UNDER CONSTRUCTION
It seems I've lived my entire life on one edge or another. In the flesh, I've often said I move from catastrophe to catastrophe. I've since taken a different tack to that way of thinking and agree with God's word that we actually move through life from strength to strength. I like that. It's a more positive mindset. It confirms that when life seems excruciatingly painful, there's an assurance of an oasis of peace and strength just ahead! However, in between the strengths, life can mete out some heartbreaking pitfalls.
One of my mom's teachings was that if I would only listen and learn from her experiences, I would miss her pitfalls. I did listen. I can remember each story she told me because they made such a dramatic impact on my young and innocent mind. I did miss her particular pitfalls. However, ever, the failings of my mom and dad brought circumstantial consequences into our family life that cast us down.
I was born in Los Angeles, California; however, I called myself a West Coaster. Family traumas and upheavals paved the way for many trips in an old Greyhound bus up and down Coast Highway 101, where we found refuge with other relatives in times of domestic crises.
When I was a young girl, our family's home life was a disaster. The term "dysfunctional" had become too much of a cliche for the dramas we experienced. A lot of it had to do with World War II.
My brother was a little guy, and my mom was expecting me when Dad left for the war. She told me he left her at the train station with just $14 in her purse. Fortunately, she and her sister Katy shared a little place together since both their husbands were overseas. Desperate though she was, she loved her Morris. Incredibly, this love letter written ten by my mom to Pfc. Morris C. Brown, dated May 26, 1945, fell into my hands in 2006.
One of my mom's teachings was that if I would only listen and learn from her experiences, I would miss her pitfalls. I did listen. I can remember each story she told me because they made such a dramatic impact on my young and innocent mind. I did miss her particular pitfalls. However, ever, the failings of my mom and dad brought circumstantial consequences into our family life that cast us down.
I was born in Los Angeles, California; however, I called myself a West Coaster. Family traumas and upheavals paved the way for many trips in an old Greyhound bus up and down Coast Highway 101, where we found refuge with other relatives in times of domestic crises.
When I was a young girl, our family's home life was a disaster. The term "dysfunctional" had become too much of a cliche for the dramas we experienced. A lot of it had to do with World War II.
My brother was a little guy, and my mom was expecting me when Dad left for the war. She told me he left her at the train station with just $14 in her purse. Fortunately, she and her sister Katy shared a little place together since both their husbands were overseas. Desperate though she was, she loved her Morris. Incredibly, this love letter written ten by my mom to Pfc. Morris C. Brown, dated May 26, 1945, fell into my hands in 2006.
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"Good Morning, Dear, I love you, I have my flowers right here on the table before me and they are still beautiful. Remember the first flowers you gave me at the Filling Station? 1 pressed two of them and planted two. The rest are a beautiful bouquet. I wrote you last night and I swear I'll write every nite and morning to you from now until l get the glad tidings. Don't bawl me out for not writing as long as I'm getting letters back. It is not my fault if they couldn't find you. I love you. Did you hear me saying that last night? It got to going over in my mind so I couldn't go to sleep so I began saying it aloud. I guess it's because I really do love you and miss you so. I don't feel so good today. Worked too hard yesterday. day. Sure will be glad when you get here. Be sweet and I'll be Loving You. Love Always, Rachel"
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How little we understand when we're separated from loved ones by continents and circumstances. At the time Mom wrote that letter, Dad was engaged in the most shattering and horrific experience of his life. Mom could not have known that or how inappropriate her little scrapping remarks must have seemed. After all, it wasn't her "fault."
When Dad returned from the war, he continued to deteriorate and began to withdraw from the fullness of life around him. Mom's struggle was just as overwhelming. She was beautiful with a fervent passion for life. She couldn't understand what caused her to lose her man. |
When Dad returned from the war, he continued to deteriorate and began to withdraw from the fullness of life around him. Mom's struggle was just as overwhelming. She was beautiful with a fervent passion for life. She couldn't understand what caused her to lose her man. She was overheard praying in the ladies' room one Sunday just before she was to put on a sweet face and go out to sing. She was crying out to God, not knowing how she could go on. She was lonely in her marriage. She had become a beggar at her own table.
Repeatedly, Mom left my dad because of his severe addiction to alcoholism, which not only destroyed their marriage but also left a gentle and kind man with grand mal psychomotor epilepsy. Why did he drink himself into a Muscatel oblivion? Was it a hereditary predisposition? His father before him had succumbed to the same disease. Was it the inescapable able poverty of the Great Depression that so influenced his life? Our family was part of a westward migration of Okies that went to California to get away from being dirt farmers. Added to those pressures was the irreconcilable pain of World War II. Dad was part of the landing assault at Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944. There were tremendous obstacles facing the American and British troops. The Germans had setup four lines of defense along the shoreline. First to be encountered was a non-contiguous line set up with tank obstacles called Belgian Gates. The Gates were on rollers and set with anti-tank mines. Next, they had a line of imbedded logs, pointing seaward, also tipped with explosive mines. Then they set up underwater ramps that would cause a flat-bottomed landing craft to scale the ramp, flip over, and detonate the mines. The last obstacle was a row of crisscrossed steel hedgehogs. Nonetheless, many American and Allied troops managed to make it to the mine-studded shore only to feel the searing fire from German artillery coming from the bunkers along the cliff line.
It was the Germans' plan to stop the Allied Forces at the beach, and though the assault didn't go the way it was planned, our soldiers grouped and regrouped as they scaled the cliffs of Normandy and marched inland.'
As horrific as his first introduction to occupied France was, Dad was not able to get beyond witnessing a hometown town friend being sliced in half by the riddling fire of a German machine gun. Even receiving the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart could not assuage the heartache and mental pain he internalized from the ghastly experience of the war.
Some veterans returned home and managed to pick up their lives again, as did other victims of the war. Many used the human assault as tender to light the fire of their undying humanity. Others gave up on life, succumbing to the anxieties of post-traumatic stress syndrome, their spirits fractured and shattered.
My mom told the story that Dad received the Purple Heart when a bullet hit his steel helmet, ricocheted around the inside, and then deflected downward and punctured his shoulder. I remember sitting on his lap as a little girl and gingerly caressing his shoulder where one of many deep scars was hidden. The story I recall Mom telling about the Bronze Star was that while Dad was reconnoitering in France, he, along with a few other grunts, rushed into a basement wine cellar lar to escape a stormy downpour. In the hurried commotion, they discovered several German troops also hiding out in the wine cellar. A fight for the position ensued; the American soldiers overpowered the Germans and took them as prisoners of war. I asked Dad about that story and if it was true. His only response was his usual soft-spoken, "Uh huh."
On a lark, I Googled "157th Infantry, WWII" and discovered covered a picture titled "French Brewery Visit" on their Web site. The picture shows a few soldiers in front of a French brewery. The soldier second from the left sure looked like my dad, who was a tall and lanky guy from Chickasha, Oklahoma. I tried contacting the U.S. Army Veterans Archives to verify if that was the Bronze Star story. I had no success. Now, years later, through amazing events, the details of Dad's medals have come to light.
While vacationing in our fifth wheel in the Northwest, I pulled the plug in the sink after doing the dinner dishes only to hear the disturbing sound of water coming up in the bathtub. Apparently our last guest did not empty the holding tank. I ran into the bathroom, threw open the shower door, and found the paper sacks full of old family pictures getting soaked in the tub.
Well, don't you know, I was peeved! With twisted frowns of disgust, I moved fast and retrieved what I could of the wet pictures. My frown turned to a look of amazement when I discovered an old envelope, browned with time. Of all things, it was the original letter from the Department of the Army awarding a World War II Bronze Star to my dad, and it wasn't for capturing the Germans in a wine cellar!
It seems the soldiers of the 45th Infantry Division, 157th Infantry Regiment, F Company, had a long marching duty along their route to Berlin. As they marched toward ward their assignment, they happened upon approximately fifty railroad cars that emitted a horrible stench. When they opened the doors, they saw the cars were littered with the decimated human remains of mothers, fathers, shopkeepers, keepers, businessmen, and teachers-people who not long ago hoped for the good life just like the rest of us. Enraged, the soldiers continued their assigned march with renewed fervor. Their mission: to take and liberate one of the most heinous of Hitler's concentration camps... to throw open the gates of Dachau!
In searching through pictures online of that momentous day, April 29, 1945, I looked for my dad. I thought surely I'd see that young Okie of the Thunderbirds hanging on the fence. He was there; I know that for sure. Group pictures were taken, but they were too far away from the camera to identify anything except the spirit of freedom!
Repeatedly, Mom left my dad because of his severe addiction to alcoholism, which not only destroyed their marriage but also left a gentle and kind man with grand mal psychomotor epilepsy. Why did he drink himself into a Muscatel oblivion? Was it a hereditary predisposition? His father before him had succumbed to the same disease. Was it the inescapable able poverty of the Great Depression that so influenced his life? Our family was part of a westward migration of Okies that went to California to get away from being dirt farmers. Added to those pressures was the irreconcilable pain of World War II. Dad was part of the landing assault at Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944. There were tremendous obstacles facing the American and British troops. The Germans had setup four lines of defense along the shoreline. First to be encountered was a non-contiguous line set up with tank obstacles called Belgian Gates. The Gates were on rollers and set with anti-tank mines. Next, they had a line of imbedded logs, pointing seaward, also tipped with explosive mines. Then they set up underwater ramps that would cause a flat-bottomed landing craft to scale the ramp, flip over, and detonate the mines. The last obstacle was a row of crisscrossed steel hedgehogs. Nonetheless, many American and Allied troops managed to make it to the mine-studded shore only to feel the searing fire from German artillery coming from the bunkers along the cliff line.
It was the Germans' plan to stop the Allied Forces at the beach, and though the assault didn't go the way it was planned, our soldiers grouped and regrouped as they scaled the cliffs of Normandy and marched inland.'
As horrific as his first introduction to occupied France was, Dad was not able to get beyond witnessing a hometown town friend being sliced in half by the riddling fire of a German machine gun. Even receiving the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart could not assuage the heartache and mental pain he internalized from the ghastly experience of the war.
Some veterans returned home and managed to pick up their lives again, as did other victims of the war. Many used the human assault as tender to light the fire of their undying humanity. Others gave up on life, succumbing to the anxieties of post-traumatic stress syndrome, their spirits fractured and shattered.
My mom told the story that Dad received the Purple Heart when a bullet hit his steel helmet, ricocheted around the inside, and then deflected downward and punctured his shoulder. I remember sitting on his lap as a little girl and gingerly caressing his shoulder where one of many deep scars was hidden. The story I recall Mom telling about the Bronze Star was that while Dad was reconnoitering in France, he, along with a few other grunts, rushed into a basement wine cellar lar to escape a stormy downpour. In the hurried commotion, they discovered several German troops also hiding out in the wine cellar. A fight for the position ensued; the American soldiers overpowered the Germans and took them as prisoners of war. I asked Dad about that story and if it was true. His only response was his usual soft-spoken, "Uh huh."
On a lark, I Googled "157th Infantry, WWII" and discovered covered a picture titled "French Brewery Visit" on their Web site. The picture shows a few soldiers in front of a French brewery. The soldier second from the left sure looked like my dad, who was a tall and lanky guy from Chickasha, Oklahoma. I tried contacting the U.S. Army Veterans Archives to verify if that was the Bronze Star story. I had no success. Now, years later, through amazing events, the details of Dad's medals have come to light.
While vacationing in our fifth wheel in the Northwest, I pulled the plug in the sink after doing the dinner dishes only to hear the disturbing sound of water coming up in the bathtub. Apparently our last guest did not empty the holding tank. I ran into the bathroom, threw open the shower door, and found the paper sacks full of old family pictures getting soaked in the tub.
Well, don't you know, I was peeved! With twisted frowns of disgust, I moved fast and retrieved what I could of the wet pictures. My frown turned to a look of amazement when I discovered an old envelope, browned with time. Of all things, it was the original letter from the Department of the Army awarding a World War II Bronze Star to my dad, and it wasn't for capturing the Germans in a wine cellar!
It seems the soldiers of the 45th Infantry Division, 157th Infantry Regiment, F Company, had a long marching duty along their route to Berlin. As they marched toward ward their assignment, they happened upon approximately fifty railroad cars that emitted a horrible stench. When they opened the doors, they saw the cars were littered with the decimated human remains of mothers, fathers, shopkeepers, keepers, businessmen, and teachers-people who not long ago hoped for the good life just like the rest of us. Enraged, the soldiers continued their assigned march with renewed fervor. Their mission: to take and liberate one of the most heinous of Hitler's concentration camps... to throw open the gates of Dachau!
In searching through pictures online of that momentous day, April 29, 1945, I looked for my dad. I thought surely I'd see that young Okie of the Thunderbirds hanging on the fence. He was there; I know that for sure. Group pictures were taken, but they were too far away from the camera to identify anything except the spirit of freedom!
The Army officers showed good horse sense when they made it the responsibility of the local German citizens to go out to the concentration camp and walk through the gas chambers to smell the reality of the death camp. Then the commanding officers had the Dachau residents carry out the emaciated dead, dig the mass graves, and bury their fellow countrymen.
Now, six decades later, there are those who want to sweep that horrible genocide, on the part of fallen man, under der the dust of time. They are trying to convince the world that it never happened. However, the evidence is painted in the never-fading color of human blood. Never-ending War When Dad returned home, the traumatic stress caught up with him. From the war, from alcoholism, and from a head injury in a fall while working as a shipping clerk for A.H. Greenbaum & Co. in Los Angeles, he began to have psychomotor epileptic brainstorms. Those sick spells would render him mentally unconscious yet physically active for periods of ten to fifteen minutes at a time.
Mostly he acted out playful juvenile behavior as though lost in a dream. On one occasion, when we were just little kids, he chased my brother and me out of the house and locked the door. Several minutes later we knocked on the door and then banged on the windows to get his attention. "Daddy, let us in." With a puzzled look on his exhausted face, he replied, "What are you kids doing out there?"
"Daddy, you chased us out and locked the door!" we cried through the open window.
"Oh, I did no such thing." With annoyance, he opened the door and then returned to reading his paper. He had no remembrance of what had just happened.
Unfortunately, Dad had many issues to deal with at the same time. Ultimately it was my dad's drinking that got in the way of their marriage, and my folks divorced. The next seven years were difficult for all of us. Mom and Dad separated. They still loved each other and made many attempts tempts to reconcile, but they just couldn't make their marriage work.
Even though poverty overtook us, Mom always encouraged aged us to look on the bright side of life. She was excited that she got a job on the assembly line at Firestone Tire Company in South Gate, California, but until she got her first paycheck, she only had enough money in her purse to buy a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup for our dinner. We were living in an unfurnished duplex, so all we had for a stove was a two-burner hotplate, and there was no refrigerator. Just to keep things upbeat and fun, she started pretending that the soup was a plump, juicy steak, then handed us a knife and a fork to eat it. As we sliced into our soup, we got to giggling so hard that my brother fell off his chair, and that made us laugh even harder.
Then, just as the days started easing by peacefully, real and terrifying danger came packaged in another evil black box. Our beautiful mom had, as she put it, slipped from the frying pan into the raging fire.
As often as she separated from our dad, she went back into an entanglement with a seductively charming and abusive nightmare of a man. Obviously, neither my brother nor I had any control over our lives, and it felt like we were being tossed back and forth like rag dolls.
At a time when Dad swore he'd give up drinking, Mom packed us up once again, and we moved out to the valley. She got a job working nights on the assembly line at Lockheed heed Aircraft Company in North Hollywood, leaving our care to Dad. Sleep disruptions occurred frequently. Once, I was startled awake by a loud thud. My heart racing, I jumped out of bed only to find Dad in a tangled heap on the floor. He was drunk on cheap Muscatel wine. It was a huge effort for me, a twelve-year-old, to get him back into bed.
Events like that caused me to develop panic attacks. My nervous system was going on overload. My unstable condition screamed out loud one day when I heard someone coming up the back stairs of our apartment. The window shade was pulled halfway down, and then I saw a man's hand slowly reach for the door handle. Scared stiff, I panicked and started screaming uncontrollably. Mom yelled, "What'' wrong with you." Glued to the floor, I continued to stand there and scream as Dad made his way through the door and into a kitchen full of loonies.
Mentally, I tucked that scream away deep inside of me and somehow knew that it would come racing to the surface face of my mind whenever I needed an escape.
It wasn't long before the disease of alcoholism overtook our family again. It was an impossible life for our mom. She felt she had nowhere to go, and she didn't have any means of caring for my brother and me, so, regrettably, she allowed herself to be deceived by false promises, and we moved back in with her devil.
There would be no more little nervous breakdowns for me. I had to be on my guard at all times. The abuse we suffered under his hand was horrendous, far worse, I thought, than living with our alcoholic but loving dad. We were indeed like tender lambs caught in the clutches of the Devil himself? He was a mean-spirited man who could always charm his way out of the violence he inflicted.
Then, one day, after seven long years, Mom woke up. I could see it continued to stand there and scream as Dad made his way through the door and into a kitchen full of loonies. Mentally, I tucked that scream away deep inside of me and somehow knew that it would come racing to the surface face of my mind whenever I needed an escape. It wasn't long before the disease of alcoholism overtook our family again. It was an impossible life for our mom. She felt she had nowhere to go, and she didn't have any means of caring for my brother and me, so, regrettably, she allowed herself to be deceived by false promises, and we moved back in with her devil. There would be no more little nervous breakdowns for me. I had to be on my guard at all times. The abuse we suffered under his hand was horrendous, far worse, I thought, than living with our alcoholic but loving dad. We were indeed like tender lambs caught in the clutches of the Devil himself? He was a mean-spirited man who could always charm his way out of the violence he inflicted. Then, one day, after seven long years, Mom woke up. I could see it in her eyes. Finally the end of the nightmare came, and we, the codependent three of us, made plans to escape-literally!
Our bags were packed and waiting for us at the next door neighbors' house, good people who were standing by to take us to the Greyhound Bus Station. We went back over to the house one more time to make sure we had what we needed. The man we feared the most was supposedly at work. However, before we could leave again, he drove up in front of the house!
We made a scramble for the back door and quietly got out of there. Then we pasted ourselves up against the side wall of the house. When we felt it was safe, we got down on our hands and knees and crawled through the tall grass to the neighbors' house. We were rightfully scared and held our breath until we saw him drive away.
We loaded our few belongings into the neighbors' car and headed for the faithful Greyhound Bus Station. Nightmare over-chapter closed.
Now, six decades later, there are those who want to sweep that horrible genocide, on the part of fallen man, under der the dust of time. They are trying to convince the world that it never happened. However, the evidence is painted in the never-fading color of human blood. Never-ending War When Dad returned home, the traumatic stress caught up with him. From the war, from alcoholism, and from a head injury in a fall while working as a shipping clerk for A.H. Greenbaum & Co. in Los Angeles, he began to have psychomotor epileptic brainstorms. Those sick spells would render him mentally unconscious yet physically active for periods of ten to fifteen minutes at a time.
Mostly he acted out playful juvenile behavior as though lost in a dream. On one occasion, when we were just little kids, he chased my brother and me out of the house and locked the door. Several minutes later we knocked on the door and then banged on the windows to get his attention. "Daddy, let us in." With a puzzled look on his exhausted face, he replied, "What are you kids doing out there?"
"Daddy, you chased us out and locked the door!" we cried through the open window.
"Oh, I did no such thing." With annoyance, he opened the door and then returned to reading his paper. He had no remembrance of what had just happened.
Unfortunately, Dad had many issues to deal with at the same time. Ultimately it was my dad's drinking that got in the way of their marriage, and my folks divorced. The next seven years were difficult for all of us. Mom and Dad separated. They still loved each other and made many attempts tempts to reconcile, but they just couldn't make their marriage work.
Even though poverty overtook us, Mom always encouraged aged us to look on the bright side of life. She was excited that she got a job on the assembly line at Firestone Tire Company in South Gate, California, but until she got her first paycheck, she only had enough money in her purse to buy a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup for our dinner. We were living in an unfurnished duplex, so all we had for a stove was a two-burner hotplate, and there was no refrigerator. Just to keep things upbeat and fun, she started pretending that the soup was a plump, juicy steak, then handed us a knife and a fork to eat it. As we sliced into our soup, we got to giggling so hard that my brother fell off his chair, and that made us laugh even harder.
Then, just as the days started easing by peacefully, real and terrifying danger came packaged in another evil black box. Our beautiful mom had, as she put it, slipped from the frying pan into the raging fire.
As often as she separated from our dad, she went back into an entanglement with a seductively charming and abusive nightmare of a man. Obviously, neither my brother nor I had any control over our lives, and it felt like we were being tossed back and forth like rag dolls.
At a time when Dad swore he'd give up drinking, Mom packed us up once again, and we moved out to the valley. She got a job working nights on the assembly line at Lockheed heed Aircraft Company in North Hollywood, leaving our care to Dad. Sleep disruptions occurred frequently. Once, I was startled awake by a loud thud. My heart racing, I jumped out of bed only to find Dad in a tangled heap on the floor. He was drunk on cheap Muscatel wine. It was a huge effort for me, a twelve-year-old, to get him back into bed.
Events like that caused me to develop panic attacks. My nervous system was going on overload. My unstable condition screamed out loud one day when I heard someone coming up the back stairs of our apartment. The window shade was pulled halfway down, and then I saw a man's hand slowly reach for the door handle. Scared stiff, I panicked and started screaming uncontrollably. Mom yelled, "What'' wrong with you." Glued to the floor, I continued to stand there and scream as Dad made his way through the door and into a kitchen full of loonies.
Mentally, I tucked that scream away deep inside of me and somehow knew that it would come racing to the surface face of my mind whenever I needed an escape.
It wasn't long before the disease of alcoholism overtook our family again. It was an impossible life for our mom. She felt she had nowhere to go, and she didn't have any means of caring for my brother and me, so, regrettably, she allowed herself to be deceived by false promises, and we moved back in with her devil.
There would be no more little nervous breakdowns for me. I had to be on my guard at all times. The abuse we suffered under his hand was horrendous, far worse, I thought, than living with our alcoholic but loving dad. We were indeed like tender lambs caught in the clutches of the Devil himself? He was a mean-spirited man who could always charm his way out of the violence he inflicted.
Then, one day, after seven long years, Mom woke up. I could see it continued to stand there and scream as Dad made his way through the door and into a kitchen full of loonies. Mentally, I tucked that scream away deep inside of me and somehow knew that it would come racing to the surface face of my mind whenever I needed an escape. It wasn't long before the disease of alcoholism overtook our family again. It was an impossible life for our mom. She felt she had nowhere to go, and she didn't have any means of caring for my brother and me, so, regrettably, she allowed herself to be deceived by false promises, and we moved back in with her devil. There would be no more little nervous breakdowns for me. I had to be on my guard at all times. The abuse we suffered under his hand was horrendous, far worse, I thought, than living with our alcoholic but loving dad. We were indeed like tender lambs caught in the clutches of the Devil himself? He was a mean-spirited man who could always charm his way out of the violence he inflicted. Then, one day, after seven long years, Mom woke up. I could see it in her eyes. Finally the end of the nightmare came, and we, the codependent three of us, made plans to escape-literally!
Our bags were packed and waiting for us at the next door neighbors' house, good people who were standing by to take us to the Greyhound Bus Station. We went back over to the house one more time to make sure we had what we needed. The man we feared the most was supposedly at work. However, before we could leave again, he drove up in front of the house!
We made a scramble for the back door and quietly got out of there. Then we pasted ourselves up against the side wall of the house. When we felt it was safe, we got down on our hands and knees and crawled through the tall grass to the neighbors' house. We were rightfully scared and held our breath until we saw him drive away.
We loaded our few belongings into the neighbors' car and headed for the faithful Greyhound Bus Station. Nightmare over-chapter closed.