Resentment

Me, the way I saw myself after my father was done with me

When I first began blogging in 2005 my posts were very negative.  Basically, I complained just about
everything. I called my blog "Loose Cannon" after a name that was given to me when I worked at Fidelity Bank in Philadelphia on a research project.  I was referred as a "loose cannon" because I tended to tell the truth and ignore the niceties.  It didn't take me too long to find out that I didn't have too many friends with this attitude at work.  When I wrote my blog of complaints the only responses I got were from people who were even darker than I was.  Thus, I decided to write an upbeat, positive blog.  For the most part I have been successful but sometimes I do find it very difficult to hold back.  Today I will try to explain the constant, underlying bitterness I continue to have in my personality.  A bitterness that I have been somewhat successful in suppressing most of my life.  But sometimes this bitterness bubbles to the surface.  Today is one of those days.

An angry, bitter old man - something I hope I don't turn into

I grew up in the Fifties in the small town of 5,000 people located 37 miles west of Philadelphia, PA.  It was my fortune (or misfortune, it all depends on your outlook) to be born gay.  Yes, I was "born gay."  At no point did I select a life of discrimination, rejection, mockery, and discounting.  I've never regretted being born gay.  Too me it has always seemed perfectly natural for me to be gay.  The only thing I thought was wrong was the way some people looked at or treated gay people. The problem always seemed to be their problem, not mine.

Downingtown, PA located in the Brandywine Creek valley in Chester County. PA

I was also born very poor.  Our family was one step above abject poverty.  We weren't even "lower middle class."  Some would call us poor white trash but I'm too polite to say that.  Of course I realize that many families in the Fifties were poor like our family.  I don't remember our poorness being a big problem at that time but I was aware that our family didn't have what some of my schoolmates' families had.  I do remember not having enough to eat but we weren't starving either.

Me, my brothers and some neighborhood kids on the stoop at 120 Washington Avenue, Downingtown, PA - our "front yard"

I never received an allowance like many of my schoolmates.  If I wanted money I had to work.  I did not resent working, it was just a fact if life.  My earliest job was running errands to the local grocery store for my relatives who lived in the same apartment building on Washington Avenue that we lived in.  Occasionally I ran errands for the neighbors too.  If I wanted money, I earned it.  Nothing was given.

In third grade I got a job as a paper boy. I delivered the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin as well as some local papers.  I delivered the papers every day after work and on Sunday morning.  I loved that job.  I was my own businessman.  I had my bike (a Flyer), my newspaper back which I would fill with 60 or so copies of the Bulletin (and about 12 copies of the local paper) and I would be off after school to deliver papers to my customers.  Early on I discovered customer service.  I put all the newspapers I delivered in between the storm door and main door of my customers or under their mat.  I never bundled up the paper and threw it from my bicycle.  No one told me to do this, I just thought it was the right thing to do.  I immediately received positive feedback from most of my customers.  They appreciated the fact that they didn't have to look for their newspapers on a wet lawn or under a bush, or even worse, out in the road.  Several of my customers showed their appreciation by giving me generous tips when I made my weekly stop for collection at their front door (my first direct customer contact.)

I delivered papers until I was in ninth grade, at which time I figured I was too old to be riding a bike (a silting thought now that I look back upon it.)  For several years when I was a paperboy, I also had other jobs.  I cleaned offices (at .55 cents an hour) and I had a weekend job at the local farmers' market in a butcher shop (at $12 a night.)  In between I cut grass for several customers.  In other words, I always worked.  Any money I had I earned.  Nothing was given to me.

Billy, PeeWee, Me, Chubby and my brother Isaac at 120 Washington Avenue summertime 1953

When I entered 9th grade it was time to choose our high school course to prepare us for our lifetime career.  Most of my friends were taking the college preparatory course which was the academic course.  I wanted to take the academic course too but I was told by my Mother that she and my father would not be paying for my college.  She suggested that I take typing and learn skills that would get me a job right out of high school.  Of course I was very disappointed because I would not be spending my formative high school years with my friends but I accepted this fact just the way I accepted the fact that I would always have got work for my money.  There was no question of me trying to get a scholarship because although my grades were good (mostly B's and a few A's and a scattering of C's), I didn't possess enough self-confidence at that time to embark on that journey.

Me with the Vances - I'm about to go off on my summer "vacation" at the Vance farm 1954

I was envious of my friends whose parents took it for granted that, of course, they would send them to college.  These are the same parents who regularly took their children on vacations.  They provided their children with allowances and opened doors for them.  Now of course I realize that many of my contemporaries were in the same situation as I was and more than a few had it worse.  But I am writing from my own experience and how my resentment over some things that parents take for granted has come to build over the years and has never left me.

As I said earlier, I have been mostly successful in suppressing my resentment of Those That Have but sometimes it comes bubbling to the surface.

Thank goodness I never had the Helicopter Parents.  I was on my own.  I had a father who was disengaged and not really interested in what his three sons did.  In fact my most remembered quote from him is "I have the there dumbest kids ever!" and the sweeping look of total disgust that would accompany that statement.  Usually that statement was punctuated by a box on the ears which we learned not to duck.  My brothers laugh about it now but when you're brought up like that, you tend to believe what your father tells you.  I know I did.  I thought I was a dumb, big nosed, stupid, sissy for most of my childhood and teenage years.  My father's favorite nickname for me was "Beak" (as in a big nosed bird.)  It wasn't until I graduated from high school and joined the Army (after having almost lost my life to a staph infection from an operation that I had to have before I could join the Army) that I realized that I wasn't the stupidest, ugliest, and clumsiest kid in Downingtown.  In fact, I wasn't all that bad looking (at the right angle)  and even half way smart some of the time.  However, that lingering sense of lack of self-worth has and always will be in my personality.  And added to that was the extra burden of being a homosexual, which at that time was against the law.  There was always that cloud hanging over my head of being exposed as one of those dirty perverts who was the lowest form of animal life.

Me with Sam (our dog) and my brother Isaac at the Old Swimming Hole 1953

I will write more on this subject in future blog postings but I felt the need to get some of this information out there now.  What brought it up is the usual two things.  The lament of some parents in this tough economic time that they "HAVE to send their kids to college", with the suggestion that the government somehow should help them "send their kids to college."  Hey, my parents didn't send me to college.  I went to college only after donating three years of my time in the Army and the going to night school three night a week for four years.  I worked at the bank in center city Philadelphia during the day (at Broad and Chestnut Streets) then walked up  Broad Street to Broad and Spruce to Peirce Junior College for classes that started at 6 pm and ended at 9 pm.  For three years I had plenty of long days.  There was no time for me at the local Whiffenpoof watering hole to kick back and "have a few" with my friends.

Me at my banking days - the bags under my eyes are from working all day and going to school at night

One thing that really rankled my resentment growing up as a barefoot kid in the poor white section of a small town, was the summer camp nearby where the city of Philadelphia used to ship the fortunate "poor" kids of Philadelphia so they could spend six weeks of summer fun camping and swimming at the swimming pool at the camp in Downingtown.  One summer my brothers and I snuck to the cyclone fence surrounding the camp and looked in envy at the swimming pool.  Oh how we would have liked top taken a dip in those cool waters on a hot summer day.  But it was not to be.  That pool was reserved for the "poor, underprivileged" of Philadelphia.  The first time in my life I ever stepped into a swimming pool was when I was in the Army.  I was 20 years old.   It's not that my brothers and I never went swimming.  Sometimes our father would treat us to a run at the swimming hole on Boot Road if we weeded our assigned eight rows of corn.  Our father loved to garden but he didn't like to weed.  That's what he had three sons for.  No complaints about the swimming hole.  My brothers and I (and the family dog Sam) had a wonderful time there the few times we were given this "treat" which was following by a visit to the Tastee Freeze in Thorndale.  We loved that treat.  Sometimes, when Pop was really feeling good, and after we picked a bunch of wild raspberries, he would take us to a gas station on Rt. 322 which served ice cream.  I would get a double scoop of black raspberry ice cream.  It just didn't get any better than that on a hot, humid, August summer night in Downingtown, PA. When we played in the summertime we played at the railroad tracks behind our apartment on 120 Washington Avenue.  Not for us summer camp and all those activities.  Thus, every summer when the "poor kids" from Philadelphia were bussed in, that familiar feeling of resentment rose up in me.

Me, and my brothers and the family dog "Sam" at the old swimming hole on Boot Road, PA

I'm glad I was brought up the way I was brought up.  Even though my father didn't provide any encouragement for me or my brothers, I think that circumstance made my brothers and I stronger.  Probably much of that credit has to go to my Mother who, while never providing the hugs (she never was a "huggy" person), always protected us and provided guidance for her three boys which has done us well to this day.  However, she did make a remark some years ago which took me aback.  She said to me "You know one thing I'm really proud of my boys?"  I said "What's that Mom?"  She said "I'm glad none of you ever ended up in prison."  Well, that was a jaw opener.   Sometimes you think you know your Mom and you would assume she knows you.  No Mom, none of us ever ended up in prison nor would we ever.  Poor we were for sure.  No allowances, summer camp, boy scouts or college for "your boys" but you raised us right.  We all turned out to be honest and hard working and two of us worked our way through college to get our degrees.  No regrets here about how we were raised.  But I still have a tinge of resentment every time I hear "How am I going to send my kid to college?"  Hey, here's a novel idea.  Let him (or her) work their way through college like we did.  It will be good for them.  They'll appreciate life more just like my brothers and I appreciate where we are now, even though that tinge of resentment will always be there.
 

Me, my brother John and Mom 1962 - I was home on leave from the Army, John was just graduating from high school and my brother Isaac was in the Army in Germany when this picture was taken. John joined the Army after he graduated from high school (with my red blazer which he absconded with)

The Tipton Boys (photo compilation credit to Barbara Tipton)

On this Memorial Day weekend I want to give thanks for all those men and women who have sacrificed their lives and health for the freedoms that we enjoy today.  Thank you.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Most of the day I shoveled snow. I shoveled my driveway as well as shoveling the driveways of my neighbors on both sides of my house.




As usual, my Other Half (my partner of 45 years) mocked me while I shoveled the driveways. He loves the snow. Ever since we moved down here he has whined about how he missed the snow. Now we have it and he is a happy man. That's wonderful.



I take the mocking in stride. That is his style. He loved the snow so much that I left snow removal job to him in PA. However, he is 81 years old now and not capable of such strenuous activity. So I go out this morning to shovel snow. I see the shovel is missing. I go out the garage door and there is Other Half helping my neighbor shovel his driveway. I go over to them and ask to take over. Later, after I finished, the Other Half tells me the only reason I help was because I wanted to work with my cute neighbor. No, not really. I wanted to help. Is that so hard to understand? But, as usual, I let this insult go.



Next, I shovel my driveway. The Other Half takes a video of me shoveling the driveway and says "I have to record this. I can't believe you're shoveling snow." Okay. He mocks my actions again. I let it go.



Then he urges me to shovel our other neighbor's driveway. I do and again I am mocked. Again, I let it go. It is his style not to give me credit for anything. I'm used to it. Usually it doesn't bother me.



But today was different. Today an incident happened that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Ever have one of those days when enough is enough? That happened today.



This is what happened. Later in the day, after I had taken my nap, I thought I would check to see if the road outside my driveway was plowed. It was. There was small amount of snow in my driveway. I decided to clear it out before dark and the temperatures dropped.



Almost as soon as I'm at the end of my driveway I see Alan, our HOA representative in charge of snow removal approach me. He asked me if I saw the guy with the plow. I told him he just went by. Alan asked me if I could get my car out of my garage. I told him I could. Alan lives at the end of our drive in a cul de sac and his area was hardly touched. He wanted to catch up with the driver of the plow truck so he could clean out the road in front of his house. There was too much distance to cover by walking to catch up with the driver of the plow.



Even though I didn't want to take my car out of the garage for fear of getting stuck I told him I would. Believe me, this is the last thing I wanted to do. I've already had several friends call with broad hints of coming to rescue them which was impossible for me to do because I couldn't even get out of my own development. And if I could, I did not want to risk getting stuck and stranded in the snow trying to rescue friends who wanted to get to work rather than call in like I did Sunday when I couldn't get out.



I back my car out of my garage. With Alan directing, we make the Grand Tour of the development. I went down every road. Of course we didn't find the snow plow truck until the end of the tour. We stop, Alan gets out, gives the snow plow driver directions to get to his place to plow the road. Alan gets back in the car and we head back to my place. On the way back, he wants to stop at another neighbor's place to tell him the snow plow truck is coming back for another swipe of the snow. I suggested to Alan to call that neighbor. I didn't want to push my luck in getting caught in the snow.



We arrive at my driveway and Alan gets out of my car, thanking me profusely for helping him. He said he could never have caught up with the snowplow driver if he had to walk. Good deed accomplished.



Now comes time for my punishment. First thing I hear when I walk into my house, even before I could get the words out of my mouth was "Well that was about the stupidest thing I've ever seen!" Note: my Other Half has a habit of calling me stupid. It's just his thing. I usually ignore it. I try to explain what happened. Another note: when you live with someone you have to explain every action. At least I do. The Other Half resents any questions and rarely answers my inquiries. I usually let it go.



The Other Half stops talking long enough to get the gist of what I was saying. Then he interrupts and says "Well, at least you did something right! But why did you turn down Robinson Drive?" Here we go again; he's looking for something to justify his first reaction. I try to explain that Alan asked me to drive down Robinson Drive because he was looking for the snow plow truck. The Other Half now realizes that all his assumptions are wrong and rather than hear anymore, because he may have to face the fact that he was wrong, he cuts me off with an "I don't want to hear anymore! Enough!" That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I responded by finishing what I was saying. The Other Half gets up and storms out spewing a string of obscenities at me (again, his usual practice when he is angry.) I never quite understood the spewing of obscenities because he is so straight laced about anyone else, including me, using an obscene word in conversation. But when he is mad, the obscene words pour out of his mouth like Niagara Falls.



As he makes his retreat to his bedroom with the requisite slamming of the door, I shout after him "The next time get your facts straight before making all your accusations!" This is a big No-No for me because the unwritten law around here is that the Other Half is always right and I'm the stupid one. But, every now and then the worm turns. Today was such a day.



There are some days when I just have had enough. Today was one of those days also.



Unfortunately my Partner-In-Life has that malady in which he is incapable of every acknowledging or admitting he is ever wrong. I know other people like this. The first time I was confronted with this cognitive disability in a person, I was unbelieving. But now I realize it is fairly common. Even one of our former presidents, George W. Bush, has this character disorder. That simply cannot ever admit that they make a mistake. Whatever happens is always someone else’s fault. They never accept responsibility.



There is a lot that I cannot do but one thing I can do is admit a mistake. I can take a lot of crap too. But sometimes, I have just had enough. Then I blast back.



Thinking about it, the last time I had enough was a similar situation. It was with a friend of mine who made the mistake of thinking I was impatient because my restaurant meal wasn’t delivered on time. The meal wasn’t delivered on time but I wasn’t upset about it. I already had to martinis and thus I wasn’t concerned whether I got my hamburger or not. However, my dining partner and friend made the assumption that I wasn’t being supportive enough to the waiter who screwed up and shot me a “Get over it Mary!” remark. I responded back “Bullshit!” That exchange went back and forth a few times until I finally made my point but not without causing a great deal of discomfort for our other dining partners. I find it very interesting that my friend has the same cognitive problem as my Other Half. He can never admit error. Everything and anything that happens to him is always someone else’s fault. He never accepts responsibility for his actions. Like my Other Half, he is incapable of accepting that responsibility.



Usually I let this character deficiency go over my head but sometimes I have just had enough. Of course, both of them will say it’s my fault. Some things never change.



I’m sick of this snow and I’m sick of fighting with people just because I’m trying to do the right thing. I have to remind myself that No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. Maybe someday I’ll figure that one out. Right now I just want to take some time off for myself.

Now if we can get the mail running again I can catch up on my Netflix movies. Watching a good movie always relaxes me. Maybe then Mr. Hyde will go away.

Rain in Delaware

The rains arrived this morning. I listened to the comforting sounds of the rain glancing off of my skylights in the sun room. I opened my front door, leaving only the glass door to protect me from the rain. The brightly colored flowers that lined the walkway to my front door proudly showed me their freshly washed faces. Thus another new day retired in Delaware. I worked last night at the Inn. I don’t have to go back to work until Monday night. I have the whole weekend to luxuriate in the rain, sun or whatever Mother Nature delivers to my home on Delaware coast. I’m thankful that we’re getting rain this year. Last year we had a drought in this area of southern Delaware. It was so sad to watch the cornfields wither and die because of the lack of rain. So far this year, the unpredictable forces of nature have been kinder to the farmers' fields of grain in Sussex County. From my sunroom vantage I could see a large flatbed truck hauling stacked crates of chickens to their doom this early morning. While I am always sad to see these poor creatures hauled off to their death, I’m sadden more that I have come to accept the loss of a friendship. We go though life, making friends and losing friends. Sometimes friends are lost when we move to a new area of the country. Other times friends are lost because of death. But sometimes, there is a decision to part ways with a former friend because of incompatibility. The reason for the incompatibility is almost always a personality clash based on real or perceived disrespect of the one friend towards the other. Generally, when the first warning signs appear of disrespect. The friend who is being disrespected doesn’t want to believe what is happening. However, over a period of time the disrespect becomes more blatant and hurtful until, eventually, angry words are hurled. In the past I have brought his dismissive use of words directed at me to his attention and that I didn't appreciate it. His response was “get over it!” Thus, dismissing my feelings and very real concerns I had for the continuation of our friendship. My mistake was that I chose to overlook and rationalize what I now know in retrospect, was a serious problem underlying our friendship. I had several discussions by e-mail and one by phone that I didn’t appreciate being talked to in such a manner. All to no avail. Thus the stage was set for Sunday night at a local eatery when my former friend was in high form out in public and my social inhibitions were lessoned by a couple of martinis. It was the proverbial “straw that broke the camel’s back” incident that provoked my anger. My meal arrived half an hour late, after the others had finished eating. Under normal circumstances (without the alcohol) I would have been angry. However, I was having a good time and wasn’t really concerned. Someone (not me) mentioned that I had not received my meal. Someone else inquired to another waiter (not our original waiter) as to what happened to my order. The waiter left for the kitchen. He came back and said something to the order “Oh, I don’t know what they’re doing out there in that kitchen!” He told me my order would be out shortly. Another 10 or 15 minutes passes. Then the order arrives. There was raw bacon on top of my, now cold hamburger. At least the French fries were hot. This was small consolation. No apologies from the new waiter. I did not see the original waiter again. Jokes were made around the table that they would watch me eat. Again, I took it all in stride. I wasn’t really bothered. Blame it on the alcohol. Then, my “friend” starts into a long explanation as to how it is not the waiter’s fault that I got my meal so late. Excuses were made that the waiter was new and the place very busy. That may have been so. My friend reminded everyone that he was once a waiter and they can’t be blamed for mistakes. I casually said “Bullshit. He made a mistake.” Now my friend launches into an impassioned and showboat defense of the poor waiter. For whose benefit was this "performance?" The waiter or those around us? I told my friend that I would not punish the waiter and in fact was not even mad at him. I understood that “things” happen. Yet, my friend, in his typical “I am always right” arrogance continued his defense of the waiter and hurls a “get over it” to me. Those were the words that set me off. I responded “Bullshit! The waiter made a mistake! Say it slow, the waiter made a mistake. It wasn’t my fault. The waiter made a mistake!” My “friend” gives me a deer in the headlights look and says in a voice like one would talk to a child or a dog “Now Ron” thus further fueling my anger. I said to him “Wayne, you too can be wrong you know.” Now my friend was beside himself because he was embarrassed at my outburst at a table full of his friends and onlookers nearby, where just minutes before he was in his full glory. As is typical with this him, it was more about him being embarrassed, than what he said to cause my anger. Awkwardly, our party of six left the restaurant. Since I rode with him to the restaurant, I now faced the uncomfortable prospect of riding back to his place with him, where my car was parked a short drive from my home. I attempted to apologize but he would have none of it. He walked ahead of me and once we got into his car he turned up his CD player to a defending volume. Nothing more was said during the ride to his place. I got into my car and made the short drive to my home. I had heard nothing until yesterday I read a posting in his blog. In a blog titled “Sunday” A Soaring Beginning; a Crash and Burn Ending” he states “What happened? I am not sure.” He wants to blame it on the alcohol but also makes sure the reader knows “but not by me”, thus absolving himself of any responsibility. He states “Perhaps when enough alcohol is consumed one’s true feelings surface. Ugly, hurtful words spoken –or screamed – in my direction. Friends don’t do that unless there is some underlying unresolved issue that has to be addressed and sorted out.” His assessment of the situation was correct. There was an unresolved issue, his thoughtless and dismissive words directed at me. His arrogance is such that he doesn’t even realize what he has done. He made another statement in his blog which has proved to be true. He said “Something died.” Yes, it was our friendship, such as it was, that died. He continues on in his blog, giving an example of how he misused a word before with another friend who took offense. He stated it wasn't resolved until "I finally internalized her translation and she understood mine”. Perhaps I did not have time for his translation of what “get over it” meant when I stated the obvious truth that the waiter made a mistake. In Wayne’s World, no one is permitted to have an opinion except Wayne. Then, to add insult to injury, one of his enablers leaves a comment on his blog that said “seems to me that you have to find the root of this performance, talk it out together and then decide if you think the friendship can be a positive in both your lives.” Note the derisive term “performance” and the singular use of the word “you”. No consideration of what caused the outburst or the offended party (me.) The person leaving the blog note goes on to say “Bottom line is this is NOT about you. It’s about this person’s issues.” Now here is a comment made from a person who does not know me nor was there to witness the event, or “performance”, to use his sarcastic term. This is a classic case of enablement. The real bottom line is that I will decide who my friends are and who isn’t. I have decided to move on. My friend has many good qualities and, at times, is a lot of fun to be with because of his wit and humor. Unfortunately, our personalities do not mesh and it would be best for both of us if I decided to move on. As with most of the things that have happened in my life, I have learned and grown from this experience. I wish my former friend the best. I hope he finds that happiness he is seeking.