done as well as I have in life. I certainly didn't get any encouragement from my Father. In fact, he often told me that I was stupid and had a big nose. The one thing that was consistent on my report cards in grade school has "Lacks confidence." Gee, I wonder where that came from? It wasn't until I got away from home that I realized that I wasn't stupid and had some worth. I even found out that my nose wasn't all that big and some people even considered me attractive (remember, this was when I was young, not the old geezer I have become approaching my 70th year.) As the years rolled by I gradually gained more self confidence and lost my sometimes crippling shyness.

The purpose of this Father's Day blog posting is not to complain about my Father but to tell the reader what my dad was like. In many ways he was a good Father. By the way, we (my brothers and I) never called him "Dad." We called him "Pop." I don't know where that came from but that's what we all called him, including my Mother. My Father raised me and my brothers in poor but comfortable circumstances. We had a good childhood. No one was abused. Oh sure, we got the occasional whipping as did most kids who misbehaved themselves did back in the 40's and 50's before political correctness forbade parents using corporal punishment to discipline their children. My Father only punched me once and that was when I was 17 years old and wanted to borrow his car for my Senior Prom. He said "No" and I gave him some lip back. I got it right across the head with a closed fist for that remark. I remember I was cleaning the bathtub and almost fell in the empty tub when he whacked me. I decided then and there I would leave home as soon as possible and never be under his control again.

Over the years since I left home there were some tense times (like the time I came out about being gay), and other less dramatic events. I never argued with him again. If we had a difference I would walk away. I found out many years later, after his death, that he was quite proud of me and what I had done with my life. My Mother told me this. I asked her why didn't he ever tell me. She said "Pop couldn't say those things." Of course he never said he loved me either. Nor did I tell him I loved him until the last time I saw him alive, the Saturday night before he died.

My father was alone in his hospital room, hooked up to an IV and oxygen breathing apparatus to his nose. I was visiting him. I don't know what we were talking about but I do remember it was awkward as it always was all during my life whenever I talked to my Father. After awhile he had to get up to go to the bathroom (his pride wouldn't permit him to use the bedpan.) I turned away. After his finished (a Number One by the way), he sat on the edge of his bed looking out of the hospital window at the lights in the parking lot on this Saturday night. I remembered all the many previous Saturday nights when I lived in Center City Philadelphia, and seeing those Saturday night lights indicated that it was my time to go out clubbing at the gay bars. This was a different Saturday night. I was with my Pop near the end of his life. I knew it and I think he knew it. He was exhausted. I came up behind him as he sat on the edge of his bed and lightly kissed him on the back of his head and said "I love you Pop." He said nothing but he didn't push me away either. I think in his own way he wanted to tell me he loved me but was unable to do so. I understood.

I gathered my things up and left him alone in his hospital room still sitting on the edge of his bed. That following Monday morning as I unlocked the office door to the bank where I worked in Downingtown, and rushed in to answer the phone which was urgently ringing. I knew it was bad news. I picked up the phone and heard my sister-in-law say "Ronnie, Pop died last night. Could you come home and tell Mom?" I caught my breath and then said "Thanks Barbara. I'll be right home."

I called my boss and told him that my Father had died and I had to leave immediately. I arrived home and there in the kitchen she and my Father shared for over sixty years was my Mother, my two brothers and my sister-in-law. I broke the news to Mom. She nodded her head as if to say "It is finally over." She had been through a lot the past eight months with his health problems. She was near a nervous breakdown herself. His death was a relief in a way and yet she knew her life would never be the same again.

Every year at Father's Day I remember "Pop." I used to make him his favorite cake for his birthday. It was German Chocolate Cake. I haven't made it since. Whenever I see a jelly doughnut I think of him. Raspberry filled jelly doughnuts were his favorite. I used to bring him left over ones from the Hampton Inn where I worked. That was one of the few times I would get a smile from him. I treasured those moments.

I have to honestly say I miss my Father. There are times when I would like to talk to him. His interest in gardening was as great as mine. While he didn't have much of a formal education he was a very intelligent man. While he could be very selfish and mean spirited at times, other times he was very generous and funny. If you caught him in the right mood, your day was made.

Now that I am older and losing whatever boyish looks I use to have, more and more people are telling me "You look just like Ike." They tell me that not only do I physically look like my Father but that I have many of his same mannerisms like the way I leave my mouth open or grind my teeth. Even the way I walk. So there you go, the final irony. I'm turning into my Father. He would like that.