A Family Affair

A Family Affair

William Schwenn

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-62183-463-2

Copyright © 2017

eBook

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or copyright owner.

Dedication

To mothers, fathers, sons and daughters everywhere, with this admonition—be easy on each other, and yourselves. Let life find its own way to be tough on you.

Foreword

Crossword puzzle clue: six-letter word for emotional institution.

‘Asylum’? Close. ‘Prison’? Sometimes.

Ah—‘family’. Bingo.

More than love or hate, ‘family’ sits alone atop all emotion-evoking words in the English language. I came through one. I should know. Whether born into the comfort of wealth and privilege, injected into the mean streets of poverty and desperation, nurtured somewhere in between, or shifted along some form of adoption’s curvy path, every person has known some version of connections that brings the notion of ‘family’ to mind. And it can do any number of things to a heart: it can warm it, chill it, terrify it, or break it. Sometimes family manages to do it all.

What follows is the journey a family of three highly individualistic individuals traveled in an effort to do what felt necessary along the way. After idyllic beginnings, they veered off course, leaving me clueless how to come up with a solid meaning of a word that to this day will not let me rest. What I am sure of is that understanding ‘family’ is left to each one of us to sort out.

My tale is, at one point or another, everyone’s story. It is a jaunt through life that has left me wondering, What happened? Life’s easiest questions can prompt the most elusive answers.

Part One

Setting the Table

Chapter One

Getting Started: Giggles, Ponies, and Ping-Pong

For those of us who have had at least one parent (or parent figure) live long enough for us to remember the relationship, we should concede this much: sons and daughters, no matter how gentle of disposition and willing to please, are just not easy to raise. Probably because they share so much of their parents’ DNA and/or temperament. And then there’s that annoying reality that a child has to undergo the frustrating task of growing up, just like his or her parents had to.

"Just you wait! cries every mother at some point. You’ll have a kid of your own, and then you’ll see! That one is actually scarier than You just wait ‘til your father gets home!"

My earliest childhood memory is my head on my bed pillow, my dad’s head inches from mine, his whispered voice reading that short passage from Pogo where Snavely—a worm, halfway through a hole in a pail over the main character possum’s head—says, Pogo, you needs a shave! Something in his inflection or silly grin sent me into a giggle fit. This just egged him on, so he made up another version of that line and then another, and with each one I grew louder with delight.

Mom appeared at the bedroom door to reprimand him: Lee—stop that! You’re getting him so worked up, he’ll never get to sleep!

At that, Dad whipped his head around, assured her we would behave. Then, after she moved on, he slowly turned back to me, eyes big and grin bigger, conspiratorially nuzzled back in close to me, and repeated the last line, which is when I completely lost it. He pushed his finger to his lips, reminded me to Shh, shh, shh so we wouldn’t get scolded again, and Pogo went on for a little while longer, until relaxed, happy, and safe, I finally gave in to the Sandman.

***

A mansion in my childhood memory until I re-visited it as an adult, our tiny house had a basement where Mom did the laundry in an old-fashioned washtub with a double roller that squeezed excess water out of the clothes before their trip outside to the clothes lines. More than a few women lost fingers in those rollers. In the 1950s, household machines could be deadly. Equally scary was a coal furnace (featured prominently in the Christmas Story movie) that periodically tested my father’s patience and commitment to decent language.

Our family was not poor, but we traveled in decidedly modest social circles. What Dad lacked in money, he more than made up for in ingenuity: the man could make anything. After I mastered the art of walking, he decided it was time for me to learn to ride, so he designed a wooden pony—two handles extending from its head for me to hang onto, a wooden seat for a saddle, and four wooden feet outfitted with dowel rods attached to ropes that suspended the whole thing from the ceiling rafters. Just an elaborate swing, that rig gave me endless rides on Western trails, chasing bad guys, herding cattle, and learning a freedom of movement that would someday inspire my passion for kayaking whitewater. This simple pastime gave me so much joy that it was only when I grew too big for its safety specs (I came too close too often to knocking myself unconscious on the ceiling rafters) that I reluctantly bid my mount adios, but he rides with me to this day.

About the time my horse was put out to pasture, Dad introduced me to a ping-pong table, which, given the tiny confines of our basement, required revised rules of play. Anything caroming off the ceiling or walls was fair game. (Years later, when my world enlarged, I realized that Dad and I had been playing jai alai with a small, white, plastic ball and paddles.)

What fun! Our nightly tournaments introduced bizarre trajectories the likes of which table tennis has not seen since. My father’s own, weird service spin kept me perpetually off balance as well. I’m not sure how much technical ping-pong skill I amassed from all that, but there is no doubt my lessons in reaction time and anticipating life’s curve balls began downstairs after supper. I also learned early that my dad was a competitive son of a gun. Paddle in hand, he taught me my first life lesson: folks out there in the real world play for keeps. I might as well get used to it. Even at age five. I don’t remember ever coming out on top, try as I might to best him. I’d get close, but when twenty-one loomed, he pulled one tricky serve or shot after another out of his hat, and it was game over. You’ll get me next time, he said, with a loving grin. And I always believed it.

Chapter Two

Magic

Illusionists, as some magicians call themselves, are just that: they pull the wool over your eyes so cleverly as to defy the laws of physics, and wreck your perception of reality. These are entertainers, but not practitioners of true magic. True magic, say the doubters among us, does not exist. I beg to differ.

***

Riding in the back seat of our Buick on the way to Sunday school, my six-year-old self suddenly remembered that I had promised my teacher that I would bring a dragonfly to the next class. Having forgotten to mention that to my parents during the ensuing week, my urgent pronouncement, I forgot! I’m supposed to bring a dragonfly to Sunday school today! caught them by surprise as we approached the church parking lot.

What? replied my father. You mean, today?!

Yeah, I answered, growing more upset by the second. I had been raised to be conscientious, responsible, dependable. I was frantic. My stomach turned, and I was about to cry.

Well, now, he calmly offered, don’t worry about it. Just tell your teacher that you looked real hard, but couldn’t find one. She’ll understand.

With that, we had arrived, and I got out of the car into blinding morning sunshine. I hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when I heard Dad say, Hey, look what I found! And there in a bush beside the sidewalk was one huge dragonfly. Dad whipped out his handkerchief and deftly snared his prize, then accompanied me to the classroom where somebody found a jar, poked holes into its lid, and voila! We had made good on my promise under the most improbable circumstances. I looked for other dragonflies on my way out of church that Sunday morning, but found none. I didn’t see another one that entire summer.

Flash forward to my freshman year at college, where a 300-seat Zoology 11 class had been so daunting and the language of the text so mystifying that I was carrying a failing average into the final exam. As a high school valedictorian—well, salutatorian, courtesy of a last-minute intruder from Hawaii whose grades were off-the-charts ridiculous—I was jolted by a harsh awareness that some things were beyond my ability or aptitude. I was crushed. This couldn’t be happening to me. As badly as I felt inside, I worried as much about what it was going to do to my parents, who fretted over any ‘B’ that I made, marring an otherwise straight-A lineup I had always been expected to furnish on report card days. During the last break before final exams that first semester, Dad sat down with me at home as I poured out a litany of pitiful reactions to what had happened in that dreadful course.

Well, he finally offered, do you know what’s going to be covered in the final exam?

Yes, I said. Genetics, for sure.

Okay, he said, let’s take a look at the book.

We did, and for hours, he gently coaxed me through the mathematics of genetics probabilities. By the time we finished, I knew theoretically how many children were going to be born with blue eyes instead of brown. Dad’s steady countenance and my love of math threw me the final-exam-saving lifeline I needed. Instead of answering every multiple-choice question with the one fish part I knew (dorsal fin) like I had in the previous test, my final exam produced a decent enough ‘C’ to bring my semester average up to passing. The looming train wreck of a college experience had been transformed into an invaluable life choice—away from any further thoughts of medical school, and toward a rewarding career in law instead. Nothing short of magical.

Chapter Three

Bowling

In the annals of Dad-dom, there can be no prouder moment than when a chip off ye olde block knocks in the winning run, tosses the dramatic touchdown pass in the game’s final seconds that sends the home crowd fans into delirium, or secures a hard-fought victory with a miracle block at the soccer or hockey net and earns the next morning’s headline with a photo op.

That’s my boy! dreamed my Dad.

Here is where parenthood’s proverbial rubber meets the road: guy submits his bid, gal processes the application, and for the next bunch of years, the likelihood of sports fantasy realization amounts pretty much to a roll of the dice. (Hint to all prospective parents: if you really, desperately, want a sports standout carrying around your genes and name, produce as many prospects as possible. Clearly, there are no guarantees, but improving the odds can’t hurt.) In my dad’s case, he bet it all on a single entry, and, well, it was a challenge from the get-go.

Dad’s hoped-for athletic star got off to a rip-roaring start, though. Fresh off World War II and a Korean conflict, America was suddenly a world power, but in its heartland, its people were still the same humble lot. Simple pleasures—card games and bowling—dominated the northern Midwest culture. Wisconsin winters were Nature’s most dismal reminders of who was in charge of things, but the German/Norwegian cross section of humans there knew how to distract themselves from all that gray miserableness outside: they formed bowling leagues. Knocking down some serious pins can work out even the worst job stress, and bragging rights down at your favorite gathering spot was high currency. Where better for my dad to kick off his anticipated son’s sports career than at the bowling alley? One tiny problem. His four-year-old boy’s carriage towered less than thirty inches and weighed little more than twice the ball itself. Together with the rule (my dad’s rule, at least) that no bowling ball shall ever be lofted (the bang! of a dropped ball on those beautifully waxed hardwood floors sickened him), there seemed to be no possible way for me to do this. But he was determined.

There’s always a way, he said time after time. We just have to think about it. Come on, son he coaxed, leading me up to the toe line, carrying my ball. Here, he said as he placed the ball in front of me, just behind the line. Set it down, and push it as hard as you can. Use both hands.

A four-year-old sees the world differently than his parent. There is nothing ludicrous about a pint-sized munchkin in a boisterous, smoke-filled bowling alley bending over and pushing a ball toward ten pins that looked about a million miles away. The only truly weird thing is that the ball actually defied physics and managed to make it all the way down the lane at a quarter-mile-per-hour clip. By the time it reached the halfway point, all of Dad’s buddies had stopped their beer drinking and were watching the incredibly slow pace of my ball. The reason they were so entranced is that the ball had not veered from the center of the path. At the three-quarters mark, neighboring bowlers paused and stared. The headpin was the first one to suffer the crushing blow of my bomb, and then, ever-so-slooooowly, one by one the rest of them wobbled and fell, toppling the others until the last one gave it up. The field was won! Not bad for a first effort.

Atta boy! shouted one very excited papa. More kudos from his totally shocked friends. I was still too transfixed by the carnage my ball had wrought at the other end of the building to utter a sound.

The other guys took their turns, and soon it was mine again. Same setup: Dad brought the ball and set it down carefully in front of me.

Okay, Skipper, just do what you did last time.

Okie-dokie, I thought.

I gave a mighty two-handed push, and a minute or so later, darned if another set of ten pins didn’t bite the dust. This time I wasn’t speechless.

Wheeee!

My dad’s teammates and guys several alleys away were exclaiming all sorts of things that just about popped his buttons. Pretty cool.

The third time around was slightly delayed. Dad had something extra to tell me as he set the heavy ball down in front of me.

Son, you make a strike on this one, and you get a turkey. And with a huge grin, he stepped back and out of the way, giving me the floor. Once again, the big, round, shiny monster embarked on a mystical journey. The whole place had stopped bowling. All eyes were on the agonizing crawl of my dad’s sixteen-pound beauty as it made its excruciatingly slow way toward the Gang of Ten that waited to crush hopes and sneer at human futility. But, as before, it was the headpin that yielded first, then its partner to the right. Pin after pin knocked each other down as my ball coursed through the lot, until the last one wavered, wobbled, and finally fell.

I have heard shouts and cheers in bowling alleys through the years since, but none has ever been as deafening or felt as exhilarating as the momentous roar that went up at that third consecutive strike. I wheeled around, saw my dad grinning from ear to ear, taking congratulations from his pals and everybody else, and asked him, I won a turkey, right?!

You sure did, son, he replied, as the noisy celebration continued.

Nobody could believe what they had just seen. Dad was one happy pop. All I wanted was my turkey. I imagined a big, fat one like we always had for Thanksgiving dinner, and I couldn’t wait to see it. But nobody came up to me with one. I had just done something that would make the next morning’s edition of the major newspaper in Madison, Wisconsin, and all I could do was keep blabbering on dejectedly about why I wasn’t being given a frozen bird to take home to eat. Dad finally realized that I was disappointed, and the reason why, so he cut short his revelry with his pals and explained to me that a turkey in bowling parlance means three straight strikes—no actual turkey would appear and change hands. I would have been out-of-this-world ecstatic if someone had coughed up a real gobbler for me, but as it was, I felt cheated. So much