Photo: My dad and his older sister Gertrude (my Dear Aunt Gert) at Christmas.  Mid to late 1930s.

My father....a Gentle Soul: 

I don't remember ever NOT liking my father.  As a toddler, I cried when he left for work.  I remember being at the door reaching up toward the door knob.  We lived on the third floor of a 3 story, 3 apartment, brick building with a wee front yard, a gangway to the back yard, and a garage accessed through the alley.  (As a child I remember a horse-drawn wagon/cart driven through the alley. Not sure of its purpose though.)The door to the apartment was situated on the north wall of the apartment.  I can still picture every detail of that apartment.  It had character.  A fireplace in the front room, a built-in bookcase alongside the fireplace, two stained glass windows on either side of the chimney stack, a built-in china cabinet in the dining room, a built-in cabinet in the hallway and a walk in pantry with cupboards and a window.  They don't make them like that anymore. 

Anyway, back to my father.  (Yeah.  I know.  I get sidetracked a lot.)  I knew my father to be a gentle soul.  He somehow tolerated my mother's behavior, and I think I remember them arguing at times.  It wasn't knock-down-drag-out fights.  Just raised voices.  I don't remember specifics.  

When I was perhaps 6 or 7, my folks came home from a shopping trip.  My dad wasn't feeling well.  I was laying on the sofa bed in the front room and the doctor made a house call.  My dad, for some reason, didn't want the doctor touching his feet.  That was odd behavior and it's odd that I remember that so clearly.  

The next thing I remember about that incident was being in an office that had a dark interior.  It was, I think, the office to the Pinel Sanitarium. I was definitely the Pinel Sanitarium but I'm just not sure if it was the main office or just one of several.  My dad, a World War II vet, had had a nervous breakdown.  (Today we'd likely label it PTSD.)  He was given shock treatment.  I'm not 1005 sure if the time in the office was at the beginning of his stay or later.  I could be mistaken about the timing.

I remember one sunny day my mother took me to see my dad.  I think we walked down a hall to a doorway overlooking the courtyard where patients (some of them at least) spent part of their day.  While standing at the door, an attendant came up to us and said, "You're not supposed to be here."  Was it because I was just a child?  Or was it a rule that no visitors were allowed in that space?  I'm not sure.

I think my dad spent about one month at Pinel.  I have letters that my grandfather wrote to a friend of his over the years.  He mentions my dad's "hospital" stay in one letter.   I"ll revise this later as I look for the letter and get more details.  (I'm writing this "on the fly" so to speak.)

My dad came out of the "hospital" to unemployment and no means to support his family.  The only other job he had after that was one winter at the post office.  Before his breakdown he'd worked at the Chicago & Northwestern Railroad.   His dad, and various other family members worked in the building the Railroad occupied at the corner of Lawrence and Ravenswood in Chicago.  Even my mom worked there for a while.  (I was taken to a daycare before I started school, and I think my grandmother, mom's mom, watched me for a while when I was very young. (I have that info in notes from an interview with my grandmother years ago.) I was too young to remember but, now that I think of it, I wonder if that's where I was when I had that scary dream I mentioned in an earlier post.  Something to think about.

 After my mother left, my dad and I went places...in Chicago and beyond.  He took me to an International Festival at Navy Pier.  I loved the ethnic foods.  We took a train to Muskegan  (sp?) Michigan, stayed in a hotel overnight, and took a ferry across Lake Michigan to Milwaukee Wisconsin.  To the best of my recollection, the ferry was huge!  It carried 600 passengers (perhaps 900?) and 150 cars.  

My dad occasionally "acted up" when we were out in public.  He sometimes thought people were "beaming in on him."  That's what I heard him mumble as he "went off" for a while.  It was at times a bit scary.  At other times it was embarrassing.

When I was in the 5th grade (10 years old), my dad came to school and dragged me out of the classroom I was in at the time.  I wasn't actually dragged, but I was in the hallway with my teacher and my dad.  He was holding one hand, trying to pull me away from the teacher who was holding my other hand.

My dad kept me out of school long enough to get me demoted a half year.  (My school, McPherson Elementary, was on the semester system.  I started in January of 1954, just before my 5th birthday.)  It may have been during that time that he took me places.  We had a pale green Plymouth Plaza station wagon (perhaps a 1956 model).  I knew I should have been in school during the week, and I sometimes ducked down in my seat of the car so I wouldn't be seen by others.  I was afraid of getting in trouble.

When I returned to school, a half-year behind, I felt like a dummy.  One of the boys I knew from earlier grades (my first crush) called me a "dummy."  Wow.  That really hurt, and it stuck with me for years.  I had once been a gregarious child but by the time I was labeled a "dummy" I was extremely withdrawn and shy.  I felt inferior.  

The teachers were, for the most part, kind to me.  They knew a bit about my home life.   They told me that I was smart, and if I worked hard, I could make up the half year I lost.  They told me my IQ was 140 but that had no meaning to me back then.  

I didn't apply myself.  I stayed behind.  I lost some friends but I made some new friends.  However, I was often misunderstood.  My shyness was thought to be a "superiority complex" by some. I always thought a bit differently from others. I questioned the world around me. I heard conversations in my dad's family in those early years.  It made me think. My dad and grandfather read books.  My dad read dictionaries and used words that I didn't know.  I thought they were made up by his crazy mind.  It wasn't until years later that I realized he knew much more than I gave him credit for.  I later knew him to be a Good Soul in spite of his mental illness.  My dad's family were good people. 

My dad's sister, my dear Aunt Gert, did a lot to help me through the years.  If not for her, there's no telling where I may have ended up.  She took me shopping to buy clothes.  It wasn't much, but it was more than I had without her.  Aunt Gert was a beautiful person, inside and out.

When I was old enough to date, I had the young men pick me up at my best friend's home a block away.  (We were both only children,  and I was exactly a week older than she was.  We met in kindergarten.)  I say young men, but it may have only been one young man.  Now that I think of it, I think he stood me up.  I didn't date much.  I wasn't a "loose girl."  I knew nothing about sex.  As a young teen, or pre-teen, I even thought "shut up" was a bad word.  

Oh wait.  I need to back up a bit.  My dad, Gramps and I were evicted from the first 3rd floor flat.  My dad had a habit of spending a lot of time in our only bathroom.  No, he wasn't doing what most folks do in the bathroom.  He had a lot of papers, personal I assume.  He often filled his pockets with his "papers"  At other times he ripped them up and flushed them down the toilet.  The toilet backed up.  The landlord lived in the first or second floor below us.  He complained and we were eventually evicted.  That when we moved to the 2nd apartment abut 4 blocks away.  

The "new" apartment was on the 3rd floor but instead of only 3 apartments in the entire building, these were smaller apartments and there were six to each doorway in the courtyard, and around the corner.  The 3 of us lived in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment for the next 9 years or so of my Life.  (Note: I like to capitalize some words that aren't typically capitalized.  Life for one.  if I'm talking about MY Life, I feel it should be capitalized.  That's just me.  Right or wrong.)

 I think that's most of what you need to know about my dad...for now.  I may return to this entry or I may just insert more about him in other entries.  Later!

 

 

 

Now a bit about my parents... 

I already shared a bit about some of my very early memories.  I have more, but I don't feel the need to write them all down.  I just wanted to say that my memories go way back.  Some are "flash bulb" glimpses, a frozen moment in time.  

I even remember some dreams I had at a young age.  One particular dream affected me for about 10 years.  In my dream, and in real life, I was at my maternal grandmother's small apartment.  There was a small bedroom off one corner of the living room.  I suspect that it may have been a small walk-in closet at one time.  There was barely enough room for a single bed.  Anyway, in my dream, there was a figure, I think male, draped in black clothing.  He was poking me with something but it didn't break my skin.  I remember seeing an object that looked like a thermometer.  Small in length and girth.  It dented my skin and the underlying flesh.  Again, it didn't break through my skin. I was terrified.  When I awoke, I remembered that I had fallen asleep on my back.  In my young mind, I thought that was the cause of my nightmare.  For about 10 years, I was unable to fall asleep while on my back.  I think I was about 4 years old when I had that dream.  I still think of it from time to time.  

Now, my parents.  My mother was born in 1926 to Romanian parents.  

OK.  I'm back.  I started to write about my mom a few weeks ago.  I'm just now getting back to writing about my mom.  See below.  (Some of my writings will be stop & go so please bear with me.  I have plenty of others things to do most of the time.)

My MOM, the un-motherly mother

What do I say about my mother?  He was the middle child of three, an older sister and a younger brother.  Her father was born in Romania and her mother was born in Chicago to Romanian immigrants.  I think she was sickly as a child.  I seem to remember being told that she had “scarlet fever” or “rheumatic fever” as a child.  She was always short and lightweight.  I think she was about 4’10” and only 90 pounds and even less.

I don’t have warm & fuzzy memories of her.  I don’t remember her showing me much affection.  Instead, my main memories are:  Her touching a hot match head to the skin on my forearm.  Picking me up by my head with my body weight suspended below.  Putting her hand over my mouth and my nose.  Most of the background for her behavior was the master bedroom where my folks slept.  I, too, at times slept in the same room in my crib. Oh.  There was another unpleasant memory I have of my mom.  When I was about 4 or 5, I was playing with a large metal spinning top.  It was fun.  It was noisy.  Next thing I knew, my mom had picked it up and threw it across the room...through the window of our third floor flat.  I don't remember playing with it again after that.  I think it flew away to a better place.

There were some fun times but I don’t remember any with my mom unless other family members were involved.  We went on fishing trips to Third Lake, the Riverview Amusement Park, the Olson Rug Company waterfalls, and the drive-in.  Those were relatively fun times.

My mother was an alcoholic.  Her beverage of choice in the early days was wine.  I remember she once tried to make wine by leaving a bottle of grape juice (Welch’s most likely) on the counter to ferment.  I knew little of the process at that early age, but knowledge I’ve gained since then has helped me to understand what she was attempting to do with the grape juice.

By the time I was about 7 years old, my mom was taking me to the local, and not-so-local bars, with her.  The main bar was on the south-east corner of Dame & Lawrence in Chicago.  I have very distinct memories of sitting at the bar with her.  I whined about needing to go home to do homework. One time I was in the restroom with her as she cried and asked me who I’d want to be with if she left my father.  Oh no.  I didn’t like my mother.  I wanted to stay with my father, but I knew that I couldn’t answer her truthfully.  I couldn’t hurt her feelings.  That passed.  Nothing happened for a while.

I remember one other outing to see a movie with my mother.  The movie was The Incredible Shrinking Man.  I think I was 8 by then.  (The movie release was 1957.)  She told my father we were going to the movies.  I was excited.  However, we went to the race track instead.  I don’t remember which one.  We had 2 or 3 in the Chicago area.  Afterwards I remember being in a restaurant sitting in a large semi-circular booth.  I remember thinking about what I would tell my dad when we got home.  I lied to him.  I told him about the movie.  I based my description on the ads I had seen on TV.  I can still picture some of the scenes “from the movie.”  I really didn’t like being put in the position to lie to my father.  That’s not something that should be put on a young child.

Some time later, my mom didn’t come home one evening.  I don’t remember the exact month and year.  I was about 7 or 8 years old.  I know we were still living in the first apartment build I had ever lived in.  (We were there from my birth in March 1949 to the time I was about 10 years old (1959).  I remember being in the car with my father and he told me he bought some new shoes for mom.  They made her taller.  I was looking forward to seeing them.  I didn’t get a chance.  That was, I think, the night my mom didn’t come home.

I think it was 1-3 days later when my dad and I went to the local police precinct to pick up my mother.  I ‘m not sure why she was there but I got the impression that she had “turned herself in” to the police.  I don’t remember how long it was before she did that again.  The next time she was gone forever…until she came back for the small portable TV that she’d won playing Fascination at the Riverview Amusement Park.  I think she picked up the TV on New Year’s Eve when I was 9 or 10. (Still at the first apartment building…on Winchester.)

So, this was the mom I spent my early years with.  It’s ironic that I didn’t particularly like her but I felt a loss because of her absence.  I felt unloved.  I’m sure that’s why I had some rough early years.  After all, if my own mother didn’t love me, who else would love me?

In spite of my mother, I felt loved by the rest of my family.  I continued to live with my father and grandfather. My dad’s side of the family didn’t show a lot of affection, but I felt their love nonetheless.  My dad’s sister, my dear Aunt Gert, was my savior.  My guardian angel.  Thank goodness for Aunt Gert.

 

 

 

 

 

My Early Years...

I was born in Chicago on the 3rd day of the 3rd month.  Additionally, I was born on the 3rd planet from the Sun.  Bingo!  Numbers.  I've long had a thing for numbers.  I enjoy number patterns.  I like to play with numbers.  I enjoy math.  Numbers.  Math.  It's all around us.  I've often thought if we taught math in "real world terms," fewer folks would dislike math as much as they do.  Maybe.  Maybe not.

 

This is me at about 2 or 3 months old.  My mother was, I think, 22 years old at the time.

 

 From The Beginning...

Where to start?  How 'bout the beginning.  Hmmm.  The beginning of what?  I know.  It shouldn't be so difficult.  However, I've lived a long and complex Life.  (Almost 76 years.)  When I think of my past, I break it into segments.  Periods of time that I can define by events in my Life.

So, I may write a bit about something that happened in my early childhood, or I may write about my teens, twenties, or whatever comes to mind.  I have much to pass along to family.  I'll define a segment by the era.  By the approximate years in which the events took place.  

This isn't much for now but it's the best I can do at the moment.  I'm just getting over Influenza A.  Not a fun time.  However, now that I'm "on the mend" it doesn't seem so bad.  It's all relative.  I've been through worse in the past.  Life is like that.  It has its ups and downs.  Its highs and lows.  How would we know how good we have it if we never experienced a bad spell?  

I guess that's how I know I have it good now.  Life is Good.  I've been through a number of rough times.  Some not so bad.  Some waaaay bad.  However, I'm a survivor.  I'll get into the details soon.  My goal at this point is to write a bit every day or two or three.  I know. A lofty goal but I gotta start somewhere. 

I'll be adding photos soon.  Some old and some new.  A frozen moment in Time.  Oddly, many of my memories, back to the age of about 2, are like "flash bulb glimpses" into my past.  I have very vivid memories.  Now, I need to figure out how to put them in writing.  Yeah, right.  I grew up thinking I was more scientist than writer.  My problem is having more ideas than I can clearly write for others to understand.  I'm a tangential thinker so I tend to meander.  Stick around long enough and you may pick up a thread you can understand or relate to.  If anyone other than my family reads this, my hope is to let others know they aren't alone in what they're going through or what they've been through.  Yes, there is a light at the end of the tunnel.  Yeah, sometimes it may be a fast moving train headed your way.  But, then again, it may just be a Shining Light!  A Guiding Light to illuminate your way forward.

Until next time.

 

 

 I'm still here....alive and kicking.  Life goes on.  Life continues to get in my way of writing.  However, I still plan to write my "life story" some day.  Why?  I have much to pass onto my daughter.  She missed many years with me.  I'm not going into that now.  I'll get to it later.  I've been hesitant to write what needs to be written.  Some feelings will get hurt but how else can you make an omelet?

 

My story.  I've played around with various titles over the years.  I'm not an author.  I'm not a writer.   Who cares about my story? Good question.  I don't expect anyone to show must interest.  This is for me and for my family.  Specifically my daughter.  Hopefully I'll get it done before the end of my days.  I plan to write without much editing along the way.  If I stop to correct or agonize over everything I write, I'll never get it done.

 

My story.  What will I call it?  I think it's working title, for now, will be MEMOIRS OF AN AMATEUR.  I kind of borrowed the idea from Oscar Levant.  As a teen, I saw a movie about George Gershwin.  Love his music.  Oscar Levant played himself in the movie.  A while later, I read a book, The Memoirs of an Amnesiac. It was Levant's story.  He wrote about his Life.  His neuroses.  I remember that well.  Anyway, the title stuck with me all these years (about 60).

 

So, check back from time to time (if you're so inclined) and look for snippets from the life of an amateur.  Not interested?  Hey, if nothing else, it may be a cure from insomnia....zzzzzzzzzzz.