Sins of My Father (Part Three)- The Sweet and Sorrow of Summer

My mother remarried in 1980. I think it was 1980. Is that something I should know? I’m never sure if that is a date that I should commit to my memory banks. I have the same issue with calling on Easter. Is Easter a “call holiday”? Anyway, she married a co-worker of Tom’s – the man that my mom saw a few times. She has always maintained that they were just friends, but in my mind they were dating. I certainly didn’t know any better. The man brought my brother and I Reds’ caps. I didn’t have the life perspective to say (out loud or to myself) “what the hell is this?” when he gave us those hats. All I knew was that I was getting new stuff. As a man, I would think that the hats were a smart move of a man making a play for a woman with two sons.

When David came into the picture, it was clearly serious. This I did not question. He was around and around a lot. He brought his son over and stayed late. Before I knew it, we were taking road trips to Winter Haven to visit his parents. It felt like a ride that was just moving fast whether I was ready for it or not. There was no emergency stop or ‘eject’ button.

As I analyzed the interaction or relationship or whatever it was, I could see that David was at the very least fun. My mom seemed to have fun with him. There was drinking and smoking and lots of laughing. Everything did seem in perspective, though.

On one of the early visits to our apartment, I recall playing in the main yard area in front of the main building. My brother, Chris and David’s son, Mike and I were tossing a baseball around. The ball got away from me and ended up under a parked car. I crawled under the car to retrieve the ball. I cleared the undercarriage with ease and grabbed the ball. Sliding back out and picking up our game would have been easy. In part to impress Mike and perhaps to test my mom or her new boyfriend, I pretended to be stuck under the car. I called for Mike and Chris to go upstairs and get mom for help. Shortly after, mom and David came down and peered under the car. I was certain that I was pulling this off. My mom bought it, although was not too concerned for my long-term wellbeing. I’m pretty sure David didn’t buy it, though.

He attempted to coax me into one of the gaps under the car so that I could ease out. My mom joined in, coaching me as well. Finally, frustrated by what he had to know was a crock of shit, David grabbed my ankles and jerked me from under the car in one, jolting motion.

I was hurt. Not scraped or bruised. Not hurt physically, but hurt that I was for the first time, manhandled. I’m certain that David could see that I wasn’t being hung up or snagged on anything under the car. I’m also sure he was probably over the game that I had decided would be fun. Perhaps he thought I would enjoy the ride. Still now, I can’t say why my feelings were so hurt. I suspect it had something to do with the idea that my dad would have handled things a bit differently or that he would have been in the yard playing catch with us. All I have now is the memory and the ‘post-game’ analysis of an adult who can now see both perspectives.

Whatever pain was caused by Tom’s extended stay some months earlier had faded. I had without realizing it grown used to the fact that my dad lived in West Virginia and I lived in Florida with my mother. Having David around took little adjustment. I don’t remember having a problem with it and I don’t remember being excited about it either. The fact that David had a son close to my age that came over on weekends made things more palatable.

Before long, I was told that my mom and David were moving in together. I knew that they were not getting married quite yet, and that didn’t bother me as much as it seemed to bother a busy-body neighbor across the street from David’s house. My grandmother had a bid issue with it too, I’m sure. Besides, it didn’t seem all that long before mom and David got married.

The idea of mom remarrying didn’t really have a deep impact on me. I didn’t feel protective of “dad’s woman” or place in my family’s life like I did when Tom visited our apartment. David filled in pretty well in our lives and perhaps even I felt like it was time to have a man around again. Besides, he didn’t seem intent on replacing my father. It was clear that he had deep rooted contempt for my dad, but wasn’t compelled to run in and rescue my brother and me either. Their marriage seemed separate and apart from Chris and me. Though David would go on to provide for me throughout my life, I didn’t feel like anything about their marriage was about my brother or me. That is not to say that we didn’t matter. My mother loved us intensely and in time, David did too. I’m sure that nothing passed through their heads that didn’t at least consider how we were affected.

Again, without the aid of a timeline, there was one occasion when I did react in defense of my father. Soon after they were married, my mother and David came to Chris and me and asked about what we thought about the idea of David adopting us. Chris was eight at the most, so I’m sure he had no real opinion, shifting the weight of the decision onto me. First of all, the term, “adopt” struck me kind of funny. I knew that I wasn’t an orphan or without parents, but lacked the depth to understand the idea too. My mom did most of the talking and was quite delicate with the proposal. She didn’t push and never pressured me in any way after that initial conversation. She told us that of the changes would be that our last names would change to Crawford. I always liked that name. Crawford just sounded good to me. I didn’t think that my first name went with it too well; ‘Mickey Crawford’. It just didn’t sound right.

I had spent the second and third grade telling my friends and classmates that my real name was Steve and that my birthday was on December 23rd. My real name is Mickey and I was born on July 9th. I went through a clear period of not liking much of anything about myself. Hated my first name and even hated my birthday. Mom suggested at one point that I go by my middle name. When I said that I had no interest in being called Charles, she suggested Chuck. No one could do anything about my birthday – I was stuck with July 9th. When I learned that OJ Simpson had the same birthday, I was a bit more settled on that. One thing I never hated was my last name. So the draw of a cool sounding last name and the connection to a seemingly secure and established southern family should have been tempting. While I don’t remember if I said that I did not want to change my name then or after a couple days of “thinking it over”, I knew immediately that I wanted no part of changing my name. I felt as if I had to step in and take one in honor of my father, and it was never in question. To mom and David’s credit, I never felt as if I was being pressured on the issue at all. I have since wondered on a few occasions if my position felt like rejection to David.

I never mentioned that proposal to my father. I didn’t need his thanks or approval and I think I even feared a little that the idea itself would have hurt him.

As this was going on, my father was not paying any child support to my mother. While I did not know how that worked or what it really meant, I heard it often from my mom. I knew that he didn’t pay and never really did. At that point what I knew about my dad other than what I had seen and grown to know was that he was a liar who did not pay child support. Hearing this put me in a position of balance and understanding. I did know enough to feel reverence toward my mom for managing to make it without the input of my father. Yet inside I also felt sorry for my dad. I still don’t know why. The prayers for protection of my dad intensified during this time. The only reoccurring nightmare I ever had was of my father being chased and beaten by a mob. Those dreams were going on at about the same time.

Summers were spent in West Virginia with my grandparents and my father. He lived with them the entire time we visited in the summer. While I knew that this wasn’t the norm, it did not embarrass me either. I looked forward to my visits and never questioned the living arrangements at all.

Summers in West Virginia were a true and complete joy for me as a young boy. I knew that I would get to play and watch plenty of baseball as well as be coddled and cared for by my doting grandparents. They had such pride for me as I was and that was clear. I always felt like their favorite when I was with them. Something I’m sure my brother and all of my cousins felt as well.

Nanny and Poppy provided the balance that was missing from my life. While my new family back home was steady and reliable and I certainly knew I was loved, my grandparents were a link to my increasingly fading memory of what I remembered as normal. Of course it never was normal when my parents were married. I have no doubt that my dad was an awful husband who failed to really attempt to provide as a father and husband should. But to me, he lived in the sanctuary. I think if I were given the choice to spend summers with my grandparents or my dad, I would have chosen Nanny and Poppy. Lucky for me, he lived with them.

My memories of those summers are sparse but full of joy. I don’t recall a lot of specifics but know that every minute was valued. I remember damp summer rains, building a tree house and Poppy’s garden. He was always so proud of it yet I never remember it ever netting anything edible. When my cousins would visit at the same time, the party was on. A few years into those summer visits we started driving out to Kansas City to visit them. My cousin, Mike and I were wired in a complimentary way that added to the fun. I could always count on him to push the envelope in ways that I wasn’t comfortable. It was a great time and if anything were to go wrong, I was secure in the fact that I always had someone to blame for any trouble that might come.

The most lasting and clear memories of those great summers, no matter in West Virginia or in Kansas City was the mornings on which we would leave. We always seemed to be booked on an early morning flight. There was a visible and thick tension as we all got up on those mornings. Leaving meant saying goodbye for another year. It was a painful and exhausting exercise.

Nanny made sure that we had a full breakfast. She was always especially quiet working away in her kitchen on those last mornings. One year comes to mind when I sat eating quietly. Chris sat next to me and kept looking at me as if he was expecting a cue as to how to act. I carefully avoided eye contact with anyone although I could feel his glances.

After breakfast, Poppy came in and tried to spin things positively, cracking jokes and making faces. There was nothing grumpy about him on this morning. As we ate, my dad was still in his room, conspicuously absent from the table. Though not finished eating, I recall walking back to his room to see what he was doing. I stood in his doorway and he paused before looking up. He was staring at a shoe. He wasn’t shining it or anything, just staring. He sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless staring at this shoe. Eventually he looked up and asked, “what’s up, boy?” I asked him if he was going to come to the table. He said that he wasn’t and that he had to get ready for work. I don’t know if he really had to work that day or not, but I could see that he wasn’t in the state to go to the airport to drop us off. He never did. My grandparents were always the ones to take me to the airport.

The goodbyes were so ardently avoided all morning that when the time actually came to say goodbye, it was a violently emotional sob. Whether I was eight or thirteen I gasped continually as my eyes gushed tears. Nanny and Poppy’s hugs were tight and assuring. Though supremely sweet and sentimental, Nanny always seemed intent on stopping her cry and quickly composing herself. Poppy cried softly as his mouth flipped upside down into a perfect frown.

The cry and accompanying hug from my dad was the only one that matched the intensity of my own emotion. As a pre-teen I first became aware of the muscles in my chest the day after such goodbyes. My chest was sore from the seizing and flexing of the muscles as we sobbed together. As we did, there was nothing to say. No, “see you next year”, no “call me when you get home”. All of it was understood and probably inaudible anyway. If I were to compile a list of top ten cries in my life, summer goodbyes would occupy four or five of the ten spots.