My stepdad became insta-father in the early 70's when he married my mother. He was young and green, hardened with the discipline of the U.S. Navy. Wholly unprepared to be a father to two love-starved waifs who had been drifting along with their bartender mother in the seaport town of Long Beach, California. Family lore is that they met in the bar my mother tended and she was, and always has been, the life of the party. He was a comparatively-reserved recruit who pursued my beautiful, street-wise, sharp-witted mother. Moth to the flame...I'm just saying.
I remember accepting him immediately. Life seemed different right out of the gates. Suddenly, it was sitting at the table like a family (and getting popped on the head with a fork for infractions to a code we were unfamiliar with.) My sister was, and remains, an extremely picky eater. Meals became delicious but it was a minefield of expectations we had trouble living up to. Many dinners culminated in my sister sitting at the table for hours because she refused to eat her vegetables or something she deemed as weird. If made to eat, she would vomit. I would be standing on a kitchen chair at the sink doing "our" new chore, resenting the snot out of her for "shirking" and him for being such a harsh task master (though I could not yet articulate my feelings).
We were urban children living our lives in the sunshine and grit of a burgeoning city. We rode a lot of buses, walked a lot of miles, and held onto strollers, packing our "trash" whenever we went anywhere. He went "out to sea" as dictated by his job as a seaman or had to "stand watch" as a result, we never knew if he was going to be there from one day to the next. But, he always came home, eventually, as we learned. Despite the discipline, we loved our dad. He was ours. We, excitedly, awaited his returns, lining up with other Navy families to turn the pier into a happy, waving cry fest. Alternately, the discipline got so opressive, we couldn't wait for him to leave once more.
Corporal punishment was the order of the day. The rod was not spared and nobody, but nobody, could call us spoiled. Our comings and goings were regulated and well-monitored. We would not be able to get one over on our Dad. He watched too close. We learned later in life, we didn't know the half of it. He followed us to and from school when he was around making sure we got there safely. Who knew? Luckily, we were good kids doing what we should for the most part. Although, I think we now know how my sister got caught smoking.
I remember getting a "likin" (a spanking either open-handed or with an object such as a leather belt, paddle, switch, or handy item). Those were the days, huh? Anyway, a likin (or a likken) for every piece of "dirty" clothing found in our chest of drawers (or chester drawers, as we heard it). Not really a fair punishment, in my opinion, because the term "dirty" was highly subjective. At the time, we lived in inadequate Navy housing, earmarked to be demolished and riddled with greasy, disgusting cockroaches. Our water was hard, meaning full of minerals, and our soap was bargain basement. Therefore, our clothing was permanently stained. I thought the beatings would never end. And I shared a bedroom with my "piggy" younger sister, who would stash uneaten food under our beds. Thankfully, she's nothing like that now. She's one of the neatest housekeepers I know. Maybe the beatings were beneficial? Perish the thought!
I could "beat a dead horse" but to what end? I prefer to view outcomes. Because of my Dad, I can perservere in the face of difficult circumstances. I knew how I did not want to live which is a gift in itself. I knew I did not want to work nor marry into the military due to the time away from home with no .communication nor to end up in cockroach-infested digs. (it's different now and I mean no disrespect.) I know what elbow grease is and I was never afraid to use it. I always strove to be better and learn more and move forward. I knew how to clean house and my employers were always impressed with my hustle and willingness to do what it takes to see a job through. I share some of his sense of humor...Farts are hilarious!
I remember accepting him immediately. Life seemed different right out of the gates. Suddenly, it was sitting at the table like a family (and getting popped on the head with a fork for infractions to a code we were unfamiliar with.) My sister was, and remains, an extremely picky eater. Meals became delicious but it was a minefield of expectations we had trouble living up to. Many dinners culminated in my sister sitting at the table for hours because she refused to eat her vegetables or something she deemed as weird. If made to eat, she would vomit. I would be standing on a kitchen chair at the sink doing "our" new chore, resenting the snot out of her for "shirking" and him for being such a harsh task master (though I could not yet articulate my feelings).
We were urban children living our lives in the sunshine and grit of a burgeoning city. We rode a lot of buses, walked a lot of miles, and held onto strollers, packing our "trash" whenever we went anywhere. He went "out to sea" as dictated by his job as a seaman or had to "stand watch" as a result, we never knew if he was going to be there from one day to the next. But, he always came home, eventually, as we learned. Despite the discipline, we loved our dad. He was ours. We, excitedly, awaited his returns, lining up with other Navy families to turn the pier into a happy, waving cry fest. Alternately, the discipline got so opressive, we couldn't wait for him to leave once more.
Corporal punishment was the order of the day. The rod was not spared and nobody, but nobody, could call us spoiled. Our comings and goings were regulated and well-monitored. We would not be able to get one over on our Dad. He watched too close. We learned later in life, we didn't know the half of it. He followed us to and from school when he was around making sure we got there safely. Who knew? Luckily, we were good kids doing what we should for the most part. Although, I think we now know how my sister got caught smoking.
I remember getting a "likin" (a spanking either open-handed or with an object such as a leather belt, paddle, switch, or handy item). Those were the days, huh? Anyway, a likin (or a likken) for every piece of "dirty" clothing found in our chest of drawers (or chester drawers, as we heard it). Not really a fair punishment, in my opinion, because the term "dirty" was highly subjective. At the time, we lived in inadequate Navy housing, earmarked to be demolished and riddled with greasy, disgusting cockroaches. Our water was hard, meaning full of minerals, and our soap was bargain basement. Therefore, our clothing was permanently stained. I thought the beatings would never end. And I shared a bedroom with my "piggy" younger sister, who would stash uneaten food under our beds. Thankfully, she's nothing like that now. She's one of the neatest housekeepers I know. Maybe the beatings were beneficial? Perish the thought!
I could "beat a dead horse" but to what end? I prefer to view outcomes. Because of my Dad, I can perservere in the face of difficult circumstances. I knew how I did not want to live which is a gift in itself. I knew I did not want to work nor marry into the military due to the time away from home with no .communication nor to end up in cockroach-infested digs. (it's different now and I mean no disrespect.) I know what elbow grease is and I was never afraid to use it. I always strove to be better and learn more and move forward. I knew how to clean house and my employers were always impressed with my hustle and willingness to do what it takes to see a job through. I share some of his sense of humor...Farts are hilarious!
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