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.

"Pop" Revisted (Again)

Chad and Pop exchanging kissies

Back in my Previous Life, when I was working full-time, commuting two hours a day to my job in Philadelphia, I thought "When I retire I'm going to get all my photos in order."  HA!

I've been "retired" (if you can count working two days a week at the hotel and filling in when needed as "retired") and I'm no further along in putting my photos in order than I was ten years ago.  And the years keep flying by.

In fact, I keep adding to my photo library by taking seemingly endless digital photos with my iPhone and Canon SLR camera.  Ron, what were you thinking?  You know what folks?  I'm just never going to get caught up.  Ain't going to happen.

So here's what I propose to do folks.  When I come across photos like the one above, I'll post them to at least get some on the record before I pass.  

The photo above is of my father (called "Pop") and his dog Chad.  Chad was a rescue dog who LOVED Pop as Pop loved him.  In fact Pop loved that damn dog more than he loved his own sons but that's another whole story which we don't need to get into on this beautiful September morning.  

My father, the man who I resemble both physically and in mannerisms - I was never quite able to figure him out

My father had three sons, of which I am the oldest.  I have two younger brothers. I think he liked us even though he often said "I got the dumbest bunch of kids in the world."  That was our "Pop".

We tried, we really did.

Annual Road Trip South - Day Five

The Family of Four headed back to the hotel

Every day is an adventure!  Today was no exception.  I was going to write about our excellent day in the dying town of Toccoa, the town in Georgia where Bill grew up.  Instead this blog is about one of those "Why is this happening to me?"  

First of all, the day didn't start out too great.  Breakfast at the Hampton Inn is usually very good.  Not this morning.  My waffle batter was sour.  Yep, sour waffle batter. I noticed that the waffles didn't have that "waffle" smell when they were cooking.  Then when I flipped the waffle grill over, the waffles had a pale and undercooked look.  I peeled the waffle out of the waffle iron and it was like elastic.  I buttered it up and poured syrup and proceed to saw cut the waffle with my little plastic knife on my styrofoam plate.  All I did was stretch the waffle.  Hmmmm.  Then I lifted the uncut waffle to my mouth and tore off a piece.  Sour.  The waffle was sour.  Uh huh.

Not wanting to cause any unpleasantness, I tossed this waffle and made another.  Same result.  Still reluctant to become a Complaining Guest, I made yet another waffle.  Yep, same result.

I looked for the breakfast hostess.  She was nowhere to be found.  I went out to the front desk and there she was hunched over reading a newspaper.  Nice.  I told her that the waffle batter was sour.  She immediately said "Oh, I'll put some fresh batter in now."  Uh....okay.  So it was old batter.  Nice.  No apology, just "I'll put some fresh batter in."  God knows how old that batter was.

I was waffled out so I got a glass of orange juice.  It tasted like someone had left an old rusty tin can in the orange juice container.  Bill said when he tried to get orange juice this morning, only cloudy water came out.  He said the hostess brought out a pitcher with orange juice and ice cubes.  Wonder where she got that orange juice.

Well, the usual dependable Hampton Inn breakfast wasn't going well.  I decided to have a couple (or three) of those "who knows how old they are" sausage patties.  They were spicy enough to cover any age related issues.

After breakfast Bill and I drove into his old hometown of Toccoa.  I followed him around while he visited his old haunts and stomping ground, reliving fond memories.  I even made a five minute video which is below.  We also visited Toccoa Falls, our very own "Niagra Falls" right here in Georgia.

When we got back to the hotel we agreed to meet at 5 for dinner.  In the meantime I called the Old Time photo place and made an appointment to get yet another (are you sensing obsession here?) old time photo of me as a cowboy.  This grizzled, wrinkled, old, tire face works well as a cowboy.  RuPaul I am not but a cowboy?  It works.

After my photo session (which turned out very well, I'll share the fabulous photos later) I met Bill for dinner.  We (I) decided to go to a Mexican restaurant.  I was hoping to duplicate my success of finding hidden, wonderful Mexican restaurants as I did in Marion, North Carolina.

We go into the restaurant. The only other table taken was occupied by the proverbial Family of Four.  Mom and pop and two Little Darlings, a boy of 3 and a girl of 4.  And yes they were whining, screaming and generally making a mess and a huge nuisance of themselves.  Mom and pop seemed numbed by all the fidgetiness.  I could read Bill's eyes which said "Why did you bring me here?  I don't even like Mexican food."  However, I decided that since we were already there I would ignore the Little Darlings (who were making quite the racket and mess) and forge ahead with our meal.  And yes, there were sitting at the table right next to us.

Me at the Mexican restaurant

We got through the dinner with the background of whining, screaming and even a little crying as is wont with little darlings like this when they really get worked up.  With most of their burritos now on the floor the Family of Four left.  Bill and I watched with bemusement as the Mexican proprietors of the restaurant were again cleaning up after a white, blonde haired American family.  Rodolfo, the owner looked resigned and had a weak smile on his face when we made eye contact.  The two old guys didn't leave such a mess.

We left the restaurant and wandered around the main street of the town, noting how many store and restaurants were still closed.  I sense they all open when school gets out and all the Families of Four (or more) descend like a horde of locusts on poor Helen (the town).  

About 20 minutes later, as we were walking down the street back to our hotel we noticed.....wait for it....THE FAMILY OF FOUR WALKING IN THE SAME DIRECTION!  I said to Bill "Do you actually think they are staying at the SAME hotel as we are?"  And as I said this I noticed that they went into the hotel.  How about that?  I couldn't believe it. 

We waited until they took the elevator.  We didn't feel like sharing the elevator with them and that whining and screaming and (possible) crying when little Junior or the Princess didn't get their way.

Bill and I decided to walk around the town some more.  This town is beautiful with plenty of walking paths.  They even have sidewalks!  I'm used to staying in hotels right next to the Interstate.  This one is a treat.

About and hour later we take the same elevator to our rooms. As I'm getting ready for my shower I hear a familiar sound.  What was that sound?  It sounded so familiar.  I couldn't quite place it other than it was SO FAMILIAR.  Then I realized what it was, it was the same sound of Junior and the Princess whining and screaming.  "Where was it coming from?" I thought. Oh dear God, don't tell me what I'm thinking right now.  This just can't be possible.

I get my room key.  I leave my room.  I follow the muffled sounds of whining and screaming (and jumping now) to the - are you ready? - to the ROOM RIGHT NEXT TO ME!  Yes folks, the Family of Four is right next to my room!  

I cannot believe this.   This hotel has 67 rooms and  the one room they're in is RIGHT NEXT TO ME? Am I being punked?

So I'm thinking....what do I do now? I hate to complain and thus have another family mad at me.  But the "sounds" were coming through the loudest from the wall behind the headboard of my king sized bed.  Can you believe this?  

"Does this dirndl make me look fat?

I had no other choice but to go down to the front desk and tell her my tale of woe.  She was sympathetic and offered to move me to another room.  However there was one "small" problem.  The only rooms left were not king sized studies like the one I'm in now and LOVE.  That was one of the reasons I extended my stay today.  I asked her when they check out.  She said "Tomorrow." Well, I think I can get through one night.  I told her that if they're making a racket past 10 o'clock I would ask her to call them and quiet those kids down.

The good news is that it is ALL QUIET now.  Do you think that silence will last the night?  No, I don't either.  But I have hope.

Now I ask you, what are the odds of that happening?  I'm just lucky I guess.

Below is a video that I took of our foolishness today in downtown Toccoa.

More Discovered Old Photos Triggers Memories

Me, with my hot bib pants -1947

Just when I think I've found and posted all my old photos, lo and behold more turn up.  

Me (arms folded - gay already?) Pop and Mom and brother Isaac, Jr. - 1947

While going through my 80,000 or so photos (yes Virginia, I do have that many photos and more to come) I discovered these "gems" that I don't remember ever seeing before.  

Mom and Pop - 1947

These photos were among my Mom's photos which were in poor order.  Mom didn't keep her photos in a proper photo album.  Most were scattered in old boxes and kitchen drawers among old receipts. My God, my Mom kept receipts on everything.  

I'm still going through the detritus of her records and photos and found these gems.

The best I can figure these photos were taken about 1947 at Kerr Park in Downingtown, PA.  "Pop", the long and lanky hillbilly from North Carolina had met my Mom (motherless and from a poor Quaker family) on a double date.  Mom was with a guy named "Charlie Hanck" and her girlfriend Edie Lemon had a date with "Pop", (my father Isaac "Ike" Walter Tipton.)  When Pop drove up in his Packard with a rumble seat, my Mom was immediately smitten.  She told her girlfriend Edie "You get in the back.  I'm sitting with HIM."    

My Mom.  Pop carried this picture in his wallet until the day he died, sixty years (1940-2000)

Now you have to understand my Mom, Betty Louise Hadfield. She was 16 at the time and very shy but she knew that this was the man she was going to marry.  She just KNEW IT.  And marry him she did.  

Mom and Pop's first home, Cedar Knoll, PA.  No electricity, plumbing or heat.  That's me with Mom.  She was pregnant with me - 1941 - humble beginnings for Ron

Mom and Pop were married for sixty years until he died in August of 2000. Mom died in September of 2010.  When "Pop" died, something within my Mother died.  She was never the same. 

Mom with Pop a few days before he died (at age of 80 of lung cancer) August 2000

 She told me a few years before she died that Pop was the only man she was ever "with" and the only man she wanted to be with.  Pop wasn't always faithful to Mom (another whole story) but he loved her like no other woman.  

Mom and Pop (on left) with his brother Henry Tipton and his wife Aunt Peg - Kirkwood Park 1951

These old photos show them early on in their marriage.  My younger brother Isaac Jr. is in the photos with me.  

Me and my brother Isaac, Jr. - 1947

I put these photos out "there"so their memory will not be lost once I am gone.  I've said it before and I'll say it again.  I am fairly certain that when I die, my original photographs will disappear.  They will probably be tossed out in the trash when whoever cleans out what remains of my life.  

Me and my two younger brothers, John and Isaac with Pop's Packard - 1947

I have four nieces and one nephew and seven great nieces and three great nephews.  None are interested in "Uncle Ronnie", they have their own lives to live which their distant gay uncle plays no part.  I do not state this fact out of self-pity but out of reality of the knowledge when I die most if not all of these long ago memories will die with me.

Pop with the Love of His Life, my Mom - 1960

This morning I posted a picture of Bill with his mother.  Bill's great nephew sent him this picture. Shortly after Bill and I set up house, Bill sent all his old family pictures to a long forgotten niece to "keep the photos in the family."  For me posting these old photos of my family is keeping them "in the family."  Maybe sometime in the distant future one of my great-great nephews or nieces will appreciate the fact that their long gone "Uncle Ronnie" took the time and had the consideration to post these old photos before they disappear forever.  

One of the best photos I ever took - my Mom and Pop in their kitchen 1959 - they never stopped loving each other