My Mother's Death...

My Mother died early this morning. God willing, she died painlessly and went in her sleep. I find comfort in the sure and certain knowledge she is already in Heaven with my Father, their parents and my Mother's sister (the one who died pre-nadal). I don't have any objective proof of this; I merely have faith and sometimes faith has to be enough.

My brother Jim called and left a message. I called back. We were not coherient. I called my boss to request the time off; I told him I'd be in tomorrow to take care of submitting the leave request. He said not to worry about the small details; they would be taken care of.

I called Jim back later to tell him of how we'd be coming out to Oregon late tomorrow. Jim has been unable to contact Jeff; it's seems that Jeff and family were out of town again...

Charlie is back in hospital again. I fear that he'll lose that left leg this time and that our forecast of his "miracle surgery" being a nearly pointless delaying tactic is verifying. Unfortunately, damn in, unfortunately.

So, we're going to be spending a lot of time with brother Charlie (me anyway) because I can feel how fucked he is feeling and will be feeling. He has lost more than our Mother: he has lost his major person

I just hope our brother Jeff doesn't give me any shit for not coming out to see our Mother in December. I hope he doesn't lay a fucking guilt trip upon me for " the last time you saw Mom alive was in September (2005). You should have come out..."

We could have flown out at 7:30 tomorrow morning but we got tickets to leave at 3:15 pm. We could never have made the 7:30 am flight but I think the 3:15 flight is doable.

I'm not looking forward to the viewing and I purely do not look forward to the formal dinner. It'll be nice to see Aunt Lou and Uncle Jim but the circumstances will suck.

My Mother was in a pissing contest with Kathie's Father and I hope my brothers will let him come to the funeral. The feud died with my Mother and I think me Father-In-Law should be allowed to grieve formally.

This sucks and writing about it sucks and this keyboard isn't worth a damn (it is better than the previous keyboard so I guess I can't bitch too much...)

a fat lot of angst... (in the guise of a letter to my youngest brother)

This is an angry note that I wrote my youngest brother in 2001; I will have to sanitize this to hide but not remove the cuss words. As an aside: Navy Enlisted folks go to Boot Camp and either to an entry level technical training school (called an "A" school) or they "go to the Fleet". My letter begins:

-------------------

Most of the time, Dad wasn't physically violent. He was, however, quite distantand either could not or would not make the effort to talk with me. Admittedly, Iwas at an awkward age and wasn't at all good at talking with people. Still,being 50 now and older than he was when I was a teenager, I've found that I*can* often find common grounds for conversation with most folks. I can alsoread people to a certain extend and find that helps. Dad allegedly could do thesame but I find this a bit questionable.

Dad did a good job with us when we were kids. I don't know iff'n it was jobstress or whatever but he did a fairly piss poor job of dealing with us when wewere teenagers. He *did* seem to get along with Jim and Jeff as adults betterthan he did with me. I could never figure out if it was because of unfinishedbusiness between him and me or if the brothers in the center were closer to thecenter (emotionally) speaking than the two bookends (you and me). OK, this *is*a mixed metaphor but what the heck, I *am* the cook of this oh-so-tasty piece[of mail].

Emotional violence may not produce a pain as sharp as physical violence but therecovery time can be decades longer, if at all...

So, I've written this portion basically after I wrote the following material.I've even subtitled it but that was really to remind me of what I had intendedto write about. One of my Department Heads (when I was an n-swine) told me ofspending two days to write a letter. I thought that was excessive but have sincelearned that ain't the case.

wait for it...

One Saturday, I did something to piss off dad. I don't recall what but I do recall Jim telling me that I was going to get a spanking. Dad bitched at me andI must not have seemed contrite or something because he said "you doing to get three (3) swats from the belt". [or words to that effect] "But you're going toget them after church tomorrow." Keep in mind this was a Saturday. I went thewhole day hoping he wasn't serious and had trouble sleeping that night. Sureenough, after church some 24 hours after "receiving sentence" he hit me three (3) times with the belt.

This was psychological torture and Mom was helpless to prevent it. The fucking asshole simply did this to me and I can't even fucking remember what I did that could possibly have been that bad. (Don't burden Mom with this remembrance; she may not remember it. For all I know, Dad may have contritely said, in his later years, that he was sorry about this. Big fucking deal if the prick said it. It was simply too late.

Oh, I suppose I would have felt better had he apologized but then Dad wasn't one to admit to being wrong or to having fucked up.

I suppose that I'm supposed to "honor your father" but saying only nice things about him and by not cursing him. Well, God can look into my heart, see the memory of pain and decide if I should be forgiven this disrespect. If, somehow, Dad is reading this, he should be advised that while I do love him, he has inspired my rage and that is something that hasn't expired over the decades.

(Damn but I feel better after writing that. I've got some "anger issues" to workout and suspect that the four of us do. I spend too much energy trying to keepthe pain out and the anger suppressed and I'm beginning to wonder why I botherto do so...)

a beating or exile...

When I was 16, my parents told me to give you some medication. It was a Friday night and Jim and I had friendsover. We were playing board games and I forgot to give you the medicine. So, Dad waited until it was just familythere and gave me the choice of a beating or being kicked out of the house. I took the beating. He taunted me bysaying "what about your Karate? Why don't you attack me?" Then, he had me drop my pants so that he could verifythat I had severe enough bruises. (I've always thought this was somewhat faggy of him and that is ironic given hishomophobia. Then again, homophobia is often a reaction to suppressed desires...)

I was very careful to make sure I did everything he ordered me to do after that. When it came time to go to juniorcollege, I went for the most distant one and lived on campus. Then, I enlisted rather than fight the issue and try towork and go to college.

Mentally, I left home when I was 16; I just didn't leave physically until I was 18. I never went home again.

You told me years later that Dad dumped on you, Jeff and Jim because I was not there to be the whipping boy. Well, Itried discussing this with Jeff about 8 years ago (1996) and Jeff sent back a letter that effectively disowned me. AtMom's 75th birthday, Jim talked about a wood working class he'd taken with Dad and Jeff came up with some nicestory (only slightly maudlin). Neither you or I could come up with an appropriate story. Seems that I still haven'tgotten over the pain.

I believe that Dad went to Heaven as I still wish him the best. None the less, in my mind, I still occasionally look upwards (toward Heaven) and snarl...

the "prank"...

We lived in a small village (83 Rue de General LeClere, LaFere, Aisne[providence], France) in a three story town house. Technically, it was two stories with an attic and a basement. The owners had built a bedroom into theattic; it was rather like a large box. I lived there the first year we were in France; Jim and I shared bunk beds the later two years.

We were one of perhaps two or three American families in this village. The other kids lived with their families in an "American ghetto"; that is, an American housing area surrounded by barbed wired fences and locked off from the locals -the "Frogs" [to use a somewhat derogatory term the Limeys used to call theFrench]. We were isolated from the other kids and never socialized with them.That was to have its major drawbacks.

Because we were never around these kids, we were not in the in-groups during the weekends or after school. So, we were (IMO) outsiders.

I was an easy mark for the bullies because I was afraid of physical pain. It was during this period that I learn that putting up with being bullied and the attendant emotional pain was far worst than mere physical pain. (I learned that getting punched in the nose produced only a brief bit of sharp pain, soon forgotten; I learned this in fights fought to cause the bullying assholes to back off! I was amused to discover that a willingness to slug it out lead to people giving me a wide berth; causing fear has it's upsides, I suppose. Interestingly enough, I now feel safe is asserting that I have a fairly high pain tolerance.)

I learned that the school counselors *only* paid attention to the kids who came to them. I was too embarrassed to admit to Mom, Dad or the school authoritiesthat I was not able to cope. (I've since given up on this form of hiding from problems; it is after all a form of hubris. If I have a problem coping with a crass coworker, I'll go to my supervisor or the office boss without hesitation.)

There was a boy in the 9th grade who didn't pester me but then he went along with the group in ignoring me (he was still shit). A new girl moved into the"American Ghetto" and [presumably] fell in love with this boy. I say"presumably" as two friends of mine and I were on the outside observing.

We noted that the bullies were completely enraptured with this newfound love affair; think of it was the "Charles and Dianne" of Laon AFB for that spring. I look back and think most of these little snots were just part of a socially inbred group who were bored and saw their social live as paramount. Evidence for this can be:

1. the lack of American TV (the French use 50 Hz line current and we Yanks use 60 Hz also they use a different raster scan rate than we do for TV),
2. rock and roll was on the Armed Forces network from 5 PM to 6 PM {assuming that the "cuntree and worstern" DJ didn't keep playing his 60's cuntree crap into the R-and-R hour} and
3. they lived in "the American Ghetto" and were afraid to go outside...

We decided that if picking on other kids was so much fun, we would play along,play a "prank" and "see what the fuss was all about".

At that time, Mom and Dad had a manual typewriter; electric typewriters had the techo status of an up-to-date computer today. I was taking typing lessons andthat often consisted of a class of kids grimly typing practice material over andover and over and over and over...

This was, after all, about 17 years before I bought my first computer (Commodore 64) and got into modern word processing.

I don't remember whose idea it was but some one of my two friends who thought of our "little prank" and I came up with the idea of fucking with these two lovebirds just a little bit. (After all, fucking with people's personal lives and stabbing them where they were most vulnerable was a way of live to this group. What's good for the goose, etc.)

The two of them were holding hands, kissing when they thought no one was looking and just so damn cute. (I now feel sorry for hurting them.) SO, we came up withour little plan.

At this time, rubbers were the favorite water balloons at this junior high school. It was easy to buy them at a "rubber machine" in the bathrooms of the exchange. The schoolyard near the buses were littered with burst rubber surrounded by drying puddles of water.

One of the boys bought a rubber. I typed up a note (in typing class) saying "We hope you get a lot of use out of this." We put this in a blank envelope.

During this time frame, I read every James Bond book printed and read the biographies of various British and French secret agents from WW2. I took my trade craft quite seriously, Thank You! I used scissors and the sides of my fingers to put the piece of paper into the envelope; we used a wetted paper towel to wet the envelope adhesive. (Of course, the school authorities didn't have the capability to fingerprint...)

One boy put this envelope into the locker of "Prince Charles"; he got caught but lied his way out of it. Then, we stood back to watch the reaction.

It was great!

It was a bit like setting off firecrackers in an ant nest.

The boy strutted around threatening to "kill" whoever did this. Their friends (many of the local bullies) also threatened revenge and some were seen waving the blades of their pocket knifes about in a threatening manner. The girl, crying, went to the school counselors. The bullies and the other friends were called in and interrogated. Anyone who could have been angry or capable of playing such a prank also got called in. I imagine parents were informed...

As for the three of us: me, the boy who was my active conspirator and the boy who only witnessed our actions? Got away with it!

Never were we talked to abou tthis.

The last week of school, I overheard a group of kids behind me on the bus talking about this whole affair. I walked over and said something inspired like"what is happening". I vividly recall one girl turning to me and saying "this doesn't involve you, Mike". I felt like saying "who the hell do you think typed the note" but survival instincts kicked in and I simply returned to me seat.

I do feel a bit of guilt for what we did to the boy and girl but I feel no guilt for causing a number of little shits to be called into the office and reamed new ones...

I probably should feel guilt and shame but I do not.

slan sheets...

A little reason that I remain guilt-free with respect to (WRT) most of those"little darlings":

In the 9th grade, the same socially inbred white trash kids had a charming and quaint little social item called the "slan sheet". (This last sentence was an example of sarcasm, BTW.) They carefully cut up notebook pages, folded them and formed them into a little book. Then they stapled these together. They werepassed around the members of one or two cliques and various kids "on the outside" were SLANdered.

I read one once and it was a fine bunch of pure bullshit. Supposedly the school counselors knew about these but did *nothing* to stop them! They probably could not have done anything besides use the PA system to tell the students no to write in them.

Well, I've already bitched about the no-load counselors...

One day in the past six (6) months, I got to thinking about how current technology could be used to replace the "slan book". You could start with a webpage and put a "guestbook" on it. You could create a mailing group for the slandering scum and this would forward verbal crap around to the list members.You could crate a webpage on "blogger.com", spread the password around and let various people create entries. In fact, you could create a webpage in the nameof each victim, equip it with a "guest book" and let the bullshit flow.

Ain't "modern" technology wonderful? Tis all proof that progress is not always for the better.

I recently read that "words can stab as deeply as a sword but kill far more cruelly". So much for that "sticks and stones can break your bones but words cannever hurt you" horseshit!

scared to leave the base or housing bars on the bus

I don't know iff'n we've ever talked about this but a lot of Americans arrivingin France in the mid 1960s were terrified of the French. When we left OrlieAirport, they went to Loan AFB in a bus equipped with anti-hand grenade bars onthe windows. It was something out of 'Nam.There were people (single enlisted folks) whose lives were a throwback to thebarracks culture from before the Korean War. That is, everything revolved aboutthe barracks. These people lived in the barracks, ate at the exchange foodstore (not a restraint, really), got drunk at the enlisted club, went bowling,watched a lot of movies and a small percentage of them went to thelibrary.(There were over 5000 of us on the FORRESTAL yet so few Sailors orMarines *actually used* the library that the librarian knew me and his otherpatrons by name.

They could have taken advantage of the "sister village" programme and gone tofiestas, etc. at various villages around the base. (When Kathie and I were onGuam, we did that!) Many were too afraid to take the risk of leaving base. Theycould have gone on USO trips to Pairs or other parts of France, the LowCountries, Germany, Italy, Spain, Ireland (north or south) and the BritishIsles. They didn't...

I have never understood how they could have *been* in a place of such greatriches and *not* taken advantage of them!

When I was on USS FORRESTAL, I remember hearing sailor bitching that:* The food is not like my mom's (it was sometime better butusually worst),* It is *not* like high school (it was better, much betterthan high school) and* It wasn't like home (it was lonelier but physically safer andI didn't have to worry about anyone physically attacking me.)

Jim bitching after my "A"-school leave...

I was pissed at Jim for some time. I went from "A"-school to Klammath Falls,Oregon on post "A"-school leave and had a miserable time. I didn't know anyone,Dad was in some real estate class, Mom was taking nurse refresher training, Jimand Jeff were in school and you were in nursery school, I think. It was amiserable excuse for leave. After I got to the transient barracks in Norfolk,Virginia and had given my mailing address to Mom and Dad, I got a letter from Jim bitching me out for being rude and misbehaving and yadda yadda yadda whilst on leave. I sincerely thought of writing back and telling him of how badly I had been ignored by *them*. I didn't but then I didn't go back "home" on leave from June 1971 to July 1973. Well, at least I don't *remember* going back during this time. (I'll have to see if I can get my Navy leave records.)

good memory...

In 1970, before I escaped into the Navy, you and I were at a playground. To my shame, I was ignoring you, being wrapped up in brooding about things like: "why won't "my" girlfriend call me? Why won't she let me get into her pants? blah,blah, whine, bitch, bitch, whine. Teen-age angst wasn't cute then and I don't look back to this time with any great fondness or patience. I was lucky in thatI did *not* get into her pants; I wasn't ready for a serious relationship...

Mom snapped at me: "He loves you! Pay attention to him!" I thought, Damn! Someone *does* love me!" and I was pissed at myself for missing the obvious. So, I spent the next several hours doing my level best to see that you had a good afternoon. In doing so, I also had a great time myself.

So, forgive me for being a angst ridden snot -oh- 31 years ago...

Shall I quote Richard Marcinko??? (see below)

(Damn but I guess confession is good for the soul. I guess I *am* a big moreCatholic at heart than I like to admit.) Did I once mention that I attendedCatholic Mass the last eight (8) weeks of Navy Boot Camp? The Protestantservices were like tent revivals and pep rallies for God - well, Jesus actually.My favourite minister at the base chapel had been the Lutheran minister.Lutherans are very close to Catholic (think of them as Catholics who aren'tPapists) and so going to the Catholic services felt very natural. I even tookCommunion, which is something you're not supposed to do without first going toConfession. Not being Catholic, I of course didn't/couldn't attend Confession.

None the less, I don't think Jesus will be pissed off at me for the presumption of taking communion. From reading the Bible, I don't recall mention ofConfession before the last supper...

This above is of course the product of an emotional dump of words and a fewadditions.

I was telling Kathie these stories and remembered something untoward whichhappened the last week or so we were in France. I suppose you could ask Jimabout this but neither he nor Mom probably want to remember what Dad did to Jim.If you don't ask, I could tell you in confidence. The story is in keeping withwhat I've already related. Kathie told me that you're all too well aware ofthese kinds of stories…

P.S.: Here is that Richard Marcinko quote:

Mia CulpaMIA CULPA!MIA-motherfucking-CULPA!

what do I give a shit? Part 2...

There was an incident in "Magnum P.I." (one of the few I remember) where this villign pissed off Magnum and Higgins. Villign sneers and says to Higgins "what are you going to do about it?"

Higgins replies "I am going to write about it!"

A nicely terrifying response that shafted the villign and got revenge for both Magnum and Higgins. I like it...