Daddy's Fishing Trick

One summer evening when I was about fourteen, my Dad and I went fishing on a river close to our home town. It was a very popular fishing spot, and surprisingly there was no one else there that night. 

It had just begun to get dark. All was quiet, and Dad and I were enjoying the sounds of the summer night. I noticed that Dad had begun to look over at me quite a bit, but he said nothing. Trying to stay quiet, I didn't ask why. We sat a while longer, and He kept looking at me, and he began to grin. I knew my Dad well enough to know he was up to something, but I had no idea what. 

All of a sudden there was a loud, screeching sound right behind me, so loud that it hurt my ears and frightened me beyond belief. The next thing I knew I was up to my knees in the edge of the river, soaking wet from the splash, my hair dripping. My Dad could hardly stand up to help me out of the water because he was laughing so hard. He had watched a tiny screech owl walk up behind me, not realizing that this very still statue sitting on the ground was a real person. It must have finally realized I was there, made an alarmed and frightful scream, and ran for the brush. 

After I was out of the water, and the truth was known that I was not going to be eaten by some huge animal, I had a good laugh about it, but it took a long time for me to stop shaking and calm down. It took a long time, months...years, for my Dad to stop laughing about it. It didn't seem to bother him that this was one of those few times we went home empty handed.

Back When I Was A Good Little Girl

I was a very compliant and respectful child. Still, I received enough spankings to cause me to admit that I had my moments of rebellion. My teachers all were glad to have me as a student. I was smart, cooperative, didn't talk much in class, and never disregarded instructions. I was pretty much a model student until I got into high school. But that's another story for another time.

At home I was obedient most of the time, but I guess you could say that I was lazy, and I had no other desire than to play. That's not unusual for a child, but it was enough to get me into a bit of hot water from time to time.

Speaking of hot water, one of the most hated duties that I had was washing the dishes. My mother would get everything ready for me which meant that she filled the dishpan with the hottest water that came from the faucet. And the rinse water she prepared was just as hot. All I wanted to do when I had finished a meal was to run outdoors to find my friends, or sneak off to my room to play with my dolls. But, the dishes had to be done, and it was my job to do them. To my mother's dismay, I immediately had to go to the bathroom. Every time. And if she insisted that I start the job anyway, and my dad wasn't around, I would whine and cry and yell and insist that I couldn't wait. So, off I would run to sit in the bathroom for a long, long, long time. I needed to wait long enough for the dish water to become cool enough for me to put my hands in it. 

Soon my mom would begin to come to the door to remind me that the water was getting cold. Yes, I was counting on that, but I didn't say so. Her calls became more and more frustrated, "Shirley Ann! Your water's getting cold!" It wasn't a good sign when she used my middle name.

Finally I would emerge, positive that the water would now be tolerable. But when would I ever learn? Mom had either just changed the water, or as soon as she saw me enter the kitchen she would hustle over, dump the nice cool water, and run more hot water. Again I would begin to whine and cry, and that's when I had gone too far. Out came the yardstick, and my poor legs ended up red and sore. She never aimed at my bottom. And I never learned my lesson.

Finishing my meals is what caused me the most trouble. I was a very picky eater. I didn't, and still don't like vegetables. There were some meats I didn't like, liver, sometimes she cooked things like beef tongue, we had a lot of ham, which I still don't care for, and we had a lot of fresh fish. The rule was if it's on the table you have to eat some of it. I knew that rule. But, I just couldn't get that asparagus or carrots into my mouth. I tried, but I would gag every time. The worst part was that the longer I waited to eat it, the colder it got, and eating cold asparagus or cold cooked carrots is the worst thing in the world. So, I sat and sat and sat. And my mother would say over and over, "Shirley, clean up your plate." I couldn't. I tried hiding the vegetables under my plate. I tried throwing up on my plate. Nothing worked. Even Peewee the parakeet would nag at me, "Shirley, clean up your plate."

Eventually here she would come with the yardstick. It was a very thick yardstick with half inch size holes lining the center of its length. Those holes whistled when the stick was swung quickly. I was sitting on a wooden, hard backed chair, and every time my mother would swing that yardstick the holes would make a shrill whistle, and I would shift to the other side of the chair. Strike one. Immediately she swing the yardstick on the other side of the chair. The whistles would blow, and I would quickly shift my bottom over. Strike two. Mom broke many yardsticks this way by hitting the chair rather than me, and I would end up not getting the spanking. Strike three was when there was no more yardstick to wield, and she would send me to my room for the whole day. I never cared. Even if I couldn't play with my dolls, I didn't get a spanking, the yardstick was broken, and I ended up not having to finish that totally gross, cold asparagus.

The yardsticks weren't all the thick ones with holes. Many were thinner which meant they stung more. But all were usually free at the hardware store or even other stores had them. This makes me wonder why she only kept one yardstick on hand. She was a seamstress, so she used them for better purposes than to torture me, and always used them. If she had more than one, the second one never came out when I needed special attention. I wonder, well, do you suppose that she loved me enough to punish me, but not enough to hurt me? 

There were times, just a very few, when I did something bad enough that mom would spank me then tell dad when he got home, and then I would get another spanking. Dad took his sweet time in the process, giving me plenty of time to sweat. Mom spanked me out of frustration, but Daddy planned and gave it a lot of thought. He would then invite me into the bathroom, talk to me about what I had done, and tell me how disappointed he was. Then, with his huge, strong hand he would spank my bare bottom as I leaned over his knee. Those were the worst spankings I ever got. I was again sent to my room for the night, no supper, no dolls, into bed. I usually cried myself to sleep over those spankings. They hurt the worst mostly because of my broken heart over Dad's words to me.

I did a very unwise thing once. I tried not crying when he spanked me. No, I never tried that again. That was the time I cried because my butt hurt.

I guess I should say that I really was not as well-behaved as I would like to make you think, and I deserved every spanking that I ever got, and then some. I did tell you that my mom spanked me out of frustration. Once, when I must have been out of my mind, and I knew I was going to get a spanking for not coming home from the neighbors when she called me, I ran from her. I'm glad that happened in the 1950's, because today she would be charged with child cruelty for taking one step and swinging her foot and literally kicking my butt all the way home.

As a 70 year old woman, I can positively tell you that I never have resented those spankings. Some left red marks, but none hurt me. I learned that my parents loved me enough to care about my behavior and safety. I learned that bad choices gave bad results, one way or another. I learned to respect authority, and especially to respect the wishes and love of my parents. I learned that everything is not going to be always "my way", and that selfishness and self-centeredness were not appreciated in this world. And, I learned to hate yardsticks.

The Poor Relations

When I was about ten years old my mom and I made one of our usual trips to visit my grandmother; her mother. My grandma was in advanced age and widowed, and so she lived with my uncle and his wife and son. I looked forward to these trips, usually made by bus, earlier to Waxahatchie, Texas, then later to Tulsa, Oklahoma, where my uncle and aunt were joint pastors at a church they had founded. I enjoyed being with my mom's brother and family, and even more I enjoyed being with my grandma who would play board games with me, and tell me stories of her childhood and of her children. We sang hymns together, and we would sit on the patio for hours where she would talk about the birds, or she would teach me how to embroider and sew. 

My uncle and aunt were fun to be with, as well, though I was just a bit shy of and intimidated by my aunt. She was 4' 10" of dynamite, talked fast, and was sharp tongued when she wasn't pleased. It was fascinating to watch her chew ice from her empty iced tea glass, which she did following every meal. She and my mom would sit and visit, and my aunt would chomp continually on ice until there was no more. I've never seen anyone chew so much ice at one time, and with such enjoyment. She also ate burnt, black toast, a delight that she shared with my grandma and even my own mother. This was appalling to me.

My uncle was great fun. He did shocking things at the dinner table to make me embarrassed and laugh, like use his tongue to flip his false teeth in and out of his mouth when no one but I was looking. My aunt would catch him eventually, but meanwhile I couldn't eat for laughing so hard.

It was a beautiful summer day in Tulsa, and my uncle had told at the dinner table the night before of a distant cousin of theirs who, along with their very large family of children, were living a few miles outside of Tulsa. They were a very poor family who had no place to live, so they had settled themselves in an old abandoned gas station. He asked if my mom would like to visit them, and, of course, she wanted very much to see them again. I'm sure she hadn't a clue what to expect.

The next morning we all, except my grandma, prepared for the short trip; I venture to say it was about twenty-five or thirty miles out of town. We arrived there within an hour, I am sure. My uncle pulled his car into the front of an old, dilapidated and dirty looking gas station. When we got out of the car the first thing I remember was the smell, like a filthy barnyard. I had been on farms enough to know the difference between a dirty and a well-kept barn yard. There was also the stench of old. standing water.  Immediately children came running from every direction, some in diapers and hardly walking, and some were teens. All of them were barely, or poorly dressed, and none wore shoes.

The adults were greeted by the mom and dad of these poor children, and they also wore no shoes and were very poorly dressed. The woman wore a half apron, and I can't imagine why. The man wore overalls with no shirt. They were not clean. They hadn't known we were coming, and they weren't a bit embarrassed. They were happy to see us.

The smell intensified as we entered the open doors of the station, and as soon as we entered we knew why. Chickens, ducks, goats and a cow ran free throughout the living area which was very small. I haven't a clue how these people were able to purchase these animals, and I'm not sure I want to know. But, the chickens gave them eggs, the cow and goats gave them milk, and I imagine some were butchered and eaten at some point. There were a couple of old straight wooden chairs, as I recall, and there were dirty, brown mattresses here and there on the floor. I don't remember if there was a table. I don't think there was more than one room. But I do remember there was no glass in the windows, there was no door to shut out the weather, and there was dirt and filth everywhere. And, they all seemed to be very happy, though I have to believe that there was some shame in what we were witnessing.

We left after a few minutes visit, my uncle promising to visit again soon, and my mom went around and hugged every single child, along with the dad and especially the mom. My mom had had a hard life, but she hurt deeply for the harsh life this family lived.

In the car there was a sad discussion of what we had witnessed. My mom quietly shed some tears. My uncle said that he visited them, and he would always give the dad a little money to help them out, but the dad wouldn't allow my uncle to give him much. He said that they did just fine, and with just a little extra they would be well enough off. It was pitiful, and I remember how I realized that fact, even at my young age.

Mom and I never went to visit them again when we were in Tulsa. I know my uncle visited and helped, but the opportunity never came up again for us. I don't know how long the family lived in that old gas station. Today, the family would be arrested and their children removed from their custody. I hope that these poor relatives of ours were left alone, unmolested by the government and busy-body authorities who think their ways are better. I doubt that the children attended much school. I wonder about them sometimes, how they fared, if they had better days ahead, if they made something of themselves. I wonder how many of them are still alive. After all, they were all around my age, and you never know what will happen in a lifetime. One thing is for sure. My mom and I thought we were poor. My mom knew that she had lived a very tough life. But we both realized that there is always someone worse off than you. It was very sobering for me at the time to know that they were related to us.

Things I Learned From My Father

Life is hard for some.  Most of the time it is because of the choices we have made and the paths we have chosen.  Other times it is because of the choices of other's that have effected us. My father's life was very hard for both reasons.  He was born in the early 1900's when life was hard for most who had little education and even less money and opportunity. His hard life made him a hard man, and it shaped him into the kind of dad that I learned to love with admiration and hate with a vengeance. Early in my life I made the unconscious choice to be just like him, and that choice cost me many years of heartache and regret, not to mention the heartache I caused my parents. I am forgiven and have forgiven myself, but the regret still haunts me today.

My dad taught me to work hard. He awoke early and put in long hours. Sometimes he did hard physical work, other times it was mentally taxing. He worked six days a week, and he seldom took a vacation, though we did take a few fishing trips. My parents lived on a farm in the 1930s, a few years before I was born, where my dad and mom slaved with manual work, having no motorized farm implements and only some farm animals to help with the field work. I heard a few of the stories of their struggles on the farm; enough to realize how hard life was. The words were never spoken, but the example was there before me each day except Sunday; you go to work, you work hard, and do what is required of you. Once in a great while he would complain about a boss, but not often.

My parents had a hard life, therefore,  I expected to have a hard life.  I had no delusions that I would ever have more than a little bit in life. I expected to be low middle class, work hard, and marry a hard working man. For many years that was good enough. But in my later teen years I began to dream a little bigger, and I realized that it might be possible to have a better life, if I could just find a way to get out of the town where I grew up. If I stayed, it would always be the same, and I was beginning to want more. I believe in some way my dad taught me to dream, taught me to want to break out, because I know that was a constant dream; to break out. It never happened for him.

My dad taught me to cuss. He was very good at it, and he seldom held back in front of me, though mom would try to stop him.  If he was angry about his boss, I could expect to hear some very clever concoctions of colorful words to describe his feelings. My mom was a Christian woman, and she didn't want to hear it any more than she wanted me to hear it. But I listened with delight, took mental notes, and carried everything that I learned to school to impress all my classmates. I don't remember who was impressed and who wasn't, but I was pretty impressed with myself.  I heard a comedian once say he could cuss the wallpaper off the wall. And I would say that I could cuss it right back up the wall again. I was a very good student.

Dad taught me how to drive. He was an excellent driver who never had an accident nor a ticket in his fifty-nine years of life. So far I can say the same thing, and I am older. He taught me to love to drive in the rain, how to safely do great donuts in an icy or snowy parking lot. His only advice for driving was, "Always drive for the other guy." I have never forgotten that, and I believe that is what makes a good driver. 

The most fun I ever had with my dad was when he taught me how to fish and hunt. In Nebraska, both are excellent ways to compensate for the lack of meat during the year. Our freezer was always full of fish, squirrel, rabbit, pheasant, quail, and deer. An occasional side of beef or pork might show up if the price was good enough, or sometimes dad would do something special for a farmer somewhere, and the meat would be payment. We fished from the river bank, seldom in someone else's boat. Sitting on the edge of the water would be a quiet time to watch the wind in the trees, or watch the bubbles the fish made when they came to the top. This would be the time to tell stories of his boyhood. It would also be the time to tell me made up stories that would make me move closer to him for protection. Some of his stories made the hair on the back of my neck stand for days. And, when I was sufficiently frightened, he would laugh and laugh so loud it would echo across the water. I loved that man so much.

He bought a .22 rifle just for me to use when we went hunting. He taught me how to load it and carry it when we walked in the fields. He told me how to shoot the gun, but he let me teach myself when it came to finding my target and shooting. I was a fairly good shot until one fall morning when I was about 16. Dad saw a squirrel in a leafless young tree not 30 yards from the road. I stepped out of the car, lifted my rifle and aimed. That squirrel looked right back at me and continued to chew. I don't think he blinked. He just stared at me, daring me, accusing me.  I could not shoot that squirrel, and I never went hunting with dad again.  Our relationship was very cool at the time, and he died a couple of years later. Childhood and innocence have such advantage in our relationships. Or is is just naivete?

My dad taught me to laugh; and laugh loudly. My mother loved to laugh, as well, and listening to the two of them together laughing out loud was some of the sweetest music I have ever heard. Their life was tough, and laughing heartily was a great release. He was a great tease, and to this day I love to tease. I tease the people I love, just as he did. He had no time for people  who didn't want to laugh or have fun, even at their own expense. He laughed at himself, and he laughed at others.

Dad taught me that the people I love the most in this world will disappoint me, betray me, abandon me in some respect, and it will be the hardest and most destructive thing that I will ever endure. I haven't lost a tremendous ability to trust, but sometimes the fact of such disappointment will cause me to lash out at whoever has the misfortune to be present. My dad taught me how to be angry at the one you love and adore, how to resent and hate from the sheer pain of betrayal.  I learned that even someone who is overflowing with love and devotion to his wife and family can make selfish choices that estrange him from those who love him most. I learned that the most perfect man in the world was not perfect. I'm not sure that wound has ever healed.

Fun and delightfully funny. Sullen and angry at the world. Crass and unforgiving. Charming and handsome, a singer with a sweet bass voice. These are some of the things in life that my daddy taught me. I've gotten over some of them, others still haunt. My temper gets better with age, and with temperance from my Savior, and I am a forgiving person, though still crass when behind the scenes. The Holy Spirit checks me on that, too. I am my father's daughter, to my dismay, and I loved him with such a devotion that saw no flaws, no reason to doubt, until my innocence was gone. And, then, so was my dad.