As a father of two, I am always living in constant anxiety that someone will abduct my children or that something, like a wild tiger attack, will hurt my kids. I take 50 mgs of Zoloft a day, but that doesn’t always lessen the craziness in my head that exists because of them. Perhaps a sign of the times? I don’t know. It seems there is always some story I read about Internet predators or shopping mall creeps…something that brings back to mind the story of Steven Stayner, a child kidnapped at 7 and forced to be a sex slave for 7 years for a dude that liked little boys, I guess. I can’t imagine how I would feel if something like that happened. Homicidal I guess.
Of course, in the 1970’s, nothing like that existed, right? (Or did the Steven story happen in the 70’s…uh oh.). But I digress.
While 99% of the homes on Ingraham Street were occupied by the same families from the day I was born to the day I moved into my own apartment, there was one house that was a rental, and therefore sheltered a tri-annual stream of folks who either didn’t want or couldn’t afford their own home. For some reason, that house attracted a host of people that, while all very nice and fit in well with our street, could be described as…different. We had the black family whose husband became good friends with my Dad. They even entered a local “lumberjack” competition at a new local hardware store. Chuck, the father across the street, won the contest and every time I would go over their house, I would see the yellow hardhat inscribed with the words “84 Lumber Lumberjack Champion”. I surely wanted my Dad to have won that, but Chuck was a good guy so it pained me less than someone I didn’t know would have.
Chuck had decided to buy a new car for the family, ended up after much looking at a place called Toyota West. Well, I guess that chuck wasn’t too happy with his purchase, having to take the car back several times before he gave up, painted a piece of plywood with the words “Toyota West Will Screw U” and in the place of the word screw, he had laminated a picture of a giant screw. Chuck affixed this to the top of the lemon and drove that thing around for weeks. At some point he took it down, whether at the behest of his beautiful wife or for legal reasons, I’ll never know. Not long after that incident, Chuck and his family moved on to not sure where. A very cool family.
Another family we got to know had a son named Tony who I spent several years being friends with from Junior High to High School. They were African-American having recently moved from England. Tony, his mom, sister and grandparents all lived there. The grandparents lineage was from somewhere like the West Indies, Jamaica or something. Not sure. What I am sure of is the fact that I could almost NEVER understand the grandparents due to their accents. But they were very sweet, very generous people: with their time, their love of children….and their food.
I pause here to tell you that I love food. I have been in the food business for two decades, and am willing to try anything once. But something I will never, ever try again as long as I live is goat.
Yes, I know that a lot of cooking in certain parts of the world include goat. I know that in Texas, barbecued young goat, or cabrito, is something that makes my wife swoon. However, I will chew my own hand off my body than be faced with what I tried 25 years ago.
Tony's grandmother had prepared dinner for the family and while I was there, she have me a small bowl of something that looked foul, smelled worse and was a grainy green mess.
What is it?
“Its jerked goat, Day-vid” she replied in her singsong lilt.
What?
“Give it to your mom and dad to try”, she smiled.
OK
I walked it across the street and set it on the counter. Curiosity, the damnation of all small boys, got the best of me. I delicately picked a small piece out of the bowl and, holding my nose, put it in my mouth.
Mistake.
I won’t bore you with details such as throwing up in my mouth, and then into the sink, but it happened. It was the foulest, nastiest thing I had ever tasted. I wondered if I had been poisoned. Perhaps the folks across the street practiced the voodoo I had read about in one of my Dad’s many National Geographics. Please God make this go away.
I survived, although I am still nervous about what alterations jerked goat might have done to my young chromosomes. I twitch every once in a while, and my eyesight isn’t as good as it should. The smell of burnt cumin still rings in my nose. Oh well…
But, the most unique, interesting, strange and eccentric human that ever graced 1819 Ingraham Street was Sergio Lewis Santana.
The house was empty for some time after Chuck and his family left our neighborhood, until a bright red-orange van pulls up INTO the yard across the street and out pops Sergio. To describe Sergio, you have to imagine the bus driver from the Simpsons, mixed with a little Keanu from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and a dash of Carrot Top. Sergio was a character living among us in a time in history (the 70’s) where characters were commonplace. He seemed to be a free spirit, and you wondered if he lived in his van when he wasn’t renting houses.
His van. Picture a 1970’s era good times van but with a twist: Sergio let anyone paint on his van anything they wanted. On almost every surface of the van, people that Sergio knew; friends, family, lovers, people he just met…you name it. “Hey Sergio” was a popular one. “Hang Loose!” was another. It seemed as though they all flowed into one, unending diatribe of cool. Being a Ray Bradbury fan at that age and time, I instantly thought of The Illustrated Man, his astonishing collection of short stories. Here was Bradbury’s masterpiece on Detroit metal, traveling for the world to see.
“Stay Cool!”
“Sadie was here, but don’t tell my old man”
“Come home soon!”
“You owe me money, Sergio!”
“Oye Como Va” (possibly a Santana song reference, in part because of Sergio’s last
name)
“Brett from Rialto ‘74”
They went on and on. Sergio didn’t seem to mind us kids gawking at his van. He seemed proud of where he had been and what he had seen. Being a child who couldn’t wait to get out into the world beyond Las Vegas, and who later in life who steal his Dad’s prized road cycle to pedal to the airport every day during the summer to see the planes take off to unknown destinations, I was mystified and amazed.
I still don’t know how old Sergio was. Initially I think he was in his 20’s, living free and easy on the highways of life. But when you got closer, you saw the wrinkles and age and wondered if he wasn’t another aging hippie trying to be the last pilgrim of the past times…no one to minister to in a changing world.
Sergio was cool. Since we were boys, and Sergio was a dude NOT our Dad’s, he was like the crazy uncle who comes over to babysit and lets you stay up past midnight even though he knew the parents would flip out if they knew. The crazy uncle who lets you try a sip of beer or a hit from a joint. The crazy uncle who drives an orange good-times van with poetry written on it.
Sergio would allow us the run of his house. Even better, he had porn. Now before YOU flip out, understand that he didn’t sit us down, put on movies and make us watch them as he sidled over closer and closer to us. He wasn’t some weird creepy dude. What I do mean is, stacks and stacks of Playboy and Penthouse with the occasional Hustler or Screw thrown in. Being prepubescent teens, it was all we could do NOT to go to Sergio’s every day during the summer.
“Where are you headed, honey?”
Over to Sergio’s to hang out with Troy and Brad. Over to Sergio’s to help mow the grass. Over to Sergio’s to watch the game. Over to Sergio’s to look at porn.
That last one never escaped my mouth, of course.
Being a father of two boys, I can’t IMAGINE ever letting that happen, but this was the 70’s, and times were innocent and free back then. However, if my Dad ever found out we were hanging out looking with undiminished awe at “nudie mags” I am sure he may have separated Sergio’s head from his body….or at least an arm or leg.
Sergio only lived among us for about a year, then moved on to somewhere only he knows. I hope to come across his again someday, just to see what he is up to, what the van looks like, and to borrow a magazine or two.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
This Buck's For You...
Deer hunting in Northern Nevada…all I can say is, if you have ever think you've been cold in your life, you really don’t know what cold is.
As my Dad explained it, the Earth was at its coldest right before sunrise, when the ground had let loose of all of its heat, and the sun had risen to begin the heating process all over again. Little solace was this scientific explanation as I sat on a rocky, windy ridge, perched 100 feet above a quiet meadow waiting for deer that would surely have the sense to be somewhere warmer than where we were.
“The deer come out early to feed in this area, so we have to get a jump start.” my father explained.
Since we were there late in the season, I figured that despite having brains the size of golf balls, the deer had probably figured that this area was one to be avoided, else they be turned into venison jerky like their brethren. But I was 8…what did I know?
Slowly, much much too slowly, the sun finally woke its late ass up and began to peek over Mount Moriah, the area that Dad had found years before and swore was THE place to bag his deer year after year. Despite only coming home with one carcass in the years that I remember him hunting, he seemed to take pleasure in the fact that Moriah was not crowded or even well-known….things that should have tipped him off as to the scarcity of said deer.
I shifted my seat on the cold, damp rocks for the 100th time, hoping against hope that we would that day…please God that day…bag the deer we were trying for and spend the rest of the trip in warm tent comfort, sitting by the fire and telling stories.
Speaking of stories, one of my favorite and yet weirdest memories was the time my Dad told me he had been captured by the Red Chinese. In Vietnam, my father had driven PT boats, those ones with the front gate that would fall open and unleash the screaming American tide against the NV oppressors. Most of the time, his stories about that time in his life had to do with women, or boxing, or getting drunk and boxing other men about women. However, on one occasion, he decided to “let me in” on the fact that he had been captured, tortured and threatened with death by “Red Chinese” soldiers fighting in Vietnam.
Since I woke up at 5am every day to sit on a cold, damp rock above a grassy meadow waiting for deer that would never come, I was damn tired by the time dinnertime came about. That night, my dad decided to cook steaks over the campfire and while they came out great, the combination of early rising and a tummy full of warm beef made me very drowsy. However, since this was time well spent with my Dad, I tried my best to fight through it.
“…and so I sat tied in this chair while they shouted in Chinese. I don’t know why they thought I could understand….are you awake David?” I would bolt up in my lawn chair and swear that, yessir, I was listening. Sweet Jesus was I tired.
“Ok, just making sure. So anyway, they tried to hand me this piece of paper to sign….a confession or something. But they forgot my hands were tied, so I couldn’t take the paper from this idiot’s hands, so he just kept getting redder and redder in the face and louder and louder….David?”
I had checked out at this point, surrendering to the forces of exhaustion and a full stomach. I still don’t know if my Dad was pulling my leg about the story…I am almost embarrassed to admit that I didn’t hear what could have been a very important tale of his wartime life…or a truly amazing fabrication of same. Either way, I didn’t want to admit to my father that I was paying attention! We had already gone through that, as you shall see.
Earlier in the week, I had been dispatched back to the camp to retrieve a water bottle that my Dad’s friend had forgotten. Our “deer perch” was about 100 yards from the camp, so I jogged back to the camp in an effort to get back to hanging out with them. I roamed around the campsite looking for the bottle and finally found it, starting back towards where they waited, head down against the wind and cold. As I got within 10 yards of the perch, I looked up to see my Dad and Jerry with wide eyes full of surprise.
“Did you not see that deer??”
Huh?
“There was a deer about 15 feet from you, looking for food on the ground of the campsite!, Jerry explained.
Oh shit.
“Son, it was right there next to you!” Dad added in. “ We wanted to take a shot, but was worried we might hit you instead!”
Well…thanks…
“So we tried instead to make some noise to get you to turn around, but the deer heard it first and took off. It was a sweet buck…you didn’t see it?”
I probably would have crapped my 8 year old pants if I turned and saw a full-grown antlered mammal checking me out with large quizzing black eyes. Crapping would be about all I could have mustered…forget all about raising the rifle and taking a shot.
‘Oh well,” my Dad finally laughed. “Maybe we’ll see that deer again”.
We did see that deer or one like it the next night at sundown. As we were traveling back from a jaunt around the valley to scout out any other deer-rich areas, the light slowly fading from the earth, Dad noticed something off to the right and ahead of the truck.
“Did you see that?”, he asked
What?
“I think there are a couple deer right over the hill there”.
I didn’t see anything.
He slowed the truck and then to a stop, opening his door. Then in one fluid motion, he grabbed his rifle, swung one leg out and, turning on that foot, managed a pirouette that brought the rifle scope over to the top of the truck hood. A few seconds later a shot rang out that echoed across the valley. He stayed looking through his scope, trying to coax a little more light out of the fading sky. Then, slowly, he motioned for me to get out on my side and join him.
“I got him”, Dad mentioned quietly, almost as an afterthought.
Really?
“Yep”
We walked about 20 feet from the truck and there I noticed a large animal lying on the ground, slowly twitching as if to try and get away. Suddenly, it was still, and I felt bad for having witnessed such a thing. I’m sorry, Mr. Deer. This whole circle of life thing is a bitch and I trust that you understand why we are out here. See you in the next life.
My father, worried that the beast might still have some kick left in it, unsheathed his knife and drew it across the deer’s neck. A slight spasm from the deer and that was all. Dark red blood, steaming in the dusk cold, began to pool and waterfall down the incline under the deer’s head.
“Can’t believe I saw that thing in the dark, let alone hit it.” I agreed with a nod, my eyes glued to the first animal I had ever seen killed. We stood there for a while longer, then wrestled it into the back of the truck and took off towards camp. Once there, my father wasted no time in hanging the deer up by its hind legs from the side of the truck and dressed the beast, cleaning it like you would a fish…..a very big, very hairy, very stinky fish.
When he was finished with his duties, he washed his hands with water from the orange Igloo cooler and dried them on his pants. Slowly, he turned to me with a smile and said “How about we tell Mom you got this one?”
Huh?
“I know this trip has been a long one for you and you didn’t even get to take a shot at a deer.” He explained. Unspoken was the preceding day’s failure with the deer that was 15 feet away, although I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I don’t know Dad
“Sure. It will be no big deal and she will get a kick out of it.”
I guess so.
The rest of the week passed along uneventfully and we made our way back to Vegas. Once there, my mother squealed with delight at her son and his joining the ranks of men. Later in life, I confessed to my mother exactly what had happened and she said that Dad had already told her years before. I sighed with relief, knowing that I had never lied to my mother about anything, and that I felt bad to have started with a very tall deer tale.
As my Dad explained it, the Earth was at its coldest right before sunrise, when the ground had let loose of all of its heat, and the sun had risen to begin the heating process all over again. Little solace was this scientific explanation as I sat on a rocky, windy ridge, perched 100 feet above a quiet meadow waiting for deer that would surely have the sense to be somewhere warmer than where we were.
“The deer come out early to feed in this area, so we have to get a jump start.” my father explained.
Since we were there late in the season, I figured that despite having brains the size of golf balls, the deer had probably figured that this area was one to be avoided, else they be turned into venison jerky like their brethren. But I was 8…what did I know?
Slowly, much much too slowly, the sun finally woke its late ass up and began to peek over Mount Moriah, the area that Dad had found years before and swore was THE place to bag his deer year after year. Despite only coming home with one carcass in the years that I remember him hunting, he seemed to take pleasure in the fact that Moriah was not crowded or even well-known….things that should have tipped him off as to the scarcity of said deer.
I shifted my seat on the cold, damp rocks for the 100th time, hoping against hope that we would that day…please God that day…bag the deer we were trying for and spend the rest of the trip in warm tent comfort, sitting by the fire and telling stories.
Speaking of stories, one of my favorite and yet weirdest memories was the time my Dad told me he had been captured by the Red Chinese. In Vietnam, my father had driven PT boats, those ones with the front gate that would fall open and unleash the screaming American tide against the NV oppressors. Most of the time, his stories about that time in his life had to do with women, or boxing, or getting drunk and boxing other men about women. However, on one occasion, he decided to “let me in” on the fact that he had been captured, tortured and threatened with death by “Red Chinese” soldiers fighting in Vietnam.
Since I woke up at 5am every day to sit on a cold, damp rock above a grassy meadow waiting for deer that would never come, I was damn tired by the time dinnertime came about. That night, my dad decided to cook steaks over the campfire and while they came out great, the combination of early rising and a tummy full of warm beef made me very drowsy. However, since this was time well spent with my Dad, I tried my best to fight through it.
“…and so I sat tied in this chair while they shouted in Chinese. I don’t know why they thought I could understand….are you awake David?” I would bolt up in my lawn chair and swear that, yessir, I was listening. Sweet Jesus was I tired.
“Ok, just making sure. So anyway, they tried to hand me this piece of paper to sign….a confession or something. But they forgot my hands were tied, so I couldn’t take the paper from this idiot’s hands, so he just kept getting redder and redder in the face and louder and louder….David?”
I had checked out at this point, surrendering to the forces of exhaustion and a full stomach. I still don’t know if my Dad was pulling my leg about the story…I am almost embarrassed to admit that I didn’t hear what could have been a very important tale of his wartime life…or a truly amazing fabrication of same. Either way, I didn’t want to admit to my father that I was paying attention! We had already gone through that, as you shall see.
Earlier in the week, I had been dispatched back to the camp to retrieve a water bottle that my Dad’s friend had forgotten. Our “deer perch” was about 100 yards from the camp, so I jogged back to the camp in an effort to get back to hanging out with them. I roamed around the campsite looking for the bottle and finally found it, starting back towards where they waited, head down against the wind and cold. As I got within 10 yards of the perch, I looked up to see my Dad and Jerry with wide eyes full of surprise.
“Did you not see that deer??”
Huh?
“There was a deer about 15 feet from you, looking for food on the ground of the campsite!, Jerry explained.
Oh shit.
“Son, it was right there next to you!” Dad added in. “ We wanted to take a shot, but was worried we might hit you instead!”
Well…thanks…
“So we tried instead to make some noise to get you to turn around, but the deer heard it first and took off. It was a sweet buck…you didn’t see it?”
I probably would have crapped my 8 year old pants if I turned and saw a full-grown antlered mammal checking me out with large quizzing black eyes. Crapping would be about all I could have mustered…forget all about raising the rifle and taking a shot.
‘Oh well,” my Dad finally laughed. “Maybe we’ll see that deer again”.
We did see that deer or one like it the next night at sundown. As we were traveling back from a jaunt around the valley to scout out any other deer-rich areas, the light slowly fading from the earth, Dad noticed something off to the right and ahead of the truck.
“Did you see that?”, he asked
What?
“I think there are a couple deer right over the hill there”.
I didn’t see anything.
He slowed the truck and then to a stop, opening his door. Then in one fluid motion, he grabbed his rifle, swung one leg out and, turning on that foot, managed a pirouette that brought the rifle scope over to the top of the truck hood. A few seconds later a shot rang out that echoed across the valley. He stayed looking through his scope, trying to coax a little more light out of the fading sky. Then, slowly, he motioned for me to get out on my side and join him.
“I got him”, Dad mentioned quietly, almost as an afterthought.
Really?
“Yep”
We walked about 20 feet from the truck and there I noticed a large animal lying on the ground, slowly twitching as if to try and get away. Suddenly, it was still, and I felt bad for having witnessed such a thing. I’m sorry, Mr. Deer. This whole circle of life thing is a bitch and I trust that you understand why we are out here. See you in the next life.
My father, worried that the beast might still have some kick left in it, unsheathed his knife and drew it across the deer’s neck. A slight spasm from the deer and that was all. Dark red blood, steaming in the dusk cold, began to pool and waterfall down the incline under the deer’s head.
“Can’t believe I saw that thing in the dark, let alone hit it.” I agreed with a nod, my eyes glued to the first animal I had ever seen killed. We stood there for a while longer, then wrestled it into the back of the truck and took off towards camp. Once there, my father wasted no time in hanging the deer up by its hind legs from the side of the truck and dressed the beast, cleaning it like you would a fish…..a very big, very hairy, very stinky fish.
When he was finished with his duties, he washed his hands with water from the orange Igloo cooler and dried them on his pants. Slowly, he turned to me with a smile and said “How about we tell Mom you got this one?”
Huh?
“I know this trip has been a long one for you and you didn’t even get to take a shot at a deer.” He explained. Unspoken was the preceding day’s failure with the deer that was 15 feet away, although I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I don’t know Dad
“Sure. It will be no big deal and she will get a kick out of it.”
I guess so.
The rest of the week passed along uneventfully and we made our way back to Vegas. Once there, my mother squealed with delight at her son and his joining the ranks of men. Later in life, I confessed to my mother exactly what had happened and she said that Dad had already told her years before. I sighed with relief, knowing that I had never lied to my mother about anything, and that I felt bad to have started with a very tall deer tale.
A Helping Hand
“Wanted: a good home for a 10 year old boy. Good grades, a sunny if oftentimes inconsistent disposition, and a penchant for sleepwalking at all times of the night.”
This was the want ad I imagined my parents putting into the local weekly, having finally worn themselves ragged on dealing with my nightly sojourns down the hall, into the bathroom and finally the kitchen, all under the auspices of unconsciousness. It was under this same spell that I once walked a deer head down the hall.
A normal night, if you can consider one’s teenage years anything normal. School, friends and the burgeoning interest in girls made for long days and sometimes equally long nights. The clock radio next to my bed played the disco and rock tunes of the day, and competed for my attention with whatever sci-fi book I was reading at the time. Asimov, Heinlein and Bradbury held a special interest for boys of my age, and I was no different. I fall asleep with “Kashmir” and “Night Fever” ringing in my ears.
At 12 years of age, I had already grown taller than my 5’3” mother, who used my height during the daylight hours to procure spices and jars of preserved fruits down from the upper reaches of the avocado green cupboards. It is this same petite woman who I semi-awoke to find wrestling me down the hall, shouting “wake up David…wake up!” as I clutched a massive stuffed 4-point trophy deer head in my arms, headed God knows where.
East of the Mississippi, antlered animals are counted by the full number of “points” or tips of antlers, whereas in the West, they count them by only one side. So, my deer had 4 large points on one side, with an equal number on the other. Easteners would call this one an 8-point…those points were exactly what my mother was trying to avoid as she attempted to steer me back to my room.
The year prior, when my father called from the hunting grounds to tell my mother in an excited, hurried voice about his trophy kill, my mother at that point resolved two things: first, that she would hang a sign on the front door to be seen upon his return that read “Welcome Home, Deer Killer”. She wasn’t a big fan if the hunt, but knew that my Dad would never kill something just for the fun of doing so. We would be eating on that deer for a few months, until venison became a four-letter word in our home.
The second, and more important proviso my Mother set down, was that no deer head would ever grace her bedroom, family room or any other place where visitors to our home would see it. My father had it in his head that he would be able to wake every day to his trophy, satisfied that he had cemented his place upon the ranks of men. After much heated discussion, it was decided that the stuffed head would go in my room. Although I didn’t have a vote in the matter, I was more than thrilled to have a symbol of my father’s masculinity in my room….some of which I hoped would rub off on me.
After a month or so, Dad and his two sons climbed into the truck to pick up the head from the taxidermists. We had already procured the rest of the animal, turned as it had been into steaks, ribs and jerky. But this was a more important event because it was a lasting symbol of the event…much more so than that gamey, heartburn-inducing venison we kids forced down 3 times a week. I even think she tried a form of Venison Helper, ground deer meat taking the place of hamburger in the Helper recipe. At that point I refused to eat anything with the word “Helper” in it again, deer meat or not. I recanted that vow later in life when my former spouse decided to make it for the kids (with the proper ground beef inside) and I “helped” myself to a bowl to see if I could eat it again. Three days and 20 pounds lighter, having shat out the lining of my stomach, I realized that I had either been poisoned (and given the state of our marriage at the time, I couldn’t rule that out…) or I was having a 20-year-later psychological response to a certain dish. Who knows?
As my mother tried her best to move me back in the direction of my room, back to the wall spike upon which the head rested, my father joined in the fray with his large frame and even larger hands, worn and calloused from years of hard work. They made small work of me, relieving me of my deer while mother, safe from an eye gouge or cheek pierce, got her son back to bed. I vaguely remember Dad sticking the head back on the wall and wondered in my narcosis just what all of the fuss was about.
The next morning, with bags under her eyes that no amount of coffee would erase, my mother asked if I remembered what happened.
What?
My father laughed as Mom recounted the previous night’s events and I sat there, red-faced with shame and embarrassment, wondering if I would ever live down a night of carrying mammals down the hall.
This was the want ad I imagined my parents putting into the local weekly, having finally worn themselves ragged on dealing with my nightly sojourns down the hall, into the bathroom and finally the kitchen, all under the auspices of unconsciousness. It was under this same spell that I once walked a deer head down the hall.
A normal night, if you can consider one’s teenage years anything normal. School, friends and the burgeoning interest in girls made for long days and sometimes equally long nights. The clock radio next to my bed played the disco and rock tunes of the day, and competed for my attention with whatever sci-fi book I was reading at the time. Asimov, Heinlein and Bradbury held a special interest for boys of my age, and I was no different. I fall asleep with “Kashmir” and “Night Fever” ringing in my ears.
At 12 years of age, I had already grown taller than my 5’3” mother, who used my height during the daylight hours to procure spices and jars of preserved fruits down from the upper reaches of the avocado green cupboards. It is this same petite woman who I semi-awoke to find wrestling me down the hall, shouting “wake up David…wake up!” as I clutched a massive stuffed 4-point trophy deer head in my arms, headed God knows where.
East of the Mississippi, antlered animals are counted by the full number of “points” or tips of antlers, whereas in the West, they count them by only one side. So, my deer had 4 large points on one side, with an equal number on the other. Easteners would call this one an 8-point…those points were exactly what my mother was trying to avoid as she attempted to steer me back to my room.
The year prior, when my father called from the hunting grounds to tell my mother in an excited, hurried voice about his trophy kill, my mother at that point resolved two things: first, that she would hang a sign on the front door to be seen upon his return that read “Welcome Home, Deer Killer”. She wasn’t a big fan if the hunt, but knew that my Dad would never kill something just for the fun of doing so. We would be eating on that deer for a few months, until venison became a four-letter word in our home.
The second, and more important proviso my Mother set down, was that no deer head would ever grace her bedroom, family room or any other place where visitors to our home would see it. My father had it in his head that he would be able to wake every day to his trophy, satisfied that he had cemented his place upon the ranks of men. After much heated discussion, it was decided that the stuffed head would go in my room. Although I didn’t have a vote in the matter, I was more than thrilled to have a symbol of my father’s masculinity in my room….some of which I hoped would rub off on me.
After a month or so, Dad and his two sons climbed into the truck to pick up the head from the taxidermists. We had already procured the rest of the animal, turned as it had been into steaks, ribs and jerky. But this was a more important event because it was a lasting symbol of the event…much more so than that gamey, heartburn-inducing venison we kids forced down 3 times a week. I even think she tried a form of Venison Helper, ground deer meat taking the place of hamburger in the Helper recipe. At that point I refused to eat anything with the word “Helper” in it again, deer meat or not. I recanted that vow later in life when my former spouse decided to make it for the kids (with the proper ground beef inside) and I “helped” myself to a bowl to see if I could eat it again. Three days and 20 pounds lighter, having shat out the lining of my stomach, I realized that I had either been poisoned (and given the state of our marriage at the time, I couldn’t rule that out…) or I was having a 20-year-later psychological response to a certain dish. Who knows?
As my mother tried her best to move me back in the direction of my room, back to the wall spike upon which the head rested, my father joined in the fray with his large frame and even larger hands, worn and calloused from years of hard work. They made small work of me, relieving me of my deer while mother, safe from an eye gouge or cheek pierce, got her son back to bed. I vaguely remember Dad sticking the head back on the wall and wondered in my narcosis just what all of the fuss was about.
The next morning, with bags under her eyes that no amount of coffee would erase, my mother asked if I remembered what happened.
What?
My father laughed as Mom recounted the previous night’s events and I sat there, red-faced with shame and embarrassment, wondering if I would ever live down a night of carrying mammals down the hall.
The Runaway
When I was 13 I ran away from home.
It started all very strangely. Earlier in the day I had gotten in trouble for taking some rare coins from my Dad’s collection and using them as currency towards multiple rounds of Asteroids at the local arcade. My father collected coins of all types, mostly American silver: Mercury dimes, Buffalo nickels, ancient quarters and the like. It was the quarters I was most interested in of course. I had been sneaking a few here and there for some time, and when it was discovered, I was given the spanking to end all spankings. As I sat crying in my room, I realized that I would make them pay, oh yes, I would make them pay for the insults given to my backside. I would run away from home.
After the punishment, my Dad went over to a neighbor’s house to help with a car repair issue. My Dad was and is very capable with things like and that and was always called upon to help neighborhood folks with mechanical problems. Mark was playing in the backyard and Mom was nowhere to be found. Grabbing my PeeChee folder from the side of my bed, I scrawled a hasty good bye to the world. I threw in the obligatory “you won’t find me, so don’t try” and “I know you don’t love me”. Of course they didn’t…why would they spank me over some quarters!
I grabbed the $1.75 I had stashed for future video fun and jammed it into the pocket of my shorts. Pulling on a tee shirt and sneakers, I furtively made my way down the hall, grabbing a roll of scotch tape out of the junk drawer. Tearing off a piece, I taped my getaway note to the front door and fast-walked down Ingraham street to where my future surely awaited. I cast thoughtful glances at the houses and landmarks that made up the street upon which I grew up, knowing that I would never see them again. Perhaps, after I had grown up in a world that understood me, I would come back to this place and to my parents, where they would clasp me in forgiving arms proclaiming to the heavens that they had been wrong all along, and that they were so happy to have me back. I would nod slightly, then leave again to let them ponder the child they had wronged.
$1.75. I guess my first thought was food for the trip. Although I knew that $1.75 wasn’t very much, I also knew that somehow good fortune would follow me. It had to. I was making my own life and following no one’s rules. Down Hickey Avenue, left on Webb to Lake Mead Boulevard.
At the intersection sat a 7-eleven store. Many were the summer days that we kids would ride our bikes here to get penny candy or sodas on our way to the junior high swimming pool. On Halloween, they would hand out free slurpees to kids in costume. The owner knew everyone and was always very kind. I made my way inside the store and went back to the cooler where they kept sandwiches. For 99 cents you could buy a turkey sandwich cut in half and stuffed into a triangular plastic pouch. I grabbed one, a bag of 25 cents Doritos and a 50 cent coke. I then realized, after my purchases, that I had 1 penny left over. Well, it didn’t matter. I had what I needed for now and the rest would take care of itself.
Down Lake Mead Boulevard I went. Why I chose this particular direction I don’t know. We had often ridden our bikes down this street on our way to Sunrise Mountain, the desert covered range not far behind our house. Or to friend’s houses. Or to 7-Eleven. I kept walking, munching on my sandwich. I wondered if my parents found the note yet. I feared that my Dad would come roaring up in his truck behind me, snatch me away from my sandwich, and take me to a place where all bad kids go. I didn’t really know what that place was, but I pictured myself later in life living a miserable existence, relegated to a life of crime, attending Vo-Tech, the Vocational school in the Valley that kids went to when they couldn’t handle real high school. In fact I was walking in that direction right now. Maybe it was fate.
But no…my dad didn’t show. Did I want him to? Did I want him to save me from myself? I don’t know. So I kept walking. Soon, I came upon the Bel-Air trailer park about 2 miles from our house. I was always fascinated yet horrified by trailer parks: did they not want a regular house? Could they not afford it? Did they go to Vo-Tech as kids and therefore not grow up with normal people? Are they eating 99 cent turkey sandwiches from 7-Eleven? Whenever we drove by with our parents, there always seemed to be stuff all over the yard; toys, water hoses, plastic wading pools. Why didn’t they put anything away? Not that our house was the model of neatness. Quite the opposite, in fact. But at least we didn’t live in a house on wheels. And didn’t tornados always target trailer parks? Not for me. Later in life (maybe a couple years later) I fell for a sweet girl from Butler, Pennsylvania named Alice Lunn. She was in 8th photography club with me and I thought she was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Once, sh invited me over to her “house” and upon arriving on my bike, I realized that she lived in a trailer. I immediately made assumptions about her family and character, perhaps even about her sexual mores, if I even had thoughts like that at 13. Suffice it to say I didn’t like her after that, an attitude that thankfully did not last into adulthood or even much sooner.
I kept walking, past the barking, dusty dog chained to a wheel on the trailer, past the fake Astroturf “planted” in front of the trailers as a hopeful welcome, past the pink flamingos jammed into the dirt that covered everything.
Soon, my legs became tired. I sat on the sidewalk under a tree and sipped what was left of my warm Coke. Sandwich and chips long gone, I pondered what exactly I would do now? I watched the cars speed by, east and west, headed towards homes, work, friends, family.
Family.
Then I thought: what really had they done to me to deserve me running away? I knew what I had originally done in stealing the coins from my Dad was bad, so who was I to leave? The reality of the situation plus a sheer sadness over what I would be missing filled me, and I started to cry. I realized that in not seeing my Mom and Dad and Mark, I would be missing out on so much. So I started back.
Lake Mead Boulevard…left on Webb, right on Hickey Avenue. Then left onto the warm embrace of Ingraham Street. As I made my way home, I passed by Troy Shaw’s house. Troy was my best friend growing up and I heard his brother Scotty whisper “didn’t he run away?” “Quiet, Scotty” Troy replied protectively. My parents had obviously spread the word, but Troy had me innocent until proven guilty, as true friends do.
I approached my house. I crept up on the left side, ducked under the dining room window and through the gate. As I turned the corner and came into view on the patio door, I saw my mother on the phone with a wild, frantic look in her eyes. Suddenly, upon seeing me, as I slid the door open, I heard her say, “Wait..he’s home!”. She hung up the phone and ran to me in a smothering embrace. All I could hear her ask, as I fought back my tears is “why? why?” and I didn’t really have an answer. The crumpled getaway note was lying on the kitchen table. Looking over her shoulder I saw my father in the background with his arms crossed, looking grim and yet happy that I was home. I had shattered, for a few hours, the small yet important existence that he had tried to carve out for his family. Away from stepfathers and stepmothers on both of their sides of the family, away from bad influences, from drugs and predators, from bad grades and bad examples. This had shaken him, and I could tell that in body language and by his facial expression, which wore a concerned and devastated look. I left my mother’s impossible embrace and went over to him.
I’m sorry Dad
I know, Son. Just don’t ever do that again.
I won’t.
I knew that I could keep that promise, because he did not punish me in any way. No spankings, I wasn’t grounded…nothing. This confused me for a time. I had gotten spanked to the high holy for taking some coins. Wasn’t there some medieval torture that would be visited upon me for causing the family an insane amount of worry? After a while I realized that the disappointment my father felt in me and a way himself was enough…more than enough. That time truly was the end of spankings and transitioned into a time where his words and looks were more than enough.
I stayed in my room most of the day, then made my way out to the TV room, in an effort to guage whether I would be accepted into the good graces of all. My mother had fallen into an afternoon nap, driven to exhaustion as it were by the day’ events. My father and brother sat watching TV on the couch, and after sizing them up, I walked over and joined them. We sat there for a while, and then my father put his arm around me. I knew that I could never do anything so stupid ever again, because in the wild world of 7-Elevens, Vo-Tech kids and trailer parks, he was the one would save me from all…including myself.
It started all very strangely. Earlier in the day I had gotten in trouble for taking some rare coins from my Dad’s collection and using them as currency towards multiple rounds of Asteroids at the local arcade. My father collected coins of all types, mostly American silver: Mercury dimes, Buffalo nickels, ancient quarters and the like. It was the quarters I was most interested in of course. I had been sneaking a few here and there for some time, and when it was discovered, I was given the spanking to end all spankings. As I sat crying in my room, I realized that I would make them pay, oh yes, I would make them pay for the insults given to my backside. I would run away from home.
After the punishment, my Dad went over to a neighbor’s house to help with a car repair issue. My Dad was and is very capable with things like and that and was always called upon to help neighborhood folks with mechanical problems. Mark was playing in the backyard and Mom was nowhere to be found. Grabbing my PeeChee folder from the side of my bed, I scrawled a hasty good bye to the world. I threw in the obligatory “you won’t find me, so don’t try” and “I know you don’t love me”. Of course they didn’t…why would they spank me over some quarters!
I grabbed the $1.75 I had stashed for future video fun and jammed it into the pocket of my shorts. Pulling on a tee shirt and sneakers, I furtively made my way down the hall, grabbing a roll of scotch tape out of the junk drawer. Tearing off a piece, I taped my getaway note to the front door and fast-walked down Ingraham street to where my future surely awaited. I cast thoughtful glances at the houses and landmarks that made up the street upon which I grew up, knowing that I would never see them again. Perhaps, after I had grown up in a world that understood me, I would come back to this place and to my parents, where they would clasp me in forgiving arms proclaiming to the heavens that they had been wrong all along, and that they were so happy to have me back. I would nod slightly, then leave again to let them ponder the child they had wronged.
$1.75. I guess my first thought was food for the trip. Although I knew that $1.75 wasn’t very much, I also knew that somehow good fortune would follow me. It had to. I was making my own life and following no one’s rules. Down Hickey Avenue, left on Webb to Lake Mead Boulevard.
At the intersection sat a 7-eleven store. Many were the summer days that we kids would ride our bikes here to get penny candy or sodas on our way to the junior high swimming pool. On Halloween, they would hand out free slurpees to kids in costume. The owner knew everyone and was always very kind. I made my way inside the store and went back to the cooler where they kept sandwiches. For 99 cents you could buy a turkey sandwich cut in half and stuffed into a triangular plastic pouch. I grabbed one, a bag of 25 cents Doritos and a 50 cent coke. I then realized, after my purchases, that I had 1 penny left over. Well, it didn’t matter. I had what I needed for now and the rest would take care of itself.
Down Lake Mead Boulevard I went. Why I chose this particular direction I don’t know. We had often ridden our bikes down this street on our way to Sunrise Mountain, the desert covered range not far behind our house. Or to friend’s houses. Or to 7-Eleven. I kept walking, munching on my sandwich. I wondered if my parents found the note yet. I feared that my Dad would come roaring up in his truck behind me, snatch me away from my sandwich, and take me to a place where all bad kids go. I didn’t really know what that place was, but I pictured myself later in life living a miserable existence, relegated to a life of crime, attending Vo-Tech, the Vocational school in the Valley that kids went to when they couldn’t handle real high school. In fact I was walking in that direction right now. Maybe it was fate.
But no…my dad didn’t show. Did I want him to? Did I want him to save me from myself? I don’t know. So I kept walking. Soon, I came upon the Bel-Air trailer park about 2 miles from our house. I was always fascinated yet horrified by trailer parks: did they not want a regular house? Could they not afford it? Did they go to Vo-Tech as kids and therefore not grow up with normal people? Are they eating 99 cent turkey sandwiches from 7-Eleven? Whenever we drove by with our parents, there always seemed to be stuff all over the yard; toys, water hoses, plastic wading pools. Why didn’t they put anything away? Not that our house was the model of neatness. Quite the opposite, in fact. But at least we didn’t live in a house on wheels. And didn’t tornados always target trailer parks? Not for me. Later in life (maybe a couple years later) I fell for a sweet girl from Butler, Pennsylvania named Alice Lunn. She was in 8th photography club with me and I thought she was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Once, sh invited me over to her “house” and upon arriving on my bike, I realized that she lived in a trailer. I immediately made assumptions about her family and character, perhaps even about her sexual mores, if I even had thoughts like that at 13. Suffice it to say I didn’t like her after that, an attitude that thankfully did not last into adulthood or even much sooner.
I kept walking, past the barking, dusty dog chained to a wheel on the trailer, past the fake Astroturf “planted” in front of the trailers as a hopeful welcome, past the pink flamingos jammed into the dirt that covered everything.
Soon, my legs became tired. I sat on the sidewalk under a tree and sipped what was left of my warm Coke. Sandwich and chips long gone, I pondered what exactly I would do now? I watched the cars speed by, east and west, headed towards homes, work, friends, family.
Family.
Then I thought: what really had they done to me to deserve me running away? I knew what I had originally done in stealing the coins from my Dad was bad, so who was I to leave? The reality of the situation plus a sheer sadness over what I would be missing filled me, and I started to cry. I realized that in not seeing my Mom and Dad and Mark, I would be missing out on so much. So I started back.
Lake Mead Boulevard…left on Webb, right on Hickey Avenue. Then left onto the warm embrace of Ingraham Street. As I made my way home, I passed by Troy Shaw’s house. Troy was my best friend growing up and I heard his brother Scotty whisper “didn’t he run away?” “Quiet, Scotty” Troy replied protectively. My parents had obviously spread the word, but Troy had me innocent until proven guilty, as true friends do.
I approached my house. I crept up on the left side, ducked under the dining room window and through the gate. As I turned the corner and came into view on the patio door, I saw my mother on the phone with a wild, frantic look in her eyes. Suddenly, upon seeing me, as I slid the door open, I heard her say, “Wait..he’s home!”. She hung up the phone and ran to me in a smothering embrace. All I could hear her ask, as I fought back my tears is “why? why?” and I didn’t really have an answer. The crumpled getaway note was lying on the kitchen table. Looking over her shoulder I saw my father in the background with his arms crossed, looking grim and yet happy that I was home. I had shattered, for a few hours, the small yet important existence that he had tried to carve out for his family. Away from stepfathers and stepmothers on both of their sides of the family, away from bad influences, from drugs and predators, from bad grades and bad examples. This had shaken him, and I could tell that in body language and by his facial expression, which wore a concerned and devastated look. I left my mother’s impossible embrace and went over to him.
I’m sorry Dad
I know, Son. Just don’t ever do that again.
I won’t.
I knew that I could keep that promise, because he did not punish me in any way. No spankings, I wasn’t grounded…nothing. This confused me for a time. I had gotten spanked to the high holy for taking some coins. Wasn’t there some medieval torture that would be visited upon me for causing the family an insane amount of worry? After a while I realized that the disappointment my father felt in me and a way himself was enough…more than enough. That time truly was the end of spankings and transitioned into a time where his words and looks were more than enough.
I stayed in my room most of the day, then made my way out to the TV room, in an effort to guage whether I would be accepted into the good graces of all. My mother had fallen into an afternoon nap, driven to exhaustion as it were by the day’ events. My father and brother sat watching TV on the couch, and after sizing them up, I walked over and joined them. We sat there for a while, and then my father put his arm around me. I knew that I could never do anything so stupid ever again, because in the wild world of 7-Elevens, Vo-Tech kids and trailer parks, he was the one would save me from all…including myself.
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