ForeFathers

Chapter one

There is just something about having to spend the early afternoon sitting in the new doctor’s office that makes you feel like forms are only to complete so you don’t realize how much time has passed since your scheduled appointment. This new doctor, I had heard, was top notch, a real go getter fresh out of school and it made me wonder just how dry the ink was on the medical license if there still was a such a thing.

The office had great sunlight, plants, and with Enya turned down low on the ceiling speakers, I could not help but feel a little drowsy as I sat and pondered the questions that paraded before my eyes as I held the pen and wondered why I could not have completed all of this online in the comfort of my den and my boxers.

Mid thirties, a balding spot on the back of my head that I refused to acknowledge and about ten…well, twenty pounds over weight, I knew I needed to have my “manly” checkup, if nothing else but to get my mom off of my back. But the rumor of a finger being introduced by a stranger was not setting too well with me. I smiled as I thought about my buddies poking fun at me if they found out that I had my physical and asking if the doc had bought me dinner first.

The forms were asking all the general questions, but when it got to mother and father’s history, I flinched a little when it got to father’s history. I put the pen up under the clipboard clasp. I knew it meant my biological parent, but the question started rolling over in my mind as to what I did and did not know about the answer to the asked question… father’s health.

I thought about the men in my life, the men that my mother had chosen to entrust the shaping of my life and how all of that had led up to the person I now know as me. Maybe it was the warmth of the sun causing the photosynthesis of the plants, or maybe it was Enya softly whispering in my ears, but I started thinking. Thinking about how I should ever, if asked, list the men in my life. Chronically? Importance? Maybe by the amount of love and guidance I was given. All three options would have a different order. Maybe I had been to the buffet of influencers and had come away with a balanced tray. Yes, that was the case I thought. I was a square meal of mentality, as I sat there in the sun, with my balding spot and my ten, no twenty pounds of extra stomach.

My fathers. My forefathers. My four fathers. I took the pen from the clipboard clasp and thought as I completed the forms. I had to write when I got home. I had to do some self analysis in the form of writing some sort of a letter to each. I knew three were no longer with us, but they still were getting a letter. Four letters that may never be mailed, but the return address on each was mine, because I was the result of the four, the good, the bad, the baggage and the respect, all had been poured into me like secret ingredients of a family recipe.

Thanks for the music…Enya…

Chapter two

Chronologically, the first, and I guess the giver of life, was a man my mother married at the ripe old age of eighteen. Christopher Stanton was his name and he was my father for about two years. It was two short years my mother told me because he was in some sort of military position right out of school when they met, fell in love and married. They were happy, living the dream of her going to college while he played government. She really did not know what his job title was, nor did she know of the danger he met as he went on “assignments” out of town. All she knew was, she came home from school one day to an empty apartment with all traces of him removed and a letter from the government stating she would be receiving money for the rest of her life for his involvement on a job that saved others lives, except his.

His bravery replaced the man that was to be my father almost nine months later. My mother never got to tell him about me because at the time, she did not know I existed. I remember her telling me that he would have made the best dad. This unknown man that I only knew from a courthouse snapshot wedding photo because all the rest of his memory was erased from public view. I still have the faded picture in my desk somewhere. I guess I need to find it when I get home. It might inspire me when I write the first letter to Mr. Christopher Stanton. One not to be mailed since I would have no clue if it would even make it out of the post office if I did have an address.

My plate would now have something of substance on it that I got from Christopher. I got his genes I guess, but I would like to think that I got his sense of responsibility, maturity and valor, but deep down inside, I resented him a little for leaving me and my mother, although I know it was for a purpose, I guess, but still, the fact that my “Father Knows Best” dad was really never a part of me.

Thanks for your service…dad….

Chapter three

John Tarlic was the neighbors son, and a few years older than my mother. She had moved back home to have me and so my grandparents could help while she was in school trying to complete her degree. She had always wanted to be a somebody in the eyes of the world, but knew with the hand she had been dealt, a degree in teaching suited her much better. I never understood why she could not see that she was a somebody in my eyes. Her self esteem was lowered by society that had labeled her as almost an unwed mother, even though Christopher was real, people didn’t understand the reason of his disappearance from our lives.

John was “let go” from college. Kicked off the football team and lost his scholarship for breaking the no alcohol clause in the scholarship rule book. He did not seem to mind and I guess his family didn’t mind as well, they were glad to have their little boy back home as if he had been to war, not off partying at the campus houses.

John and my mother started dating, she told me, after he ran into her on the front stoop of the row of houses along Jackson Street. The houses were all built close together and looked very much alike. Mother was coming home from school and John was coming home from a bender the night before and had passed out on a friend’s couch. I just did not see what my mother saw in him as I look back on the stories she told me before I could remember my own memories of John.

I guess my first real memory was the day I fell off my tricycle and cut my chin on the metal fender. I was screaming and bleeding and scared and John, he just said be a man and buck up. My mother took me to the emergency room where I got some stitches and a tetanus shot. John was still drinking when we got home. He wanted to know where his dinner was instead of asking how I was or trying to make sure I was OK. I can still remember the way he looked at me as if I were a priority above him and his dinner.

John was around until I was about eleven years old. The day that started the journey that John was about to take, was August seventh and I remember it was hot. The doors of the house were open and the fans were trying to cool us off as much as a box fan could do against a hot, irritable Mother Nature.

John had planted himself on the couch most of the day drinking his Pabst Blue Ribbon beer when around two o’clock, he announced he was going to the store to get more to keep him cooled off. My mother asked him to please not, that he had been drinking too much and did not need to drive. John just looked at her, turned and walked away, got in the car and left. I was playing with my trucks in the dirt on the shaded side of the house when he left. I could see and hear their conversation on the front stoop. The neighborhood knew John was a drinker and that was a fact that no one ever tried to hide from people.

Now it was years later that I was told the real story of what transpired to John and his trip to the store. But at that time, and me being only eleven, John just did not come back home and I was glad. My mother seemed a little sad at first, but I think she got over it with the help of her friends at school and the fact that she was teaching made it seem possible for just the two of us to possibly make it on our own with the help of my grandparents that still played a big part in my life.

Now you may be thinking, what really did happen to John. And I bet you think he was drunk and driving and caused an accident. Well, no, John did go to the store, and he did get some more PBR beer that he and a buddy sat out in front of the store and drank. But due to the heat, the beer, and a late Trailways Bus that turned the corner just at the time John was stumbling to his car, well, let’s just say John’s casket was closed at his poorly attended service.

I guess from John, my plate now held knowledge of how things could change the real you into to a person induced by alcohol or any other altering influence that would make you cold and heartless to those that you were supposed to love and cherish.

I also learned that being self centered only served self, not others. John could not play by the rule book, at school, at being a husband and stepfather, or at life. So another of my letters would never to be sent because of lack of address.

Thanks for taking the bus…John…

Chapter four

The recently widowed teacher, Mrs, Tarlic, my mother, was called into the principal’s office about three months after John went on his bus ride. It was late in the day, right before the last bell for dismissal rang to let the kids out of school, when the speaker on the wall above the blackboard statically summoned my mother to the office. Knowing she had tenure and had only missed a few days for bereavement, as some called it, she gathered her things for home. She locked the classroom door and made the trip down the now deserted halls where other teachers were locking their doors and calling good night to those that were lucky enough to be able to go home, those that did not have the after class activities for all the clubs and meetings. My mother counted the grey and beige colored, one foot square tiles as she clicked off the steps to her destination of the office.

It was there where she found Mr. Rossini, the principal she had known for a couple of years waiting for her. He was sitting in the secretary’s office, I guess so they would not be alone. My mother was offered a seat and Mr. Rossini asked how she was doing in class and at home and wondered if there was anything she needed now that life was dealing her a new hand of cards. My words, not his. I have the liberty of doing that since this is my story.

Long story short, Mr. Rossini was trying to get to know my mother and to see if it was appropriate to maybe ask her out. He did not want to upset or embarrass her, he just wanted to see when and if the time was right to ask.

It was.

They dated for over a year, and chaperoned dances, school functions and were the perfect school couple. Me? I learned to play ball from him. He taught me to fish. Took us to movies. And one night, after we had gone to a ballgame, we were sitting in his car, eating “after the game” hotdogs at the Dairy Queen, when he just popped the question to my mother. I don’t know who answered first, me or her, but we both said yes to his proposal of becoming her husband and my new dad. We were all so happy that none of us minded that we got ketchup all over his car seats and laughed about it the next day as we cleaned up his, our car.

I loved this man. It was about this time that I started calling my mother mom, just so I could call him dad. Mom and dad. It just had a nice ring to it. It was a Sunday night “left overs” dinner the first time I slipped and called him dad. He was kidding me about girlfriends at school and I told him “Dad, you know I don’t have a girlfriend, you’re the principal..” I froze in my chair once I realized what I had said. No sound at the table. I looked up as my eyes turned to him. He said not a word as a tear ran down his cheek. He got up and came to my chair. The hug he gave me made the little boy in me feel safe and wanted and loved and ever since that night, I received maybe a million such hugs from him.

My mom tells me he made her feel just the same. He made her feel like she mattered and was seen. He loved my mom and was not ashamed to show her in public her worth to him as a woman, wife and mother. He made her forget John and just how bad she had been treated.

Principal Sam Rossini adopted me. We were the family that went from tragedy to triumph in my opinion, all because of Sam. We had many years of happiness. He taught me to shave. Told me about girls. Shared his aftershave. Taught me to tie a tie. Taught me how to not only be a man, but taught me to be me, in whatever form that might take and how to be happy about it.

We were happy for many years until Sam got sick. My mom found out that he had been sick for a while but he did not want to worry her and definitely did not want me to know. I have no clue why people always want to shield me from life. I had to learn some way and being guarded only made things seem harder when they did come along. As with Sam. Sam was very sick only for a short time. My mom and grandparents, and yes they were still around, took care of Sam. Me, I was right there as a good son would be. This man, Sam, had been my savior in this world. He held me when I needed it and I held him the day he passed.

I cried until I was empty.

From Sam, my plate was full. I had learned how it felt to be loved and was taught how to show love. I learned compassion, respect, how to laugh at life, how to give a hug and how live life to the fullest. And, that ketchup will wash off a car seat!

Thanks for holding me…Sam…

Chapter five

Before I came to be and even before my mom came to be, there was the most perfect set of parents this world has ever known. And yes I may be prejudice in this assumption because they are my grandparents. Sarah and Kurt Spaulding, better known to me as Grammie and Popi.

Grammie and Popi had always been around, it seems, since time began. I can never remember a time when they were not here to help feed, babysit, nurse the sick, be a listening ear and never giving anything but good advice. They were a neighborhood staple for as long as they lived. Friends and neighbors always knew they could depend on Grammie and Popi, and I learned from an early age that they were a constant in my life.

They were there when Christopher vanished to pick up the pieces for my mom. They were there when I was born and came home to their house where I was raised for a little bit of time. They were there during the John tribulations and especially there for Sam.

My Popi and I had always been close ever since John came into the picture and even during the time I had with Sam, my Popi was there, right along side of us, joking and kidding me about growing up so fast and having tissue paper on my shaving cuts when I was learning to use the old Wilkerson silver razor that Sam let me use. He was there for my first prom, my first broken heart and he could hug almost as good as Sam.

Now my Grammie started slowing down due to her having a slight heart condition which we all blamed on her fried foods and delicious cooking with bacon grease and salt. She had the pressure pills, the cholesterol pills and the sugar pills, but still cooked every day like she was feeding an army. Most of the time, food went to the sick or the family down on their luck, or just wherever she felt lead to send it. I think the good Lord gave Grammie the gift of food and knowing who needed it. Preacher said at her funeral that Grammie had a special calling that no preacher ever got and that was the gift of knowing.

But I jumped ahead a little. My Grammie and Popi were inseparable in life except when Popi was working at the yarn mill. She would be up before dawn cooking breakfast and getting him off to work on a full stomach and then she would have supper waiting on him when he got off work. Popi would just have to walk in and sit down at the table, say the blessing and eat, every night.

Grammie and Popi went to bed one night in June and that morning when Popi woke to go to work, the smell of bacon and coffee from the kitchen was missing. He went down stairs and found Grammie, sitting in her chair at the table, had her bible out like she always did before she started the day, but this time her eyes were closed not in prayer, but in contentment that she had live the best life she could and now was with the Lord at the pearly gates.

I went and stayed with Popi for a while, just so we could get things in order around the house and to make sure he was going to be OK by himself. But mostly, I wanted to stay with him because since Sam had passed, I knew being alone was not Popi’s way. My mom was doing well and did a little traveling to visit kin folks in different states like she had always wanted to do, so me and Popi hung out. Ballgames, movies, cards, and especially dominos! Popi and I hosted some mean domino parties for the “dead pecker bunch” he called the older men of the neighborhood. Although dominos were played at these parties, most of the time was spent gossiping about old sister so-and-so and who made the best casseroles when a wife died. I swear these old men carried on like nobody’s business, but they kept a watch on each other and made sure they all kept their doctor’s appointments and ‘scriptions refilled. Me and Popi, we always seemed to have a party up in the house as he would say.

My Popi was the one to listen to me and make me talk about my life. He knew I had been through some rough times because he was right there with me. It was him that finally talked me into seeing a therapist. He and I would sit on the front stoop at dusk and discuss life over a bottle of Dr. Pepper, his guilty pleasure. We solved many a problem while seeing who could belch the loudest.

He picked up where Sam left off, although he was always there in the background, Popi was my final mentor, my substitute dad, my best friend and confidant. One day, while sitting on the stoop, he turns to me with a proud look on his face and announced that I was done. I had completed my “son” course, but there would be no graduation ceremony, just a pat on the back and now do the best you can do. I guess this was my graduation speech. I thought about all of my teachers that had tried to teach me how to be a man. All four had been different in the ways they taught me. Some taught me good things and some taught me that doing the opposite of what I saw was the best lesson.

And finally my Popi. Tonight, he thinks we are having a domino party, but in reality, we will be taking a little trip to the beach. We have always talked about have deep conversations at sunrise and sunset on the beach. I have rented a small cottage on a month to month basis and we can stay as long as we like. Thanks to the money we still get from Christopher’s service, I have been able to save quite a lot just for this. To give back to my men the best way I know how, by being the son they would have been proud to show off to the neighbors with a smile. And taking care of Popi in his last days is just what I want to do.

What started with Christopher had now ended with Popi and I guess maybe Popi’s could be the only letter that might be mailed, since he is still around, like always! My plate that was full of lessons on life, I guess Popi was supplying the dessert. The dessert of learning consistency, of always being there, of listening and giving advice.

Thanks for the Dr. Pepper…Popi…

Chapter six

Doctor’s visit now complete for a year and guess what? There are other ways to check down there besides the finger method! Who knew?

On the way home, I seriously thought of how I was going to sit down and put all my dads down on paper. And, as I did sit down at my desk with my iPad, I had a conversation with three of them while clicking the letters and seeing the movies of my memories in my head both real and made up. Christopher and me, we hung around in that make believe world for a while. The world where he took my mom to the hospital and was there when I was born and tossed me in the air on my early birthdays, took the training wheels off of my first bike and then kissed the boo boos on my knees after I fell, but smiled like he had won the lottery when I didn’t. He saluted me when our time was done.

John and me talked about what made him so unhappy in life and why he took to the bottle to ease the pain of some sort of hurt he held onto inside. I could come up with all sorts of reasons thanks to my therapist, but none of them stuck, so I just decided to say, he had issues. He did laugh when I told him that I had this extreme fear of buses thanks to him. But he did wave goodbye when it was his time to go, so maybe I had cut John some slack as I got older because I knew about holding on to things.

I cried with a hurt heart as Sam’s memory reel played. I don’t think I had to make up anything for Sam’s letter. Sam was just special to me and everyone his life touched. I wish every person could have a Sam in their lives at one time or another. He came into our lives just at the right time, he did his job and I guess he had completed his mission when he clocked out. He had lead the school as the principal, he had lead my family as a dad, and now that I think about it, I hope he is still leading me, giving me gentle pushes to make the right choices because Lord knows I still hear his voice in my head. Sam looked at me as his time of memory ended and gave me the same look as he did that Sunday night at the dinner table when I slipped and called him dad. Amazingly, I felt his hug from somewhere across time.

I don’t have to make ending memories for Popi since he is still with me, but as I load the car, with the help of Christopher, John, Sam, and Popi trying not to get in the way, I think about my plate. How each put things on it that made me special. I find myself to be respectful, giving, loving, a listener, and so many more attributes and yes, maybe a few that may not be so good, but you have to have a little bad to make the good stand out my Popi would say.

So my four letters have turned into a story about four men, my forefathers. We don’t get to pick our heritage, but we can make the best of what we learn from them. All of them.

So Christopher, John, Sam, Popi, ketchup, Dr. Pepper, and even Enya, I thank you all for allowing me to be. And to be, is to knowing yourself enough to see where you have come from so you can plot your journey forward. And who knows, I may end up in someone’s story one day, and if I do, I hope it is one of love, life and good memories…

Thanks for listening…me…