CRITTER CAPERS: Aunt Betty and the Mice PART II

From time to time when our parents wanted an opportunity to get away for an evening, Aunt Betty would come to the farm and babysit. She was actually my mom’s second cousin, but they grew up together and in a sign of respect, we children referred to her as Aunt Betty. Now Aunt Betty had to weigh every bit of 300 to 350 pounds. For a big woman, she was quick on her feet but could be somewhat awkward. We children loved our Aunt Betty because of two things. She was very warm and pleasant and she was an incredible cook. When we visited her home, she always had a freshly baked cake to share. And as a child, the cake looked like it had been built proportionally to Aunt Betty’s frame. It was huge! Now Aunt Betty brought one of her cakes with her for the visit and I hoped to get more than the one piece that children usually are allowed.

Aunt Betty was deathly afraid of mice. So, Aunt Betty asked me during dinner if I would mind staying awake with her in case the mice came out of the stove. So, after Aunt Betty settled my younger brothers and sister Diane at bedtime, Aunt Betty and I settled ourselves in the living room of the farmhouse for the evening. She could tell that I was struggling to stay awake with her. So, she pleaded with me not to fall asleep. I tried to stay awake as best I could. As we sat there, Aunt Betty shook me and said, “Buzzy. Listen. Can’t you hear that?” Sure enough, I could hear a faint scratching noise coming from the kitchen. We stood and peered around into the kitchen to have a peek. On the stove were two very small mice trying to get crumbs from under the electric burner. The scratching sound was from their tiny fingernails reaching for the small flecks of food from dinner. Aunt Betty turned red and panicked at the reality of her fears being in the next room. “Buzzy, you’ve got to do something!” Go in and shoo them away! Make them go away! I knew what would happen so I said, “Sure, Aunt Betty.” Just walking into the kitchen, the mice squeezed down into the stove through the opening between the porcelain top and the electric circular burner. I announced to Aunt Betty, “They’re gone now.” Aunt Betty peeked around the wall and seemed relieved at their disappearance. But at the same time, she continued to be anxious wondering when they would reappear. “Buzzy, you must stay awake.” And towards this end, she asked me if I wanted anything to eat that might help keep me awake. Food was a great motivator for the children in this family. And like any youngster with a sweet tooth, I saw this as a great opportunity. Now I didn’t want to go straight for Aunt Betty’s cake, so I thought I would start off with something little. “Oh, Aunt Betty. Why don’t you get me an apple. I think that will keep me awake.” Aunt Betty said, “Sure! I’ll get you an apple right away.” To be in the kitchen for the tiniest of moments, Aunt Betty would move in and out of the room as quickly as she could. It was funny to see Aunt Betty run as fast as she could to the refrigerator, because her body weight would jiggle. I remembered thinking this must be what Santa Claus is like getting around, you know, that belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly. Well, it wasn’t only the belly shaking, the arms and legs jiggled in a similar way. I remember that Aunt Betty always wore muumuus, which I’m sure was for comfort, ease of mobility and in this instance it seemed to work well for quick bursts into the kitchen. Many of the adults in our extended family were very large people. Girth was not viewed as a negative the way it is today. Our family viewed it as kind of a plus. To be large was like bigger than life. And then there was the jolliness that is usually associated with Santa. Big people were fun!

Well, after I finished the apple I went in for the kill. “Oh, Aunt Betty, Could I have a second piece of cake?” The cake Aunt Betty had brought to share was a white cake with coconut frosting and there were very thick layers of frosting between four cakes. She said, “Sure, Buzzy. Right away.” And she ran off to the cupboard. And true to form, she brought me a hunkin’ piece! I wasted no time getting this down thinking about whether I could parlay this into ice cream, too. Twenty minutes later, I queried, “Oh, Aunt Betty, why don’t you get me a dish of ice cream? That will help me stay awake.” And she said, “Sure, Buzzy right away.” And she ran off to the freezer to get some ice cream. Rather than the food working to keep me awake, it actually did the opposite. I could not hold my head up and began to fall asleep on the couch.

Aunt Betty was not happy, especially when the sounds started up again. I did not hear them the second time because I was asleep. “Buzzy, Buzzy, get up. Can you hear them?” She tugged on my arm and I kind of came out of the grogginess to find myself being pushed into the kitchen with Aunt Betty directly behind me. She managed to put a broom into my hands and wanted me to attack the mice on top of the stove. When I didn’t move quickly enough, she took the broom and started swinging at those mice. I can only imagine what those mice thought when they looked up to see this large woman in a brightly colored muumuu swinging a weapon of straw at their heads. Swoosh…Swoosh… back and forth she swung the broom. They dove into the stove. I don’t think she hit either of them. Aunt Betty turned from the stove to me. She said, “I brought you everything you asked for and you didn’t stay awake with me like you promised. Buzzy, are you a man or a mouse?”  I looked down at the kitchen floor pondering Aunt Betty’s question and shrugged my shoulders. I then looked up and said, “squeak, squeak.”

KENNYWOOD’S OPEN AND THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE THUNDERBOLT

My extended family and I were recently at Kennywood Park for a school picnic, which made me think about my own Kennywood memories. When we Pittsburgh baby-boomers were children, there was nothing more exhilarating than the annual pilgrimage to Kennywood. Kennywood is an amusement park that goes back to the turn of the last century when blue-collar city dwellers would take a streetcar for a picnic in the countryside at the end of the trolley line. An amusement park followed and it is one of a handful of amusement parks listed in the National Register of Historical Places.
Kiddieland was the area of the park where young children began their Kennywood delight that included rides like the Turtle, the Whip and a miniature Ferris wheel, which had seats in the shape of little cages so the ride wouldn’t lose any of its preschoolers. One of my favorites, the name of which I cannot remember, was a miniature one-person train ride that ran on rails that looked just like train tracks. You powered the one-person train car with your arms. You sat with your feet forward and pumped your arms in a circular motion like you would on a bicycle. My brothers and I could make those cars go fast. And even though we were not supposed to bump into the car in front of us, we treated the experience like they were bumper cars. I was removed from the ride more times than I care to remember, but we would go back whenever the ride workers changed preventing recognition. We were definitely little hellions.

Then there was the food! Kennywood had pavilions to accommodate the picnic goers and all the families brought coolers of food, snacks and drinks. It was like Christmas, Easter and the fourth of July all rolled into one, a veritable edible paradise.
The park’s long history meant that grandparents had their own Kennywood memories that made the family elders as excited in anticipation of the school picnic as the children were. Our grandfather was a custodian at the high school and made sure we had plenty of tickets to ride, from the opening bell til well after the official close of the park. You could see the little kid gleam in his eyes living vicariously through is granchildren as the only ride his body could handle at that point included the Train, the Old Mill and the Potato-Patch. Yes, our family counts food stands as a ride, especially when tastey treats result in oohs and aahs only comparable to screams on a roller-coaster.
(As a sidebar, these oohs, aahs and screams, make we wonder who came up with the expression, Kennywood’s Open” to refer to one’s trouser zipper being down. As a child and even an adolescent, the meaning was completely lost on me. But through the years, I’ve never heard “Coney Island’s Open” or “Disneyland’s Open” or “Six-Flags’ Open.” If anyone knows the actually history of the expression, I’d appreciate a comment. Oh, by the way, I do get it now and find it more than apropos.)
Now, this brings me to an experience I had at Kennywood in the spring of 1968. I was fourteen years old and worked weekends and summers with my father in his brother’s construction company, Matta Fence. Matta Fence had a maintenance contract with the amusement park to install and repair fences. We had installed stockade fence in the train ride to simulate a fort, symbolizing the various forts during the French & Indian war that were prominent in the area’s history. The ride focused on some historical information from Braddock’s defeat, which occurred just across the Monongahela River from the park and not far from my home. Noah’s Ark had various chain-link arrangements within the ark to keep people from the displays. This spring was different in that we were installing a new fence around the new rollercoaster that replaced the Pippin. It was called the Thunderbolt and looked mighty fast and fine. As we dug holes to set the terminal posts and made wheel barrels of concrete, I could found myself trying to get brief glimpses of the rollercoaster car moving through its paces. The engineers were testing the ride to get it ready for opening day. As the noontime break approached, the engineers saw my interest and asked me if I’d like to take the coaster for a spin. I looked at my dad for his approval and given that it was lunch time, he smiled and nodded me to go with the engineers. I was anxious to get into the car and took the front seat, like most avid coaster riders. The three or four guys looked over the car and pressed the wooden bar that released the car for the ride to begin. I was thinkin’ to myself that I was taking the maiden voyage of the Thunderbolt and was probably the first person outside of the designers of the ride, the engineers or Kennywood employees to have this opportunity. There’s nothing like a little adolescent egocentrism to make a kid feel special. Like the Pippin, the Thunderbolt comes out of the gate and drops down a hill immediately after the ride begins. After a hill and additional drop, the car starts up a long hill. As it makes that distinct clicking sound of the gears while the car is pulled skyward, I try to look across the river to see if I can spot my house in North Braddock. As the coaster was being built, we saw the structure gradually extend above the horizon. When completed, the white planks looked pasted onto a blue sky. As the car levels off at the top, it starts down and hits the fastest of curves. This ride was originally designed to go through that curve at almost 70 miles an hour. A few years later, the engineers modified the speed to keep it to under 60 as the higher speeds were challenging many riders. When I went down the hill and into the legendary right curve, this coaster was clearly the fastest ride I had ever been in. The ride continues up and down and I notice my dad and some of the men walking away while I am still on the ride. I never gave it much thought, knowing that surely someone will be on the platform to let me off the ride. As it slows and comes around the turn that pulls it into the shelter where the loading platform is located, there is noone there. The coaster slows and then begins to go around for a second trip. I am both excited that I am going to get a second run on this new ride and curious that noone is sticking around to look after me. Well, my initial concern fades and I settle into fully enjoying this rollercoaster for the second time. It was as fast when the third, fourth and fifth time came around as the first and second. After three times around the track, my enjoyment begins to change to nausea. The ride quickly moves from the rush of elation to worry that I am going to be sick. I now find myself bracing for the drops and using the long hill as a breather from the fast, shaking movement. I hold onto the car with my arms extended outside, draped over it to minimize my experience of shaking inside the car. I thought to myself that this must be what it is like to be seasick.  I now realized that they all went to lunch and had decided that they would return after the entire break was over. I watched for anyone to pass by the ride, thinking that I might be able to get their attention by waving and maybe get some help. But noone ever passed by. When my dad and I took our lunch, it was usually an hour and I was praying Kennywood was not so generous. Maybe I would get lucky and their lunchtime would be a half-hour. 30 minutes came and went. Around and around and around the track I went. I’m actually getting nauseous as I write about it, re-experiencing the ride. I lost track after 17 or 18 trips. As lunchtime ended, I saw the men sauntering back across the midway towards the platform. As I can recall, the men were of two age groups, 30s or 50s. They took the same positions as they had when the ride began and I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I was when the ride finally came to a stop. I staggered out of the car like a drunken sailor on a moving ship struggling to find my balance. Everyone was laughing and one fella asked me how I liked the ride. I don’t remember what I said but quickly proceeded to find the stake-bed truck, which was NOT moving and layed down in the cab on the front seat. My dad came over, smiled and commented that it looked like I had had enough.
The maiden voyage that seemed like it would last forever was finally over! Afterwards, I wondered about whether it was like a cruel joke, where someone lures you into participating in something that you thought would be fun and then it becomes anything but. I didn’t expect adults to do this. Kids, I wouldn’t put past this kind of stunt, but not adults. It IS funny now, but it wasn’t then. Robert Hetrick, a friend of my brother’s was up visiting and at the park with our family. He thought it may have been a kind of hazing ritual like an initiation rite that guys sometimes use with novices. It’s possible, but in this case, what’s the point? Well, are there any Kennywood memories out there?
Kennywood Park continues to be one of my favorite destinations, in spite of my eternal Thunderbolt ride. My wife and I chuckled when we were eligible for the senior pass (55 and older). And yes, I find myself oohing and aahing over the fries at the Potato Patch and putting my hands in the air when the train goes around a curve. That’s about all I can handle now. But thank God, that at least for the foreseeable future, Kennywood’s Open!!

Here is a link to a portion of a WQED video on youtube about the Thunderbolt. The cameraman is clearly in the front seat to give you the right effect.

“IS IT OK FOR FOOTBALL PLAYERS TO SNUGGLE?”

Scotty

          Most cultures have rituals or experiences to toughen boys to withstand the hardships of life. In our postmodern culture those rituals are more nuanced and subtle, but if we try to stay attuned to them, they can become apparent. The challenge for the culture, community or family is to toughen the boy but not so much that he loses important capacities that we associate with the best qualities of humanity.

While I was in the midst of working on my dissertation, which was a treatise on masculinity making, I came across a wonderful experience with my son. The township we live in was exploring starting a little gridder football program at the time. When signups came, I was thrilled that my 9 year-old son wanted to play. All the boys were so excited! They had seen football games on television at the college and pro level and had gone to some of the high school games. But what a shock it seemed to be to them when adult men began encouraging them to be aggressive and hit. The coaches were smart in that they started by having the boys hit coaching dummies. These are large vinyl or leather bags with soft padding filler that made hitting more like a push. The practices moved from the boys being asked to hit or tackle the dummies to encouraging them to hit each other. The coaches would admonish the newbies with clichés like, “Men, it’s either hit or be hit. Give the blows or take the blows. Which is it going to be? I want you to slam into your opponent with all your weight, all your body, become a missile.” The shock for the boys was tied to seeing these adult men yelling for them to be aggressive and letting go of the tendency they had to restrain such impulses. The message by the coaches created some dissonance in the boys. At home the boys, in all likelihood, were instructed by their mothers and fathers to “be careful.” Or they were told “keep your hands to yourself” or “don’t hit your little brother” (or sister). In this new setting and arena, they are being encouraged to remove the restraints and “have at it!” And the coaches, consciously or not, use their voice and posture to train the boys what aggressive football player behaviors look like. They provide ready models to emulate. The coaches are trying to teach, whether intentional or not a kind of hypervigilance that is framed as focus with regard to the game. But as the coaches get louder and more passionate, the boys, in the first several practices look more and more concerned. At one point, the coach is imploring the boy to hit another boy with reckless abandon and the instruction is fostering resistance. “What’s the matter with you, son? Are you concerned you’re going to hurt him? That’s why you wear all these pads. You can’t hurt him. He’s well protected.” The coach is saying this as he’s pushing the other kid around like a rag doll. At certain points, most of the boys on the team showed concern and it was evidenced by the expression in their face and eyes. When you looked in their helmets, the whites of their eyes represented a disproportionately large part of their face. They were frightened and their faces seemed to say, “Where’s my mother? There’s been a big mistake made. Mom and dad, you don’t realize that you left me with crazy people! Get me out of here!” But in a matter of weeks, these boys learn to hit one another in preparation for the season and upcoming games. A few boys have trouble embracing this skill as a part of who they are and one actually quits because of it. But the great majority of boys on this team learn the necessary football skills and are proud of it.

The day of the first game held great anticipation by my son as well as his teammates. The game begins and before long our team goes on offense. Now the coach communicates offensive plays to the team by rotating players from various positions, in with new plays and out after each play is finished. Sure enough, the coach sends in a pass play that is to be thrown to the tight end. The play works beautifully! The quarterback takes a short drop and lofts the ball a few yards downfield. My son catches it and scampers down the sideline for a score as a fellow father yells “Rumble, Scotty!!” The team goes on to win their first game. And as the father of this boy who scores the first touchdown of the team and season, I am proud as a peacock.

At that time, I had a gray 87 Cadillac Sedan DeVille and was not above engaging in some male display behavior. I mean, after all, here were a couple of football studs, right? I put all four windows all the way down, turned up the Motown to almost blaring and playfully elbowed my son on the drive home. We were having a warrior whoop! What was interesting is that he was not into my exuberance for his performance or the team’s victory. He seemed pensive, almost reflective, as reflective as a nine-year old boy could get. After we pull into the driveway of our home, he gets out still in uniform and spots our cat, Sweetie. Sweetie is a black cat with white paws and white snout. He calls Sweetie to him and in what appears to be a very intentional way picks up the animal and gently holds and squeezes her to his chest and up under his chin. He puts the cat down and continues towards the house and a flowerbed. My wife had an area of flowers that the children were permitted to pick and pull so as to preserve her other garden arrangements. Sure enough, like Ferdinand the Bull from the cartoon, my son picks a couple of flowers and carefully looks at them and takes a whiff of their scent. We go into the house and I don’t think anything more of it other than to log it away in my mind and memory.

The morning ritual in this house with our children had always consisted of me getting up early to make coffee for myself, tea for my wife and sitting in a club chair in the bay window with that big cup of coffee just off the kitchen. The children would come down the stairs, look into the area where I was seated, make eye contact with me and run and jump into my lap. We would cuddle, snuggle or roughhouse depending on our respective moods. This morning was no different. I hear Scotty come down the stairs and see him look into where I am seated. I nod the “ok” sign and he comes running and jumps up into my lap. We squeeze, tickle and snuggle there and after several minutes we both pause for a breather. Tickling and cuddling can be hard work! My son is laying with his head in my lap and looks up at me. I can remember gazing at this “cute as a button” towhead with big blue eyes. He proceeds to ask me the most profound question anyone has ever asked me prior or since. “Dad, is it ok for football players to snuggle?” Just writing it, I’m forced to pause at the multi-layered meanings behind this boy’s question. When one parents, there are those moments when everything slows down and this was definitely one of those. I was stunned, momentarily, recalling what just happened the day before. I found myself thinking over and over again as the nano seconds ticked by, “what is he really asking me.”

          It was at that point that I realized his exposure to football became a kind of “rite of passage” for him and he was asking as he begins this process of becoming a man, was he required to be different now. “Am I to leave the soft world behind me?” To be a football player could mean that it was now time to be TOUGH, which is in contrast to sensitive, caring, affectionate or relational. Must he leave those very capacities that characterize the richness of being human behind him? Granted, to embrace his tough side may mean he would leave the vulnerable or powerless feelings associated with the world of childhood but on some level he recognized that it would result in a diminished self, a self with less awareness of his empathy and compassion for others, a private thought life that results in less reflection, a disconnect from self and others and he did not want it if it was his choice. It is why I paused so long before I responded. I squeezed him gently and said, “Yes, it is ok for football players to snuggle. Son, you will always need or want someone to be close to.” It’s funny, I watched his entire football career and he drove the coaches crazy because he was so-o nice. He’d block some lineman or linebacker and if he happened to knock them over, on occasion he’d offer his hand to help the opposing ball player to his feet. The coaches would yell, “Quit dancing with the enemy. Save that for after the game.” I love football, but I raised him to be a wonderful, caring person that would one day be a great husband and father. Did my message to him stick? I think so, probably not from our discussion in that moment, but the way his mother, our extended family and I have loved on him, we layered in a kindness you find only in gentlemen. This moment in the life of my boy happened so quickly and I hope it marked him. What I know is that his question left an indelible mark on his dad.

Uncle Dan’s “Pearls of Wisdom” for his nephew, Scott, who is off to grad school

I mentioned in a prior posting about a mentoring ritual for our sons where we gather the significant men in his life and speak words of wisdom at a particular milestone. For my son, Scott, who left in August to attend the University of Missouri, his Uncle Dan’s words were wonderfully simple, direct, and funny, delivered as only he could.

By the way, Uncle Dan or “Bugsy,” who has his own PhD in marriage & family therapy, has his own professional website. Check it out!!

http://mytherapysite.com/dmatta/viewmyblog.asp?EUID=

1. Coffee is your friend!
2. Keep a sense of humor
3. No classes before 10am.
4. If you have to have a class before 10am, go back to rule 1: Coffee is your friend!
5. Good writing is hard work.
6. When all else fails, take a nap.
7. Keep a sense of humor.
8. When a nap doesn’t work and all else fails, go see a movie.
9. Read about others through biographies and autobiographies. There you will find others have thought, felt and been through similar circumstances since the beginning of time.
10. “Pizza Dough” metaphor. Your dad, Buzz told me this one when I was in grad school. To prepare you for this field, you will be stretched and stretched again. When you feel overwhelmed and like you can go no further, remember it’s just a process of preparation to do what you love.
11. Do things that keep your morale high. This example comes from your Uncle Jim. While he was going on for his doctorate, he bought a hat that he wanted. He didn’t need it, couldn’t afford it, but bought it anyway. Do little things to pamper and take care of yourself.
12. Keep a sense of humor.
13. You are going to a major university. Enjoy all the beautiful women there!
14. There is a world beyond the United States. Learn about it and travel, asap!
15. My biggest tip is to take risks. Anxiety and fear will not kill you.
16. Follow your heart.
17. Dream BIG!

This is your time! CARPE DIEM!!! (Seize the Day!)

Dad’s Gone, You’re Alone and I’m Hungry!

We have a tendency to think that family humor is limited to children and adolescents. Well, I had to take a trip on board business to the midwest last weekend and our 22 year old son is getting ready to go off to graduate school. I told my wife with everything going on, that he’d be over as soon as I went through the door on my way out. (I wish I would have bet the house on this one.) It’s understandable, he’s going to be going over 12 hours away by car for grad school. My wife says, “no, I don’t expect to hear from him at all. He’s got so much to do to get ready!” I’m not gone more than a couple hours and he texts his mother seven words. “Dad’s gone, you’re alone and I’m hungry.” Needless to say they got together and broke bread. This one is going down into the family folklore.

CRITTER CAPERS: Pheasant Under Vest PART I

When we lived on the farm in Mount Pleasant, my dad was an avid hunter. He trained a Beagle, Bootsie, who was the family dog, to be quite a hunter. She could trail rabbits and flush out pheasants like nobody’s business. On this day, dad had a hankering for some pheasant. So, the plan was we would go hunting and he would get something to give to mom to prepare for dinner. But as a 6 or 7 year old, I had no idea what all would be entailed in this unfolding plan. Sure enough, Bootsie did her part and flushed several pheasant out of the underbrush and they flew into the open. Dad raised his shotgun and picked off the first one that came out as it flew to his right. As we located the area where the bird went down, I had my first opportunity to get an upclose look at a ring-necked pheasant. The bird was big and beautiful with a white ring around its neck and teal green and purple color markings just above the ring.

Shooting this bird happened within the first ten minutes that we went out. And although he was pleased to have something to take back to mom, he was not ready to hang up his coat and call it a day. You could see him thinking about how to get the bird back to mom so he could continue hunting. And that’s where I came in. My dad wore a hunting vest with lots of pockets and pouches for shells and places to put game to carry. In his aha moment, he takes the vest off and helps me to get it on. Now remember, my dad is 6’5” tall, so the vest was like putting a colorless serape onto this little boy. After he zipped up the vest, he stuffed the pheasant into the front pocket on my chest. But the pheasant could not fit entirely into the pouch so the feet stuck out up towards my face. The vest was cumbersome and now weighted with a rather large DEAD bird inside. We are way out in the field far from the house and barn. After my dad gets me ready to send home, he whistles to get my mom’s attention to let her know he’s sending a bird her way. Some people can whistle so loud, you’d think they were breaking the sound barrier making sound waves. My dad’s whistle was like that, it was not terribly unpleasant, but it was extremely loud and ear-piercing. Sure enough, we can make out a small figure on the porch waving her hand in the distance. Dad motions in the direction to the house and I knew I was to take this bird home.

Off I went, but I was so young, I didn’t understand death and birds. I saw my dad shoot this bird and it did not move from the time we found it and he loaded it into his vest. I was unprepared for what happened next. With this vest on, I felt something inside the pouch flinch. I stopped. The feet that were only inches from my face began to move going from limp to a kind of scratching motion. As I stood there feeling the movement intensify on top of my chest, I decided that this bird wasn’t dead. Somehow, he was faking it and was waiting until now to make his break from becoming a family dinner. I would have taken this stupid vest off if I could have figured out how, but the zipper was stuck. I began to run from the field to the worn path that had tractor tracks. I can feel this bird trying to spread out its wings and now the pouch in the vest is vibrating with all this movement. The feet are also moving up and down, in and out of the vest as the bird is trying to run. At this point, I am completely freaked out, not knowing what is going on. I thought to myself, “dead things are not supposed to move. Right?” I thought dad must have made a big mistake putting this bird in the vest. He should have shot it a few more times, but as far as I was concerned, this bird was very much alive. I am now running as fast as I can coming up the tractor path to the yard and towards my mother. She has her hand over her mouth trying to hide her concern and smile. My mom was terrified of birds. She had a bad experience with a headless chicken as a child. So, the concern in her face made sense to me. But the half smile did not. The only thing I could figure is that it must have been quite a sight to see this boy running with a look of sheer terror in his eyes as his entire upper body encased by the vest moved back and forth, up and down. As I run to her, I scream, “get it off, get it off!” She offered soothing words, “it’s ok, honey. It’s ok. The bird is dead. It’s body just doesn’t realize it yet.” Once the vest was off, I stood there in shock shaking my body as if to shake off the vest and experience. It is almost 50 years later, but I can still feel the bird move on my chest and see those feet moving near my eyes.

 

 

My brother Dan

I went out to breakfast last week with my younger brother, Dan. My wife and I were vacationing at our cottage near where Dan lives. This post is prompted by me reflecting on who he is individually, as part of our family as well as my relationship with him. As I’ve mentioned before, I am the second eldest of five children. Dan, is the third eldest and the second son in the Matta family.

My earliest recollections of Dan are found in the Heights in North Braddock. I remember his first birthday and all the wonderful toys as well as him in his playpen outside in the yard. Mom says Dan was a sweet boy but since I was displaced it was difficult for me to see. I have more tangible memories at Mount Pleasant. Mom could not keep clothes on Dan. He would strip them off and preferred to go “naked as a jaybird.” He would work hard to get the diaper off and eventually mom did convince him to wear underwear that was three sizes too big. Dan loved physical contact. He loved snuggling but he also loved roughhousing and often times didn’t know when to quit. This could be seen when we went to visit our Great Aunt Beulah and her son Mac. Mac would roughhouse with all of us at the same time, but when he was ready to quit, Dan didn’t always get the message. Mac would have to “put a hurting” on Dan in the form of a painful pinch. Sometimes, it wouldn’t stop there and Mac would have to up the hurt level to get it to stop. Dan would get it but occasionally, Mac would get a small hurting from Dan, too. Dan had this knack for lifting up his head into an adult’s chin smacking the lower part of the jaw. It seemed unintentional but more than a few adults quit roughhousing with Dan before Dan was ready. He loved using his head as a kind of battering ram. Actually, when he was really little it was his weapon of choice. So, when he was angry rather than smack with his hands, he would lower his head and ram you like a bull. Dan was hard headed but fearless.

An example of his fearlessness can be found on one of the few days our dad seemed to be home. I was in the basement with my dad. Dad was always puttering with something and I think it was the furnace in this instance. Mom was with Dan in the kitchen. The door to the basement was in the opposite end of the kitchen from where the stove and refrigerator were located. Dan was a toddler and managed to get the door to the basement open. I’m not sure how mom missed his exit, but all of a sudden we hear mom scream for my dad, “Tom!” By the blood curdling tone and intonation, my dad and I knew it was something dangerous. As Dan hears mom’s scream he turns, never interrupting his forward motion to the stairs. I turn and look up the stairs to see Dan leaping headfirst over the railing. At the moment he turns, Dan is freefalling directly in front of my dad at chest level. My dad couldn’t really see what was happening but his instincts were phenomenal! Physically, Dad is positioned with both feet on the ground and his arms at his side. In one fluid motion, Dad turns, opens his hands and snatches Dan by the ankles. Dan’s weight carries my dad’s hands toward the ground, but his head stops several inches from the concrete basement floor. Needless to say, my dad and mom were overwhelmed and speechless following this close call. Many thanks were offered to God that day and the story is etched in our family’s folklore.

But that was Dan. We went on our one and only vacation to Cook’s Forest in the summer of 1963 and Dan couldn’t swim. The water in the crick was freezin’! And this was a deep hole that went under a bridge before it becomes a stream again. Without waiting for anyone, Dan jumps off a bridge into the water. Diane, our older sister, and I gasped, but there’s Dan, grinning from ear to ear teasing us about when we were going to follow. Diane says to Dan, “Dan, come out of there. You can’t swim.” And Dan’s response, “so-o-o!” The reality was he was swimming. Diane and I scratched our heads trying to figure out how this was possible. He was 6 years old.

On this same trip, he is sleeping with Dad in a bed in the great room area of the log cabin cottage. Other family members are in this room talking, eating and lounging. Dad has a blanket covering himself and Dan is finding himself more often than not without the warmth it provides. He keeps tugging to get more of the blanket to cover himself and he says, “come on, Dad. I’m cold.” Now our dad was notorious for talking in his sleep and without missing a beat, he sits up, looks at Dan in that mostly asleep glaze and asks him a question. “Are you a man or a mouse?” Dan looks at dad and responds, “I’m a mouse, squeak, squeak, squeak. Now give me some covers!” Needless to say, there was no more sleeping as the entire family erupted in laughter. Dan’s sense of humor continues to be unmatched whether intentional or not.

Dan was sweet and humorous, but tough at the same time. I mentioned in another post about how after we moved to North Braddock from the farm at Mount Pleasant, Dan enjoyed getting into fisticuffs. I remember him bringing on several occasions rather large, older boys to the house. I would be standing outside on the porch and here comes Dan with a teenager in tow. He stands at the gate and says, “Buzz, I told this asshole, that I might not be able to kick his ass, but I had an older brother that could. So, come out here and kick his ass, ok?” Given the Goliath vs. David size differential between the teen in tow and I, I learned very quickly how to negotiate a binding peace settlement. “Well, now Dan, this guy doesn’t seem all that bad. Let’s talk about this. I don’t think my brother meant what he was saying.” And as I’m doing this I’m nudging Dan onto the porch behind me. Not being much of a fighter. Dan snaps back, “Buzz, I meant every word of it. This kid is the biggest asshole!” The teenager lunges at me but more to get to Dan. “Now, now, let’s not get all bent out of shape.” Fortunately, I was able to talk my way out of these doomsday scenarios. When the kid finally left, I looked at Dan and said, “You’re going to get us killed.” “Ah, Buzz, you could kick his ass if you wanted to, I know you could.” And he would say it with genuine belief in me and disappointment that I wouldn’t engage this kid.

As he continued to get older, Dan used his toughness to look out for everyone. Money was tight in those times and none of us were above stealing nickels and dimes out of our mom’s purse. And most of the time, mom didn’t notice. But it would add up and then there was a day of reckoning. How the reckoning went, mom would tell dad. “Tom, somebody’s been taking change out of my purse and nobody will own up to it.” Dad went into action right on cue like they rehearsed this response. “Ok, line up!” We’d dawdle pretending not to know what he meant. Everybody line up and I mean everybody. Now, we ain’t leaving here til somebody tells the truth. Diane, did you take money out of your mom’s purse?” Diane shook her head back and forth to indicate, “no.” Her head was bowed and she made no eye contact. Dad continues, “Buzz, did you take the money that’s missin’?” I’d shake my head back and forth saying, “nope.” The same thing was repeated with Dan and Jim. Then, dad would say, “Now I gave you all a chance to tell me. Since nobody wants to be honest, you all are getting spankings til someone comes forward with the truth. And we can be here all day. It’s up to you. Again, we ain’t leavin’ til you tell me what the hell is going on. Diane, let’s start the spankings with you.” Dad would bend Diane over and give her several swats on the bottom. And Dad knew just how hard to hit to make it sting with pain. Diane, being a girl, would start screamin’. Dad would finish with spanking Diane and she’d take her place back in line. “Anybody wanna tell me who took the money?” Dad would pause waiting for an answer. There was none. “Ok, suit yourself. Buzz you’re next.” I bent over and even though I was not a girl, I screamed all the same. I would regain my composure and take my place back in line following the spanking. Dad would go through the same questioning. “Do you know why you’re all getting spankings? Somebody knows who took the money. Even if you didn’t take it, you know. So, I’m giving you this chance to tell me.” I don’t think time ever went so slowly. The tension was unimaginable. “Dan, you’re next.” Dan would bend over and wiggle as Dad spanked him. He told me once prior to this if you wiggled, it took some of the sting out of it. This was not something I would even contemplate. I don’t know. I was afraid to move. But Dan didn’t scream. Dan would take his place back in line and dad would ask again, “Have you had enough or do you want to do this all day.” Nobody says anything. “Ok, Jim, you’re next.” As Jim was the youngest, his spanking was more form than substance and he would take his place back in line following his “whupping.” What is tough to describe is how my Dad’s anger is increasing as we were not cooperating. And now mom is starting to worry Dad’s really going to lose it. Dan would look at his siblings who were all crying, as we are terrified to fess up. He would look at mom and dad and say tearfully, “It was me. Don’t keep hitting em’.” There were times, when it was Diane that took the money. At other times, it was me that took the money. And sometimes it was Dan. But it was usually someone other than him. He was so moved by his empathy for his siblings, he wanted to protect them. And he would take the punishment to protect us all. That’s Dan, tough, funny, sweet and LOYAL to a fault! But I wouldn’t want him any other way.

Bullies & Manhood: Teachers can be bullies-Part III

Upon leaving Ben Fairless Elementary School for the middle school, I thought the bullying might be behind me. There’s a tendency to think of bullying as it relates to one’s peers, but it is not limited there. It can be adults who bully, whether a parent, teacher or coach.

I was excited about 7^th grade at Jones Avenue Middle School. The building housed only the 7^th and 8^th grades. As part of my schedule, during the first week of school in 1965, was a study hall.

The teacher for the study hall was a rather short, dark complexioned man. He was serious and stern for this first day. Teachers in the elementary schools seemed to make every effort to connect to theirs students through their warm, friendly demeanor. There was none of that here. Some students had commented that this school would be different.

The teacher began passing around a mimeographed handout and asked the students to look over the items listed before responding to them. (Some of you may be old enough to remember the dark blue color of the lettering and the smell of the ink from mimeographed paper. Some students, myself included, would hold freshly mimeographed paper up to our nose to get a whiff of that wonderful smell.) Given that this was a study hall and it was the first week of class, I figured we’d just hang out as a class as we did not have home work yet. So, I wasn’t paying particularly close attention. Mr. C, as he will be called started lecturing on how undisciplined and uncultured 7^th graders are and he believed it was his responsibility to teach us something about manners. As I was trying to listen, I started looking down the items listed on the paper. My eyes focused on number fourteen. It said, “Stick your feet out into the aisle so people can trip over them.” I immediately giggled a guy kinda giggle. I no sooner reacted than the teacher asked, “What’s your name, son?” I replied, “Tom Matta.” “Matta, why don’t you come up here?” I was still not following what was happening here. It makes me wonder if I had been a “slow to warm up” baby in the infant temperament classification. I never saw what was about to happen. As I made it to the front of the class, Mr. C asks “What’s so funny?” I had the paper still in my hand and as I began to get the word out, “numb…,” Mr. C smacked me with his opened right hand square on the left side of my face. It reminded me of the times I had been sucker punched by kids in the neighborhood. When the hand hit my face, my body flew sideways and backwards at the same time. He hit me with such force that I fell over three desks and fortunately the front two did not have anyone seated in them. The third desk did and the person seated in there broke my fall by putting their hands and arms out bracing for my body as it came their way. I was hit so-o hard that on the left side of my face was a beet red five fingered hand. The class was stunned to silence. I never knew what hit me. I returned to my seat and he continued as if nothing happened and proceeded to go through the True-False items with the class. I was there and not there after that happened. When the class was finally over as it was the last class of the day, I was nicknamed “Sugar Smack.” One fellow student comes up to me saying, “Matta, didn’t you know? He was a f— Golden Glove boxer!” I went home with a man’s hand print on the left side of my face. When I arrived home I explained to my mother what happened. My mother was always careful to advocate for the teacher as I could be a talker and occasionally disruptive. But my mother turned about as red as my face when she found out the whole story. “He did what?” She bellowed. “If this man ever lays a hand on you again and I want you to listen very carefully, you have my permission to kick the shit out of that bastard.” My mom rarely swore. I mean, up to this point, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I heard her swear.

The fallout from this experience carried well into eighth grade when I had to have this scumbag (see the post on Coaches & Scumbags and you’ll know why) for Industrial Arts. I was so traumatized I could not focus on my work. I managed ok with the drafting portion of the class, but when it came to the electric motor, I could not get it to work. And when he came around, right or wrong, I was hyper vigilant waiting for the “sucker punch.” There was a break in the wiring and I could care less. I wasn’t going to go back and redo it because he would have to supervise. I took the “D” even though I was a “B” student.

This kind of bullying on the part of teachers was commonplace in the 60s. It was used as a classroom management technique. It is very uncommon today, but I do worry that teachers use humiliation tactics to control students now. Bullying is not limited to children mistreating children. Adults engage in it as well.

Father’s Day Thoughts: Dad’s first 911 call goes to the Coast Guard to find 25 year old son

Well, this past Saturday was interesting! One of my sons is up from Pittsburgh to attend the graduation party of his first cousin. The Friday night prior, my son asks my wife if she’d like to come take a walk on the beach to keep an eye on him while he swims at Presque Isle. He’s been training for a triathlon competition and needed to do a swim in something other than a health club pool. Well, as he’s asking my wife, I’m behind her waving my arms as I want to go too. It turns out that she ended up being a little tired and I was the “go to” guy with my son. Now, I like to think of myself as an athlete, but swimming is definitely out of my league. I figure I can take a cell phone along, keep an eye out and it’ll be no problem.

We get up around 6:15am and head north to Presque Isle. We make a quick stop at the drive-through of McDonalds for some coffee, because anyone that knows me knows that I’m not good for much before my morning brew. We get to the parking area on the beach and my son suits up in his wet suit since the lake water is still quite cold. My son forgot his contact lenses and hands me his glasses to hold while he swims. We saunter onto the sand and he heads for the water and I head for the lifeguard chair. The weather is absolutely beautiful. Sun is up and there is a cool lake breeze. Birds are everywhere engaged in all sorts of chatter this June morning. I saw cardinals, yellow finches and I think some kind of tanager with a bright orange body and brown wings. The beach is empty except for a park employee who is using a piece of equipment that cleans and smoothes the sand. So, everything is good!

Off he goes into the lake. He’s moving with the tide and as I sip my coffee, I watch him very gradually get smaller and smaller as he swims parallel to the beach inside the breakers. As he gets smaller, all you can see are his arm motions. Then a time comes when you can’t make out his arms from the motion of the waves.

And that’s when it hits me, WHAT THE HELL, I CAN’T SEE HIM ANYMORE!! I thought he would swim out and when he got to a point that he had trouble seeing me, he would just head back in my direction. So, I begin the process of what George Herbert Mead refers to as minded deliberations trying to determine what my next course of action should be. Five minutes go by and then it is 10 and I’m fighting off what starts out as annoying anxiety. But by about 20 minutes, the anxiety is beginning to mount. I begin racking my brain wondering if I had misunderstood my instructions. I silently pray asking God to protect my son. At 25 minutes, I’m starting to have those crazy thoughts everyone gets when they imagine seeing the car they are driving along side the road, crashed with lots of mangled bodies hanging out. You see yourself, your spouse and your children all laying their dead. The function of the crazy thought is that it encourages cautiousness and you slow down to a more reasonable speed. I’m seeing Tom with some gash on his head kind of like the movie “Deliverance” with his arm twisted up around his back drowned in some crazy position. At 30 minutes, I realize that maybe I should get out of the lifeguard chair and speed walk in the direction he swam, hoping he was on his way back and we would connect that way.

As I’m walking, the broader implications of the situation are beginning to dawn on me. I’m going to have to do something more if I don’t come across him soon. I put that thought out of my head and climb up into the lifeguard chairs that are positioned equidistant intervals along the beach. I get up as high as I can, but I still can’t see him. I continue. As I’m problem solving this situation, I wonder if maybe Tom got out of the water and went to the path to get back to the car. He’s planning on a 20 mile bike ride following his swim. “That’s it!” I thought. So, I move off the beach and onto the path that goes back to where the parking area is. When I get to the car, his bike is still there and no son. My heart sank. I’m fighting off thoughts of planning his funeral as the crazy thoughts intensify.

I know now I have to call his mother, my wife. It takes me back to when I was watching the boys and my wife had gone out to shop or exercise and I had “daddy duty.” In one instance, the boys are rough housing and one falls into the fireplace mantle. Blood starts squirting and I did what any rational, sane father. I panicked and called my wife. I thought I was done having to put the proverbial tail between my legs when the kids got hurt and I was in charge. In this case the child is almost 25 years old. I can hear my wife now. I’m dead meat!

Well, I played with the cell phone for a minute or so and then looked at my watch. It had been 40 minutes since I last saw my son. I called. It was still early. There’s no answer when I call. The answering machine begins and when I hear the beep, I leave this message. “Cindy. It’s me. Can you pick up the phone? I really need you to pick up the phone.” I hang up, pause and dial again. This time she picks up immediately.

“Cindy, I can’t find Tommy.”

She responds, “What? What do you mean you can’t find Tommy? You’re supposed to be walking right along side him as he swims!”

“I didn’t know that. I sat on the lifeguard chair and watched him swim from there. I figured he’d keep track of me and turn around.”

She interrupts, “Buzz, last night Tommy explained what he needed. Why do you think he asked me if I’d like to take a walk along the beach?”

Now I’m thinking, I would interpret that walk along the beach thing very differently. My idea of a walk along the beach is to walk out onto the beach and sit. You sit on a blanket, you sit at a picnic table and in this instance you sit on the tall lifeguard chair.

Cindy continues, “You’ve got to call the Coast Guard right now! What beach are you on?”

I respond, “Beach, beach, I’m on the beach.”

Cindy fires back in that “momma bear” tone, “Are you telling me you don’t even know what beach you’re on?”

I realize the beaches are numbered and she is trying to get me to get the right information for the Coast Guard. I continue, “Ok…ok… I’ll run out to the parking area and get the beach number and call the Coast Guard. Then I’ll call back after I’ve talked with them.” I run as fast as I can to the sign and it says Beach 6. I dial 911 for the first time in my life.

And the female operator asks, “What’s your situation?”

I ask, “Can you patch me through to the Coast Guard?”

The operator asks me again, “What’s your situation?” implying she isn’t going to do anything unless she knows specifically what is going on.

I communicate, “My son is training for a triathlon and I haven’t seen him in 40 minutes. He’s swimming in the lake.”

Operator communicates, “I’ll call the Coast Guard.”

A male voice asks me the same thing as the 911 operator, “What’s the situation?”

I repeat the same thing, “My son is training for a triathlon and I haven’t seen him in 40 minutes. He’s swimming in the lake.”

The serviceman from the Coast Guard repeats in small phrases the same thing I am saying to him and it is obvious he is on the radio to whoever they are going to send in for a search and rescue.

The Coast Guard dispatcher asks me, “what does your son looks like?”

I calmly report, “He’s a big guy, about 6’3”. He’s wearing a black wet suit. You can’t miss him.” As soon as I made the last statement, I realize how stupid it sounds. I missed him. And I ask myself, How could I miss him, you big dummy?

The dispatcher asks me for my name and I tell him, “My name is Tom Matta.” He pauses and I can hear him talking in a muffled tone to the people that he will send out. “Do you have everything ready to roll there? On my signal you’ll proceed to Beach 6.”

Now this phone conversation is taking place all the while I am walking back to the beach from the Beach 6 sign on the far end of the parking lot. So, I am now facing the direction that I’m expecting the Coast Guard boats to come.

As I hear him continue to bark out orders, my attention shifts from my looking at my feet as I walk in the sand to a person I see way off in the distance. The person is walking toward me and I can see that the upper portion of a wet suit is hanging down in front. And at that moment, the person begins to use both arms to wave at me to get my attention. It’s my son! Tommy! I yell into the phone, “I found him. It’s him. He’s waving to me.”

The Coast Guard dispatcher, asks “ is he still in the water or is he waving from the beach?”

I answer back, “He’s on the beach. He’s on the beach! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so-o much!”

“That’s all right, Tom. That’s what we’re here for.”

I hang up the phone and make a beeline to my son. I call my wife in the meantime to share the good news. I start to tear up and then catch myself. We meet and stop looking at each other quizzically.

I begin, “You almost got picked up by the Coast Guard.”

We both recognized some serious miscommunication took place and each of us took responsibility for the part we each played in this fiasco. When we got back to the house, I found myself asking both sons, “are you hungry for some breakfast? How about some good coffee? Another cup? I just wanted to wait on them and serve them.

I honestly cannot remember the last time I was that frightened. I also felt “dumb as a box of rocks.” I think of myself as a good parent, but watch out for the lapses!

Hats off to the 911 operator and the Coast Guard dispatcher! Thanks again.

Mom always loved strays: “Unto the Least of These”

My mom had a heart for the disadvantaged. I’m sure her faith had something to do with it, but I think she just loved everyone. I recall two people my mom reached out to when we were children. Our grandmother commented once, “Your momma always loved strays and that can be people as well as animals.”

In the first instance, there was a woman we called German Lily. She was, of course, from Germany and spoke very little English. She looked like one of those pictures in a History channel special on the aftermath of World War II but she had immigrated to the U.S. She wore a long woolen midnight blue winter coat and a babuska. A babuska is a scarf that women wore over their head and tied under the chin. They were folded in half, which made them look like triangles with the long side over the forehead and hair and opposite point down the back of the neck. I don’t know this woman’s story other than she lived in a trailer with her daughter and our mom would go visit her. And for some reason, the woman and her daughter moved in with us on the farm. She brought a goat with her and a recipe for corn meal mush. The goat milk had a potent smell, but tasted good once you got used to it. But I hated the corn meal mush. After German Lily came to be with us, we had this mush every morning for breakfast. I tried to dress it up with jellies or brown sugar, but no matter what we did, it continued to taste horrible.

A more enduring recollection comes later when we lived on Middle Street in North Braddock. There was what we children referred to as a baglady by the name of Winnie that visited the neighborhood and whoever would feed her or give her money. As she came up the brick street, she carried a sturdy brown grocery bag with thin string-cord handles and all sorts of strange items in the bag. The items were usually things she purchased at the “dirty” store. This was the nickname given to Goodwill’s or Salvation Army stores that carried only used merchandise. Occasionally, she’d push a Kroger’s grocery cart with several bags of belongings. As far as appearance, she wore a colorful dress and a hat that predates Mary Poppins. I remember her stockings rolled down to just above her ankles and hairy legs that just grossed me out. Some older women have gray leg hairs when they get older, imagine that. She had a kind of wobble to her walk that was probably due to arthritis. It made me think of swashbuckler movies where one of the pirates has a pegleg and leans back and forth as he walks. But regardless of her gait and motion as she walked, she tried to be the picture of fashion.

When Winnie came for a visit, it was usually for two things, food and money. “Ruthie, you got anything to eat? That was the easier of the two requests for my mom to comply with. “Ruthie, can you spare a couple of shekels? I needs money, sweetheart.” What struck me with the second request was how respectful my mom was to this woman. We had just moved into this neighborhood after losing the farm. My dad was working part-time for minimum wage at a paint store in Braddock. We were receiving CARE packages of powdered eggs, powdered milk, peanut butter and lentils. This is before welfare and food-stamps as we commonly think of it now. So, giving away our food was a big enough deal let alone money. But mom always found a few nickels or dimes to give to Winnie. She used the scriptures saying, “if you’re going to give, give cheerfully.” Also, with mom having been born in the beginning of the economic Depression, she was aware that a person’s circumstance wasn’t always a result of their own poor choices. She’d also make the comment, “But for the grace of God, go I.”

The first couple of hours would go very well. My mom would brew a fresh pot of coffee, which delighted Winnie to no end. She’d ask for a second and third cup and my mom would happily oblige. There was peanut-butter toast for the main course and jam or jelly if we had any. Mom would just “love on” this woman.

Now there was only one problem. When Winnie paid my mom a visit, she’d come and it seemed like she’d never leave. So, the warmth, hospitality and patience my mom had in the first several hours began to wane around the four to five hour mark. Mom was always gracious and would gradually give Winnie hints that it was time for the visit to conclude. Mom would begin to stand rather than sit at the kitchen table and start cleaning up dishes or folding laundry. Most of the time, Winnie would get the hint. She’d ask for a last piece of toast or a last cup of coffee called “one for the road.” Sometimes, Winnie would try to stay longer and mom would have to be more direct. “Winnie, honey, its time to go. I’ve got children to look after here and dinner to make.” Once Winnie gave into the notion that their visit was ending, she and my mom would go through their goodbye ritual. The ritual included Winnie trying to find ways to prolong the visit, remembering important things she forgot to tell our mom or questions she wanted our mom to slowly ponder and answer. This would go on from the time Winnie stood up from the kitchen table, made her way to the doorway onto the porch and onto the sidewalk in front of the house. This was Winnie’s way of saying, “I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here longer.” Once in a while, my mom wasn’t up to Winnie visiting and would have one of us children answer the door and lie to Winnie. We’d ask, “Mom, what do you want us to say?” Mom replied, “Just tell her I’m at your grandmothers.” Winnie’d ask, “is your mom home?” One of us would reply, “No, she’s visiting our grandmother up in First Ward.” One time, our mom must not have got out of the living room where the door and picture window is located fast enough and Winnie knew we were lying. When we said mom was not home, Winnie retorted, “I knows she’s in there. I justs wants to see her for a minute. Just a minute.” But we were given explicit instructions not to acknowledge our mom was home and we continued to protect our mom from Winnie’s intrusion and unexpected visit.

What I remember most as a nine or ten-year old boy was my mom’s warmth extended to those who for whatever circumstances go without love. She shouldn’t have made us lie to Winnie, but her insufficiency doesn’t lessen the impact it had on her children.