Hi, Diary.
It’s GBH. You're the best friend I have because I can tell you things I can't tell anyone else. Last time I wrote in you, I mentioned talking with Dad. I knew I could talk because of the way he looked. I've been good at reading people's looks since I was a little kid. I know just how they feel
I can tell by looking at Dad if he's been drinking or if he's just angry. Thing is, he's angry most of the time but won't tell anyone what's bothering him. If I was grown up, I'd ask him, "Say, Jim, what's your problem?" But I'm not grown up. So, I don't ask.
However, I could've asked him the last time we talked if I was going to be put in the Marshfield insane asylum when I grow up because I still wet the bed. But I didn't ask him. I'm no snitch. That's for certain.
Paul and Glen Peterson don't have problems talking about anything with their dad. He's more like their buddy. He works at the Preway Stove factory every weekday but still takes time to teach them many things after work and on weekends. He taught them how to hunt squirrels and rabbits with a 410-gauge shotgun and how to clean the game they shot. Why those animals are called game, I'll never know. It's no game for them to get killed, is it?
I watched their dad show them how to cut the fur just a bit with the pointed end of a hunting knife. He reaches in with two fingers and pulls real hard on the skin until it stops coming off at the animal's head and feet. Next, he chops off head and feet with the knife.
After that, the fur comes off easily. Then, he yanks out the guts. Double Yuck. Those guts stink. Finally, he holds the meat under a faucet and turns on the water. "This'll clean the meat, all right," he says.
He also taught his sons how to cast out line with both casting and flyrod. Also, he bought two pairs of boxing gloves and told them as he tied them on to Paul and Glen, "A guy has to learn how to defend himself."
Paul didn’t like to get hit in the head. So, after Glen took off his gloves and tied them on my hands, I whammed Paul in the head. At once, he yelled, "I give."
"I'm next," said Glen, wearing a grin similar to Dork's.
"Uh, uh," I said, "I'm not going to fight you. You're twice as big as I am."
Their dad also gave each son a baseball mitt and often plays catch with them after work.
Albert Kell, Bobby and Jimmy's dad, Al, for short, is too busy working day and night. He doesn't talk much, but whenever he does, people listen. He works all day long at the paper mill, and when he finishes with work, he comes home and works some more, fixing things in other people's houses. He can repair just about anything, even his Hudson Terraplane. He used to buy a different car every few months. He's kept that Terraplane for a long time—at least for him.
One day, I made a mistake and said, "My dad drinks a lot."
"Your dad's an alcoholic. He can't help the way he drinks," Al told me.
I didn't say anything but I was upset. Later, after I had time to think, I wasn't upset anymore. Al didn't say it in a mean way. He just spoke the truth and let it be. That's Al, as honest as the day is long but owns the messiest garage in town. It's filled with stuff for building and repairing things with every kind of tool a person could imagine. There's no car in his garage. There’s no room. Stored in it are more saws and hammers than all the carpenters in town own. Car mechanics would be jealous of the number of vise grips and wrenches and screwdrivers and blowtorches and drills he has. He buys more tools with the money he earns.
Besides, I like Al lots because he gives me a hard time. Each time he does, I think he's serious, but then he can't help himself, he giggles. Not loud, mind you. I point at him and say, "Why are you giggling?"
Al shakes his head and says, "Who me? Giggle? Hoffman, you got to be kidding."
Billy Schroeder's dad is an older man with gray hair. He owns Schroeder's Five and Dime store near the Wood County Bank. He and his wife adopted Billy. So, Billy gets about anything he wants from his dad's store. For free. Schroeder’s Five and Dime is where I buy my Tootsie Toy cars. I have a bunch. A couple of weeks ago, Billy’s dad bought Billy a female dog. Billy named her "Queenie."
Roger Aton's dad own's a clothing store on the other side of the river on Grand Avenue called "Dads and Lads." He's tall and thin and smokes a pipe. During weekdays and Saturday, he's awfully busy in his store, but on Sunday afternoons, he teaches Roger and his older son, Harold, how to work with wood, using the proper tools.
Jimmy Lokken's dad works at Preway Stove factory and walks wherever he goes. He's always looking at the sidewalk and doesn't say a word to anyone he meets. Jimmy said his dad plays catch with him, though. Jimmy's older brother is in the Navy.
My dad hardly ever comes home in a good mood. Something seems to be always bothering him. Nobody knows what it is because he doesn't tell anyone, I guess. I asked him once, "What's bothering you, Dad?"
"Nothing," he said. "Why do you ask?"
I should've told him, "Because of the way you look." But I didn't.
Whenever Dad comes home from the Elks Club at night, there's no need to figure what shape he's in. He's drunk as a skunk. Then, Mother raises hell until he beats her up. In the morning, if we play and make any noise, Dad gets out of bed as quiet, I swear, as a snake slithers between blades of grass in our back yard.
Bang. The bedroom door flies open. Dad's in the room. I'm trying to figure how he did that so quietly as he hits me with that strap. If I cry, he yells, "Keep that up, and I'll really give you something to cry about." Lately, it hurts more because he hits with the buckle end. Too bad he can't be like he was the last time we talked. It would be nice to have him as a buddy.
Misters Peterson, Kell, Aton, Schroeder, and Lokken treat their sons as if they're pleased to have them around. In our house, Dad's too busy drinking, and Mother's just as busy, trying to stop him. I think we'd all be better off if Mother didn't bother Dad about his drinking. When I told her that, she said, "You're a child. You don't understand, but you will when you're an adult."
I have a long wait.
So, Diary, who knows? Maybe I'll wake up dry tomorrow morning. If I don't, Dork will be waiting in the kitchen, wearing that stupid, mean grin as he says, "Gordy's going to be locked up in the Marshfield Insane asylum when he grows up. Isn't he, Mother?"
Mother doesn't answer.
It’s GBH. You're the best friend I have because I can tell you things I can't tell anyone else. Last time I wrote in you, I mentioned talking with Dad. I knew I could talk because of the way he looked. I've been good at reading people's looks since I was a little kid. I know just how they feel
I can tell by looking at Dad if he's been drinking or if he's just angry. Thing is, he's angry most of the time but won't tell anyone what's bothering him. If I was grown up, I'd ask him, "Say, Jim, what's your problem?" But I'm not grown up. So, I don't ask.
However, I could've asked him the last time we talked if I was going to be put in the Marshfield insane asylum when I grow up because I still wet the bed. But I didn't ask him. I'm no snitch. That's for certain.
Paul and Glen Peterson don't have problems talking about anything with their dad. He's more like their buddy. He works at the Preway Stove factory every weekday but still takes time to teach them many things after work and on weekends. He taught them how to hunt squirrels and rabbits with a 410-gauge shotgun and how to clean the game they shot. Why those animals are called game, I'll never know. It's no game for them to get killed, is it?
I watched their dad show them how to cut the fur just a bit with the pointed end of a hunting knife. He reaches in with two fingers and pulls real hard on the skin until it stops coming off at the animal's head and feet. Next, he chops off head and feet with the knife.
After that, the fur comes off easily. Then, he yanks out the guts. Double Yuck. Those guts stink. Finally, he holds the meat under a faucet and turns on the water. "This'll clean the meat, all right," he says.
He also taught his sons how to cast out line with both casting and flyrod. Also, he bought two pairs of boxing gloves and told them as he tied them on to Paul and Glen, "A guy has to learn how to defend himself."
Paul didn’t like to get hit in the head. So, after Glen took off his gloves and tied them on my hands, I whammed Paul in the head. At once, he yelled, "I give."
"I'm next," said Glen, wearing a grin similar to Dork's.
"Uh, uh," I said, "I'm not going to fight you. You're twice as big as I am."
Their dad also gave each son a baseball mitt and often plays catch with them after work.
Albert Kell, Bobby and Jimmy's dad, Al, for short, is too busy working day and night. He doesn't talk much, but whenever he does, people listen. He works all day long at the paper mill, and when he finishes with work, he comes home and works some more, fixing things in other people's houses. He can repair just about anything, even his Hudson Terraplane. He used to buy a different car every few months. He's kept that Terraplane for a long time—at least for him.
One day, I made a mistake and said, "My dad drinks a lot."
"Your dad's an alcoholic. He can't help the way he drinks," Al told me.
I didn't say anything but I was upset. Later, after I had time to think, I wasn't upset anymore. Al didn't say it in a mean way. He just spoke the truth and let it be. That's Al, as honest as the day is long but owns the messiest garage in town. It's filled with stuff for building and repairing things with every kind of tool a person could imagine. There's no car in his garage. There’s no room. Stored in it are more saws and hammers than all the carpenters in town own. Car mechanics would be jealous of the number of vise grips and wrenches and screwdrivers and blowtorches and drills he has. He buys more tools with the money he earns.
Besides, I like Al lots because he gives me a hard time. Each time he does, I think he's serious, but then he can't help himself, he giggles. Not loud, mind you. I point at him and say, "Why are you giggling?"
Al shakes his head and says, "Who me? Giggle? Hoffman, you got to be kidding."
Billy Schroeder's dad is an older man with gray hair. He owns Schroeder's Five and Dime store near the Wood County Bank. He and his wife adopted Billy. So, Billy gets about anything he wants from his dad's store. For free. Schroeder’s Five and Dime is where I buy my Tootsie Toy cars. I have a bunch. A couple of weeks ago, Billy’s dad bought Billy a female dog. Billy named her "Queenie."
Roger Aton's dad own's a clothing store on the other side of the river on Grand Avenue called "Dads and Lads." He's tall and thin and smokes a pipe. During weekdays and Saturday, he's awfully busy in his store, but on Sunday afternoons, he teaches Roger and his older son, Harold, how to work with wood, using the proper tools.
Jimmy Lokken's dad works at Preway Stove factory and walks wherever he goes. He's always looking at the sidewalk and doesn't say a word to anyone he meets. Jimmy said his dad plays catch with him, though. Jimmy's older brother is in the Navy.
My dad hardly ever comes home in a good mood. Something seems to be always bothering him. Nobody knows what it is because he doesn't tell anyone, I guess. I asked him once, "What's bothering you, Dad?"
"Nothing," he said. "Why do you ask?"
I should've told him, "Because of the way you look." But I didn't.
Whenever Dad comes home from the Elks Club at night, there's no need to figure what shape he's in. He's drunk as a skunk. Then, Mother raises hell until he beats her up. In the morning, if we play and make any noise, Dad gets out of bed as quiet, I swear, as a snake slithers between blades of grass in our back yard.
Bang. The bedroom door flies open. Dad's in the room. I'm trying to figure how he did that so quietly as he hits me with that strap. If I cry, he yells, "Keep that up, and I'll really give you something to cry about." Lately, it hurts more because he hits with the buckle end. Too bad he can't be like he was the last time we talked. It would be nice to have him as a buddy.
Misters Peterson, Kell, Aton, Schroeder, and Lokken treat their sons as if they're pleased to have them around. In our house, Dad's too busy drinking, and Mother's just as busy, trying to stop him. I think we'd all be better off if Mother didn't bother Dad about his drinking. When I told her that, she said, "You're a child. You don't understand, but you will when you're an adult."
I have a long wait.
So, Diary, who knows? Maybe I'll wake up dry tomorrow morning. If I don't, Dork will be waiting in the kitchen, wearing that stupid, mean grin as he says, "Gordy's going to be locked up in the Marshfield Insane asylum when he grows up. Isn't he, Mother?"
Mother doesn't answer.
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