Bedtime Stories

 

Did your parents read you bedtime stories when you couldn't get to sleep when you were a child?

Me, on the right shielding my face from the sun with my hand and my two younger brothers on the side roof from our second floor apartment at 120 Washington Avenue, Downingtown, PA about 1947.

Nah, mine didn't either.

We (my two younger brothers and I slept in the same bed until I was twelve years old) were more likely to get a beating with a belt from our father if we didn't calm down. 

Me, still sleeping in the same bed at eleven years old with my two younger brothers one of whom is already in bed. Again, no bedtime stories this night in 1954

Think I'm exaggerating? Think again.

Not that we were overly abused, this was just the way many if not most kids grew up in the Forties and Fifties. We were all acquainted with The Belt if we misbehaved.

Me, the big kid in the middle holding up a grasshopper next to my face with my youngest brother John (now deceased), sitting with his hand under his chin and my other brother Isaac (who is MAGA now and we haven't spoken to each other in three years now) seated below. The steps behind us lead upstairs to our second floor apartment. See those other kids, they knew The Belt too. That was normal life for us kids in the Fifties of working class parents. Our classmates and friends who had parents who had professional jobs lived on Lincoln Highway, one block over. Behind our street was Cox Alley, that's where the blacks lived. Yep, there were people even poorer than we were, "The Coloreds" as we used to call them in the Forties and Fifties. Of course they were called a more derogatory name back then. I got into trouble when I visited her home once. Even though we were poor, we were not to socialize with "the N word". We were taught racism at a young age. It's how it happens folks. Maybe we were poor and "hillbilly" (which we were actually, my father was a genuine hillbilly from the mountains in western North Carolina, even had the hillbilly accent his whole life, he always called me "Half a Hillbilly." We may have been poor and lived in a dump (rent $22.50 a month) but we were better than the (fill in the blank).

Me siting on that same stoop sixty years later (2010). Funny how that stoop seemed so small now and the stairs leading to our second floor apartment so narrow. The place was still a dump.

My brothers and I were born each a year apart. Sleeping in a clothes basket until we got too big then a bed, we were often rambunctious. "You kids keep quiet in there or I'm sending your father in with his belt to put you to sleep!" And believe me, we didn't want him paying us a visit with his belt. 

My Mother and father and me running  up the stoop. I think this was about 1944 shortly after we moved in to 120 Washington Avenue in Downingtown, PA. That fat little ass of mine received it's share of whacks with my father's belt. 

He did come in, how many times I forget but it wasn't infrequent. We soon developed a way to avoid the worst (direct hits) of his belt. As he removed his belt from his pant loops we would be screaming in pain already even before he landed any hits. We would hold the covers slightly above our bodies and scream like he really landed some hits. Occasionally he did and man oh man that hurt! But mostly he missed after about a half a dozen whacks. Of course we were quiet after one of his visits. Looking back on it now, I think he realized he wasn't really landing any blows but his visits still had the desired effect, we were quiet the rest of the night and they could get to sleep. By the way, a few  years later when I recounted these "whippings" to my Mother she told me, "You were lucky. Take a look at the scars on your father's back. They were from whippings he got from his father." Well, at least our whippings didn't leave scars. He did get a several good licks in though. My father had ten brothers (no sisters). I imagine all of them kept their father's belt pretty busy.

120 Washington Avenue, Downingtown, PA (our apartment building the big building on the left) in 1954, the year we moved from there to Boot Road.

120 Washington Avenue July 2002, still a dump. I doubt if any of the kids who lived in this building ever had bedtime stories read to them. By the way, this is why I always wanted a backyard (like I have now). My formative years growing up, no back yard. Me and my best bud Chubby played down by the railroad tracks. I know the smell of coal tar well! That was the only place we could play, if we played any other place we were usually greeted by "You kids get out of here!" I doubt if those adults who yelled at us read their kids bedtime stories either.

Now, imagine if he or our mom took the tact to her restless sons and said "You boys still awake? Oh, I'll come in and read you a bedtime story." HA! 

I bring this subject up because my dear friend Spo of Spo Reflections recently posted about his idyllic "Father Knows Best/Leave It To Beaver" childhood about coming across a book of fairy tales his mother used to read to him and his younger brothers. 

My hillbilly father at twenty-one years old when he worked for Lukens Steel in Coatesville, PA

My hillbilly father in his favorite attire, a white T-shirt (he professed from the wife beater T-shirts) in 1954 at Gindy Manufacturing Company on Boot Road in Downingtown, PA after we moved from Washington Avenue. He was a charmer to the ladies. Not so much to his kids. The few times I complained about his treatment (mostly annoyance) to his kids, he usually responded "I brought you into this world and feed you! For that your should be thankful!" And I was an am. Funny thing now, I have most of his mannerisms, which shocked me when I first saw myself on a video.

Me with "Pop", which is what we called him, in 1991. This at his three and a half acre home "in the country" (still Downingtown address) on Hopewell Road. He loved to garden and raise chickens. His hillbilly heritage. Still wearing his T-shirt. Notice I keep my distance. I was still an annoyance to him. But he did bring me into this world and fed me. Thanks Pop! By the way, when I came out gay, he didn't care. Thank God I didn't have one of THOSE fathers. Small blessings. My Mom was more upset than he was. She came to accept my gayness but was never comfortable with it. She did love Bill though, who was only four years younger than her.

Bill and my Mom 2001 at our seven acre property in Pennsylvania, one road over from her home. They were best pals. I think Bill was more upset than I was when she died. I was very upset of course, but Bill was devastated. He never got over the loss of her friendship. 

Spo, your childhood was an exception, believe me!

I literally know of no one in my social circle of family, friends or co-workers who were lulled to sleep with either one of their parents reading them bedtime stories. Not a one! How about you Jon of "Lone Wolf Concerto"? Did your dad read you a bedtime story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears?

Have any of my readers of this blog have anyone (including aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents?) send them off to Dreamland by reading to them the fable about the Three Pigs? 

However, even though I didn't have the luxury of having an adult reading me a bedtime story of Cinderella, I did discover there was such a thing as a fairy tale. Probably at school around the third grade when I was ten years old and could read. 

I got me a book of fairy tales and let me tell you folks, I read that book cover to cover......many times. I thoroughly enjoyed each story. Here is list of the stories that I can remember reading and savoring:

Little Red Riding Hood

Cinderella (I was intrigued by Prince Charming, of course!)

The Three Little Pigs

Hansel and Gretel

Goldilocks And The Three Bears

Rapunzel

Jack and the Beanstalk

The Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe 

The last one, "The Old Woman Who Lived In a Shoe" was a fairy tale but I was intrigued because that image of that old beat up shoe and all those little kids pouring out of shoe reminded me of the low rent, cockroach infested apartment building we lived in when I was a kid up until I was twelve years old at 120 Washington Avenue in Downingtown, Pennsylvania from 1943 to 1954. 

I don't know what happened to that book of fairy tales but I treasured it. I think this was the first time I was sent into another world other than the world of white trash chaos in which I grew up at Washington Avenue. Funny thing though, I don't feel like I was deprived by not living in a neighborhood of tree lined streets with verdant lawns and loving attentive parents who had time to read me and my brothers bedtime stories. I was already in our life of harsh reality and didn't know there was that other world until we got a TV and I saw "Father Knows Best" with a mom who always had a pearl necklace with her crisp shirt waist dress, greeting "Jim" when he came home with his briefcase with a hug and a kiss before dinner. "Jim" (the actor Robert Young), would have dinner in his suit. Did any of you reading this blog have dinner with your dad who wore his suit to dinner? Yeah, right! My father always had  dirty, greasy, white wife beater T-shirt. Not even a shirt. That's the way it was folks. Again, we, my brothers and I didn't know the difference because that's just the way it was. This is why I always smile to myself when I read or see someone who had a different childhood. I did have two friends who had parents like that though. My longtime friend (to this day) Bill B. His mother was literally Mrs. Anderson. She had the necklace and shirt waist dress and her house was always immaculate. His father did wear a suit. But then he had a professional job as did my other longtime school mate fried (to this day, we do weekly Zoom calls). His father was a pharmacist. Both families lived in real houses. They could afford it. We couldn't as probably everyone on Washington Avenue. They lived in the high class section of Downingtown, one street over (could well have been a different world), on Lincoln Avenue. Every time I visited I felt like I wasn't even good enough to step across the threshold into their houses. But that's a subject for another blog posting. You know how I ramble on sometimes in these blog posts. 

So no, I didn't have bedtime stories of fairy tales read to me but I'm no worse off because of it.

Me with my Mother and father August 1972. Everything turned out all right.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid

My friend Pat sent me the book "Diary of a Wimpy Kid."  I've heard of this book.  Reading it I discovered something that I think just about all of us know, at one time or another we've all been that wimpy kid.  I know I have been.  

I'm tempted to write my own "Diary of a Wimpy Kid."  However, what really makes this book unique are the illustrations.  I would have to work on that folks.  I could make my own cartoon characters but it would take so long.  So bear with me while I do my own personal take on "Diary of a Wimpy Kid", sans the illustrations.  

Diary of a Wimpy Kid - Ron's Version

"Little Ronnie" - First Grade class photo - 1948

I was born in November 1941, one month before Pearl Harbor.

Me at two years old - literally a Living Doll (at least my Mother thought so) 

My father was a transplanted hillbilly from North Carolina to Pennsylvania. He was ten years old when he arrived in Pennsylvania by train.  First time he ever wore shoes.

"Pop" - Ike - my dad 1941 - 21 years old

My Mother was a 16 year old motherless high school senior anxious to get out of her Cinderella like home life.  "Pop" was her "Prince Charming."

My father Ike Tipton - the man my mother fell in love with at first sight when she first set eyes on him when he dropped  my Mom's date "Hank" off - my Mom immediately dropped Hank and told her girlfriend Edie to take Hank because she said "I'm taking HIM!" And she did.  Married sixty years, my father was the only man my Mother was ever "with."

I was the result of this unlikely union of a truck driving, semi-literate, handsome hillbilly father and a beautiful but poor daughter of a Quaker family.

My beautiful Mother - high school senior 1939

And it shows.  To this day I am a weird anagram of those two disparate cultures.  

For almost a year I was an ONLY CHILD.

Then my parents decided to HAVE ANOTHER.  That would be Isaac, Jr.

Me and brother Isaac, Jr - I have lost my privileged status as an ONLY CHILD

Even back then, in those black and white days I knew my special status as an ONLY CHILD had changed my life . . . forever.

Then, to add insult to injury my Mom and Pop decided to have yet ONE MORE.  His name was John.

 Baby John, hood ornament 

Now there were THREE.  I was the OLDEST but I had two coming up the rear.  

My Baby Brothers - Isaac and John - 1947 - Washington Avenue, Downingtown, PA

And from that day on my life was inalterably changed.  For the rest of my life sibling rivalry would rule, even to this day.

Growing up on Washington Avenue I had my friends and John and Isaac had each other.  Yes folks, I didn't hang out with my brothers. They were just THERE . . . in the way.

The Three Little Terrors - John, Isaac and me (hand over my eyes shielding the sun and my FIRST leather jacket) and High Water Pants 

One good thing about being the oldest, I never had to endure hand me downs.  But I was always outgrowing my clothes . . . long legs and long arms

Being the oldest I was the first to go to school.  Our school was three blocks down Washington Avenue, where we lived in a second floor, roach infested apartment that rented for $22.50 a month that we had to share with one of my father's younger brothers who was still going to high school.

My father had ten brothers.  The two youngest brothers(Sam and Bruce) were born in Pennsylvania and were orphaned before they finished high school. 

My grandmother Hester Tipton with ten of her eleven sons (the eleventh one took the picture) at Union Hill Cemetery Kennett Square, Pennsylvania where she buried her husband (my grandfather) Fieldon Jacob Tipton - 1939 - Uncle Sam (head peeking out next to my Uncle Bruce petting dog) were still in school - both Sam and Bruce was only Tipton boys born in Pennsylvania thus not authentic Hillbillies

My Uncle Sam (far left in photo) and Uncle Bruce (fourth from left with sailor cap) and Uncle Tip (kneeling with dog) on the porch at their rented home before their parents died. Note the wringer washer on the porch - an authentic Hillbilly Touch

Growing up I was constantly mortified with my paternal hillbilly roots and always tried to hide them.  My father was a Hank Williams wannabe - sooo embarrassing.

Pop with his brother Luther "Dude" Tipton playing Hank Williams on his guitar - so embarrassing (at that time)

When I began school two things were paramount in my mind.  I knew I was different and not just because I was "half a hillbilly" (as my father often liked to refer to me). 

I wasn't quite sure what I was but I definitely knew I was different.  I liked wasn't into marbles and pen knives. I was more into paper dolls.  Uh oh.

To be continued . . . . . . . . .

Bullies

Me, First Grade - 1948

Bullying has been in the news lately because of some tragic suicides by young gay men. 

I've been giving the subject of bullying a lot of thought lately. 

When I was young (five years old, first grade) I was bullied a few times because I was a shy and timid kid.  The first time I was bullied was when I was trying to enter the building where my first grade class took place.  I lived three blocks from the school and I walked to school everyday.  One of my classmates would wait for me and push me to the ground, preventing me from going to school.  Ironically we're friends how and he sometimes reads this blog ("Hi Jack!")  He says he doesn't remember bullying me. Years later when we reconnected at a class reunion he apologized for bullying me. 

Me (far right) with Jack (far left) at a class reunion 54 years later -  2002

He only did it a few times.  I don't remember exactly how I stopped the bullying but I do remember telling my Mother and father when I went home at the end of the day.  I assumed my father would confront my bully and put an end to it.  He did not.  I don't think it was because he was afraid, he just wasn't involved in my life.  I don't think he wanted kids (he had three sons).  He just didn't want to be bothered.  So I had to take matters into my own hands.  As I said, I don't remember what I did but the bullying stopped.

The next time I was bullied was when I was twelve years old and in high school, seventh grade.  Our class was next and we were standing outside Mrs. Rogers' science classroom, waiting for the previous class to empty the room so we could enter.  Kenny, one of my classmates and a football player (I wasn't a football player) started shoving me for no apparent reason.  He said "I hate you rich kids who think you’re better than anyone else!" or something along that line.  Rich?  That was a laugh.  I was probably poorer than he was. I was still very shy so maybe he thought I was stuck up, which I wasn't. 

When he saw I didn't do anything after the first shove (I never react immediately), he shoved me again.  Still I did nothing so he shoved me a third time.  This time I turned around and shoved him back.  Then the fists started to fly.  We were soon grappling on the floor.  Mrs. Rogers came out of her classroom in hysterics.  Someone pulled us apart and we were sent to the principal's office.  My first visit to THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE!  Mr. Emery, the principal, wanted to know what happened. I told him.  I don't remember what Kenny said but it must have been pretty lame because the principal believed me.  Kenny had a reputation as a bully and apparently I was to be his next victim.  After our visit to the principal's office, Kenny never bothered me again for the rest of our years in high school.  The first class reunion I attended was my 20th.  I wanted to see Kenny and laugh about our "experience" back in 1954.  Kenny wasn't at the reunion.  He died in Vietnam in 1963.  Oddly, I felt guilty.  Wonder why?

Me, Sousaphone player in Marching Band - 1957

My next bullying experience was in ninth grade.  We were in a class showing a film on one of those old projectors.  One of my classmates, who I thought was a friend thought it would be funny to walk up to the teacher's desk and on the way back slap me in the face. The first time he did it I was caught by surprise.  He returned to his seat to the titters of some of our fellow classmates.  He did it again.  We went up to the front of the room and returned to his desk, slapping me a little harder this time.  As he returned to his desk I heard him and his friends laughing again.  By the way, he was also a football player.  I wasn't.  I was in the band.  Maybe that had something to do with it.  He was having a grand time so he decided to go up to the teacher's desk again and on the way back he gave me another good slap.  He returned to his desk and the titters of his friends.  This time I got up from my desk and went back and "slapped" him but I forgot to open my hand.  What I actually did was slug him with my closed fist so hard that I knocked him from his desk to the floor.  No tittering this time from his friends.  Now we were grappling on the floor.  I remember that we knocked over the projector and the teacher was hysterical.  Again, we were pulled apart and another visit to the principal's office.  Again, my explanation was accepted and Lewis (his name) never bothered me again. 

Me - Army Private - 1960

The third time I was bullied was in basic training in the Army when I was 18 years old.  This was another "Ken".  His last name was Rondeau.  For some reason he didn't like me and made my life miserable by setting little booby traps for me.  I won't to into all the things he did to me (like stealing the top of my water canteen so when I was out on the range I got soaked) but it all came to a head one night.  I had Fire Watch, which was guard duty for the barracks.  Of course I had the worst time, 2 am to 4 am.  After my watch was over I went to go to bed and found it full of shaving cream.  I head muffled laughter (titters again) from the darkened barracks.  I knew who did it.  I was furious.  The barracks were two stories high. My bunk was located on the first floor.  Rondeu's was located on the second floor.  I wanted to kill him.  I would have taken my rifle but it was locked in the gun rack at the end of the barracks along with my fellow trainees.  I looked for something else to use as a weapon to do damage to Rondeau.  I found it, a mop.  I unscrewed the mop handle from the mop and went upstairs looking for him, ranting and screaming all the way.  Someone turned on the lights in the barracks.  With the mop handle in my hand I found Rondeau's bunk but it was empty. I'm still ranting (lots of F words, believe me).  The barracks sergeant wanted to know what was going on.  Someone must of told him because I didn't.  I was still furious shouting "Where the f*k is Rondeau?  I'll kill him!!!!"  This time I was taken to the captain's quarters.  I remember him very clearly.  His name was Captain Green and he was a black man, very black.  They tried to calm me down.  The master sergeant told me to sit down.  Eventually I was calm enough to tell what happened, that someone put shaving cream in my bunk and I knew who it was.  I also told them that Rondeau had been sabotaging me for weeks and I finally had enough.  Captain Green sat and listened to me with his hand on his chin.  My barracks sergeant and the sergeant major were standing listening to me.  After I finished my explanation Captain Green said "Private Tipton, go back to your bunk.  We will take care of this."

Fort Dix, New Jersey - Chow Line for Army Basic Training Recruits - 1960

I don't know what they did or said to Rondeau. However for the remaining three weeks of basic training he stayed clear of me.  He didn't even make eye contact with me.  I was very lucky in this instance because I really did want to kill Rondeau.  I understand how people get in trouble when they are pushed to the edge. 

Those are the three times that I was physically bullied.  I responded the only way bullies understand, with force and telling someone in authority exactly what happened.  I did not internalize anything.  I am incapable of internalizing.  Maybe I'm lucky that way.  I can put up with a lot of bullying but eventually when I have enough, I put an end to it.  I think I get this trait from my Mother because she was exactly the same way.

I feel for those who are incapable of standing up for themselves.  I don't understand it but I guess some internalize the hatred that is directed towards them and internalize it into self hatred and feel they must destroy themselves or they see no way out and they just want the pain to end.

The bottom line is that the best way to deal with bullies is to confront them.  My father probably did me a favor all those years ago by not sticking up for me.  Because I had no one to protect me I decided my only alternative was to stick up for myself.  

I  sleep better at night too.

Pop

The Beginning - 1942 - the First Born with Pop and Mom

As regular readers of this blog may or may not know, I never had a good relationship with my father.  That may sound harsh but it is the truth.  

My Pop at 18 years old - a Hank Williams wannabe

My father died August 22, 2000.  He was 80 years old.  He died of lung cancer.  His doctor warned him many times to stop smoking but he was a stubborn man.  He died in a hospital bed, hooked up to an oxygen machine, gasping for breath.  

The body language says it all in this picture of me and my two brothers with Pop

My youngest brother John is on the far left and obviously the light of my father's eye.

My poor second brother is literally 'in the middle' and overlooked.  I'm on the far right with my hand on my father's shoulder but he is obvious to my reaching out to him.  Pictures say so much.

Even though we all knew he was dying, when I got the phone call from my sister-in-law Barbara telling me he died overnight,  it was still a shock to my system because he had been so much a part of my life.  But I can honestly say I felt no sadness.  I didn't feel happiness either.  Maybe a sense of relief because no matter what I did I could never please this man.  All my life I sought approval, he never showed it to me.

Father and son 1-976 - again check out the body language
by this time his dog 'Pepper' was the light of his life

I was his first born son.  I have two brothers.  My second brother didn't fare too well either, even though he was my father's namesake.  However, my third brother, and youngest, was my father's favorite.  Growing up I resented that my youngest brother was his favorite.  I hated my brother.  Ironically now my brother and I are best friends.  It's funny how things turn out in life.

Me, Mom and Pop 1982 - again check out the body language

I'm leaning in towards him but my Mom touches my leg lest I get too close to him 

Occasionally I think about my father.  I think about how much my life perhaps would have been different if he had shown me some love.   But then maybe nothing would be different.  I do a lot of thinking about my past at this time of my life, I often wonder how my life would have turned out if I had a 'normal' childhood.  But then who does have a 'normal' childhood?

My Pop at 18 years old - yes, I do look like him

My father used to enjoy humiliating me.  I grew up thinking I had the biggest nose in the world.  He would call me "beak" as in a bird's beak.  Of course this did nothing for my self-esteem which was very fragile because not only did I know I was 'different' from the time I was four years old (a 'sissy') but I had the usual teenager anxieties about not being accepted by my friends. I remember how terribly embarrassed because my father was a hillbilly.  For real, he really was a 'hillbilly.'  His parents brought him and eight of his brothers form the hills of western North Carolina (some God forsaken place called "Pigeon Roost") to the Unionville area of south eastern Pennsylvania in the late 1920's.  Two more brothers were born in Pennsylvania thus making eleven hillbilly sons of the brood of Fieldon and Hester Tipton, my paternal grandparents.  Of course now I am proud of my "hillbilly" heritage, recognizing it as true Americana but when I was growing up?  I was mortified.  

The "new car" - a GMC pickup truck

Of the many time he used to belittle and humiliate me one episode is especially etched into my mind.  I was 12 years old and my Mom told me the news that "Pop" was getting a new car!  I was so excited.  Finally, our family would be like my friend's families and have a cool family car.  So what did he get?  A GMC pickup truck!  I was again mortified.  A pickup truck!  I asked "Where would me and my brothers sit when we went on one of our Sunday Rides?"  "Pop", with an self-satisfied smile on his face said "In the back where you belong!"

Me not wanting my brother to take my picture of me in the back of the pickup truck.  Pop made sure to drive through Downingtown so my friends could see me in the back of the truck.  He got a big kick out of this.

The day of the Sunday Ride came up.  Pop was going to take a trip down to Maryland and the Conowingo Dam.  The whole family was going.  I refused to go because I was too embarrassed to be seen riding in the back of a pickup truck!  I didn't have choice.  He told me I would have to go and sit in the back of the pickup truck.  So here are the pictures of me, 12 years old, full of insecurities, still in my "sissy" stage, trying to make like of my humiliation.  

Me trying to make light of my humiliation.  Sorry about the sissyness.  I hadn't outgrown it at this point in my life.

This was just one of many incidences of my father's cruel humor. I wasn't the only recipient of his cruelty, but I got most of it.  I think he was trying to 'break me.'  He didn't succeed.  


I guess some would rebel under such treatment or become defeated.  My reaction was to 'get through it'.  I didn't see where I had any other choice.  I did know that as soon as I could I wanted to get away from home.  That is one of the reasons I joined the Army right of high school.

Me and my friend Jim Harris on the rifle range at Ft. Meade, Maryland 1962

After my father died, my Mother cleaned out all his personal items including pictures in his wallet.  Much to my surprise she found this picture in his wallet.  I had forgotten about this picture.  I didn't have a print of it.  He had the only print.  I don't know how he got it but there it was.  He carried it in his wallet all those years. 


 My Mother then told me that he didn't expect me to even make it through basic training.  He had that little confidence in me that he thought I would fail.  I was shocked when I heard this revelation.  Not make it through basic training?  I never had a doubt.  Did I have problems in basic?  Yes, I had some big problems but never for a moment did I even entertain the idea of dropping out, never.  I remember one especially rough patch.  I was so determined to not fail that I thought to myself "I'm going to do this even if I die in the attempt (which I almost did)" but never, NEVER did I consider failure.


So who knows, perhaps beneath all that cruelty he really did have some love for his oldest son.  I wish I knew that when he was alive.  Maybe things would have been different.  


I know one thing, he used to love my homemade German Chocolate Cake which I made from scratch.  When I bought that cake over to him I saw one of his rare smiles towards me.  I haven't made that cake since he died.  I was thinking about making it again.  

My Pop at his most handsome - a real "Ladies'  Man"

Tall (6'5") blonde, blue eyes, muscular, 'big', and could charm the pants off any woman

My Pop in his 70's - still not a gray hair in his head

Still smoking which would eventually kill him

Stubborn Man

The last time I saw my father was on a Saturday night, two days before he died.  He was in his hospital bed with oxygen tubes going up his nose.  He wanted to get up to use the bathroom (pee in the bottle).  He was to proud to use the catheter.   He wanted me to help him get up.  I did.  He turned around and did his business.  As he was finishing I put my hand on his neck and said softly into his ear "I love you Pop."  He said nothing but paused for a second of two.  I think he understood.  I never told him I loved him before.  Even though we didn't have a traditional father-son relationship he was still my father.  I wanted him to know I appreciated him bringing me into the world and raising me.  Whatever our differences I wanted him to know I forgave him and that I was his son and I loved him.

That was the last time I saw him.  

Pop and me when he liked me - 1942