Hi, Diary. I've got this problem. No, not wetting the bed. That's old stuff. I don't know when I started. But I stutter. I don't know why. But it drives me nuts. Crazy Annie and Dork copycat me. "Wha-wha-wha-what were you suh-suh-suh-saying, Guh-guh-guh-Gordy?"
"That's not funny. Not funny at all," Mother told them. I don't know why, but lately she sticks up for me. Maybe it's because Grampa Frank and I got along so well. Maybe not.
I stutter when I'm nervous. Being jumpy around this house is normal. There's no rhyme or reason to the way Dad acts. Mother hit the nail on the head: "It's his drinking. It's getting worse. He even drinks during the day."
He hides bottles. I found two in the basement. I tried a swig. I spit it out. Yuck.
Sometimes, Dad's nice and talks to us, wearing a smile. But I'm no fool. I don't trust that smile. Not at all. At times, he treats me like a ghost he can't see. But I guess that's true of a lot of dads. They're too busy working in order to earn money to put food on the table.
But Dad treats us as if we're the enemy. "We're not the enemy," I want to tell him. "You're our father. You're Mother's husband. Treat us like a father should treat his children. Treat your wife like a husband should. Not like a punching bag. Which you do. Treat us with love. Quit beating us up because your hangovers bother you."
Yeah. If I told him that, I'd be six feet under in Calvary Cemetery. Of that, I'm certain.
Some Sunday afternoons, Dad takes the whole family on afternoon car trips. Sometimes I like it. Often I don't. Especially when Dork and I fight. Which happens just about every time we sit next to each other. Dad stops the car. I mean he stops it right then and there. He gets out, opens the rear door, and whales us both. That isn't fun, but Dork and I stop fighting. That's for certain.
On those Sunday rides, we stop at Ann Ashley's house out in the country near Arpin. The road she lives on is gravel. Our car raises a lot of dust on that washboard road.
Ann is one of Dad's special patients. She's an old lady with gray hair. She's more like Dad's friend. She's very friendly to us, too. She lives in a small, old farmhouse with a huge evergreen tree in the front yard. She's a Seventh Day Adventist. Reads the Bible all the time. And Ann has false teeth that look like false teeth. No doubt about it.
Ann keeps her crazy mother locked up in a room upstairs. One time, I turned the key in that door's lock. This crazy old lady flew out of that room as if she was shot from a cannon. Screaming and pushing. I thought she was going to kill me. I cried. Ann rushed upstairs and calmed her mother down. Ann put her mother back in the room and locked the door. "Please don't turn that key ever again," Ann said. She wasn't angry. She was concerned, I guess.
"You darned tooting," I should've told her, "I won't open that door ever again. You can count on it. I'm no fool."
Also, I'm scared of Ann's big gander. That's a male goose. Every time I go outdoors alone, it chases after me and tries to bite me. I like her chickens, though. They don't bother me at all. I especially like the baby chicks. I catch the little yellow fuzz balls and rub them against my cheek. They tickle.
Back to Dad. Sometimes, everything seems hunky dory. Then, the very next moment, he'll explode like dynamite. Who or what lit the fuse? Nobody seems to know. I'm getting pretty good at figuring out how he's going to act, though. Sometimes, when I look at him, I can read what will happen before it happens. He even blew up because I bought the pocket watch.
"I bought it with my money," I told him.
“Don’t you talk back to me.” He cuffed me. Hard.
And of course, I cried. Lots.
"If you keep on crying, I'll give you something to cry about," he yelled.
The last time he said that, he didn't use the leather on the belt. He used the buckle end. I thought he was smart because he's a doctor. Anybody who beats up his kids like he does can't be smart at all.
That's enough about that.
There are good things that have happened lately, too. It's that time of year. The end of summer vacation. And school will start soon. Yuck. I'm going to be in the sixth grade at Howe School on Eighth Street. It's brand new. Dork is going to be a freshman at Lincoln High School. Now, he really is a big shot.
"You're going to need new clothes, underwear, and shoes for school," Mother told me. "We'll go to the Red Goose shoe store this afternoon to get you shoes."
That's exactly what we did. The two of us. Usually, she takes the whole shebang, including Crazy Annie and Dork shopping for school clothes. Not Doc III or Peter, my youngest brother.
Just she and I went this time. When we got to the store, the lady who measured my feet looked at the inside of my old shoe and told Mother, "He'll need shoes two sizes larger than the ones he's wearing."
No wonder my big toes were almost sticking through the old ones.
"He's growing, all right," said Mother. The way she said that, I thought Mother was proud. Hard to believe though.
When the saleslady brought out a pair of brown oxfords and a pair of black oxfords that were the correct size, I told Mother, "I want boots like Grampa's."
"You don't want those for school."
"I do, too."
"You're sure you'll wear them? To school?"
I nodded.
"To school?" Mother asked again as if she didn't believe me.
After I nodded again, this time really hard, Mother told the lady, "My son wants a pair of ankle high black work boots."
"They won't do," said the saleslady. "Kids in his class will make fun of them."
"They're what I want," I said.
"My son wants boots just like Pa's, my dad's boots. So, that's what we will buy."
"We? What's going on?" I thought. This woman who claims she's my mother is acting like a mother. Finally.
And, Diary, that's how I got my black work boots.
Dork made fun of them. "You look like a farmer."
"Grampa's not a farmer."
"Of course, he's not."
"Well, he's got boots just like these."
"He was a working man. But you're not a working man."
"I am, too. I pick beans and have a Sunday paper route, the one you used to have, remember? Anyway, what's wrong with wearing farmer shoes?"
Dork shrugged. "Nothing, if you got cow manure on them."
"Well, I'm not a farmer and neither is Grampa a farmer. And if boots were good enough for him, they're good enough for me."
Mother even bought me a tin of shoe wax. The real stuff. Not the liquid stuff that we keep under the kitchen sink.
That night, I rubbed my index finger and middle finger of my left hand on top of the black wax and rubbed the wax on the new boots. Just like Grampa did. Except he's right handed. I'm a leftie.
"That's not funny. Not funny at all," Mother told them. I don't know why, but lately she sticks up for me. Maybe it's because Grampa Frank and I got along so well. Maybe not.
I stutter when I'm nervous. Being jumpy around this house is normal. There's no rhyme or reason to the way Dad acts. Mother hit the nail on the head: "It's his drinking. It's getting worse. He even drinks during the day."
He hides bottles. I found two in the basement. I tried a swig. I spit it out. Yuck.
Sometimes, Dad's nice and talks to us, wearing a smile. But I'm no fool. I don't trust that smile. Not at all. At times, he treats me like a ghost he can't see. But I guess that's true of a lot of dads. They're too busy working in order to earn money to put food on the table.
But Dad treats us as if we're the enemy. "We're not the enemy," I want to tell him. "You're our father. You're Mother's husband. Treat us like a father should treat his children. Treat your wife like a husband should. Not like a punching bag. Which you do. Treat us with love. Quit beating us up because your hangovers bother you."
Yeah. If I told him that, I'd be six feet under in Calvary Cemetery. Of that, I'm certain.
Some Sunday afternoons, Dad takes the whole family on afternoon car trips. Sometimes I like it. Often I don't. Especially when Dork and I fight. Which happens just about every time we sit next to each other. Dad stops the car. I mean he stops it right then and there. He gets out, opens the rear door, and whales us both. That isn't fun, but Dork and I stop fighting. That's for certain.
On those Sunday rides, we stop at Ann Ashley's house out in the country near Arpin. The road she lives on is gravel. Our car raises a lot of dust on that washboard road.
Ann is one of Dad's special patients. She's an old lady with gray hair. She's more like Dad's friend. She's very friendly to us, too. She lives in a small, old farmhouse with a huge evergreen tree in the front yard. She's a Seventh Day Adventist. Reads the Bible all the time. And Ann has false teeth that look like false teeth. No doubt about it.
Ann keeps her crazy mother locked up in a room upstairs. One time, I turned the key in that door's lock. This crazy old lady flew out of that room as if she was shot from a cannon. Screaming and pushing. I thought she was going to kill me. I cried. Ann rushed upstairs and calmed her mother down. Ann put her mother back in the room and locked the door. "Please don't turn that key ever again," Ann said. She wasn't angry. She was concerned, I guess.
"You darned tooting," I should've told her, "I won't open that door ever again. You can count on it. I'm no fool."
Also, I'm scared of Ann's big gander. That's a male goose. Every time I go outdoors alone, it chases after me and tries to bite me. I like her chickens, though. They don't bother me at all. I especially like the baby chicks. I catch the little yellow fuzz balls and rub them against my cheek. They tickle.
Back to Dad. Sometimes, everything seems hunky dory. Then, the very next moment, he'll explode like dynamite. Who or what lit the fuse? Nobody seems to know. I'm getting pretty good at figuring out how he's going to act, though. Sometimes, when I look at him, I can read what will happen before it happens. He even blew up because I bought the pocket watch.
"I bought it with my money," I told him.
“Don’t you talk back to me.” He cuffed me. Hard.
And of course, I cried. Lots.
"If you keep on crying, I'll give you something to cry about," he yelled.
The last time he said that, he didn't use the leather on the belt. He used the buckle end. I thought he was smart because he's a doctor. Anybody who beats up his kids like he does can't be smart at all.
That's enough about that.
There are good things that have happened lately, too. It's that time of year. The end of summer vacation. And school will start soon. Yuck. I'm going to be in the sixth grade at Howe School on Eighth Street. It's brand new. Dork is going to be a freshman at Lincoln High School. Now, he really is a big shot.
"You're going to need new clothes, underwear, and shoes for school," Mother told me. "We'll go to the Red Goose shoe store this afternoon to get you shoes."
That's exactly what we did. The two of us. Usually, she takes the whole shebang, including Crazy Annie and Dork shopping for school clothes. Not Doc III or Peter, my youngest brother.
Just she and I went this time. When we got to the store, the lady who measured my feet looked at the inside of my old shoe and told Mother, "He'll need shoes two sizes larger than the ones he's wearing."
No wonder my big toes were almost sticking through the old ones.
"He's growing, all right," said Mother. The way she said that, I thought Mother was proud. Hard to believe though.
When the saleslady brought out a pair of brown oxfords and a pair of black oxfords that were the correct size, I told Mother, "I want boots like Grampa's."
"You don't want those for school."
"I do, too."
"You're sure you'll wear them? To school?"
I nodded.
"To school?" Mother asked again as if she didn't believe me.
After I nodded again, this time really hard, Mother told the lady, "My son wants a pair of ankle high black work boots."
"They won't do," said the saleslady. "Kids in his class will make fun of them."
"They're what I want," I said.
"My son wants boots just like Pa's, my dad's boots. So, that's what we will buy."
"We? What's going on?" I thought. This woman who claims she's my mother is acting like a mother. Finally.
And, Diary, that's how I got my black work boots.
Dork made fun of them. "You look like a farmer."
"Grampa's not a farmer."
"Of course, he's not."
"Well, he's got boots just like these."
"He was a working man. But you're not a working man."
"I am, too. I pick beans and have a Sunday paper route, the one you used to have, remember? Anyway, what's wrong with wearing farmer shoes?"
Dork shrugged. "Nothing, if you got cow manure on them."
"Well, I'm not a farmer and neither is Grampa a farmer. And if boots were good enough for him, they're good enough for me."
Mother even bought me a tin of shoe wax. The real stuff. Not the liquid stuff that we keep under the kitchen sink.
That night, I rubbed my index finger and middle finger of my left hand on top of the black wax and rubbed the wax on the new boots. Just like Grampa did. Except he's right handed. I'm a leftie.
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