MOSTLY GRATEFUL FOR MOM'S INTERVENTION

 

My Mom shortly before she passed away at 95

With an abusive, self-righteous religious hypocrite as a father, I was fortunate to have a mother who passively undercut my Dad's untenable rules and regulations whenever he left the house.

Burned into my memory, though, are my mother's hurtful words to me at the age of 9.

My sister and I in the 50's

My father was just coming through the door after a two week agreed-upon departure, after it was discovered he'd been molesting my 8 year old sister.

"I can tell Jim is not happy to see me!" were the first words out of my father's mouth.

My mother, typically sympathetic to a fault, all of a sudden became pragmatic, uttering words that hurt to this day:  "Well, you can't support the family, can you Jim?"

Those words were unnecessary since my maternal grandfather, Adolph DeMan, who'd already raised a family through the "Great Depression" on forty acres, a few cows and a huge vegetable garden and fruit orchard in Maple Valley, Washington, could have easily assimilated a few more, and, in those circumstances, done so gladly.

So, Mom kept the family together, but interceded just enough to keep us from harm.

'61 was an alltime favorite summer, not just because Mantle and Maris were duking it out to break Babe Ruth's home run record, but, because my father had taken yet another job, this time trying to sell Gates Tires in Eastern Oregon/Western Idaho.

Much to our relief, this new job meant he was gone all week, sometimes two, just coming home on weekends to wreak havoc.

Behind our rented home in Pilot Rock, Oregon was a wheat field that stretched for miles to the base of the foothills of Eastern Oregon.

Someone in town had submitted my name to the Teenager's Phone Book, although I was actually just 12, but daily I got a call, usually from a girl, letting me know that my services were needed on the baseball diamond.   I'm certain I sprinted all the way there.

We played real baseball back then, or hardball, as some called it, not sissy softball.

A friend and I took turns pitching.

When I was on the mound, I mimicked Don Drysdale, but used Sandy Koufax's high leg kick.  

Occasionally, I would throw sidearm like Ryne Duren, although a coach, wagging his finger at me, told me to "knock that off," as I was "scaring the other kids."

Once at bat, I copied the style of Willie McCovey, and was dissastified with an at bat if I couldn't knock a slightly inside pitch over the left field wall.

Before dad brought that wonderful summer to a close with yet one more move, I had another request to make of Mom.

There was this school dance and I wanted to go, something dad would not have allowed in a million years.

What I didn't tell Mom is that there was this 14 year old girl from the Umatilla Indian Reservation who'd been stalking me all year, despite being a head taller.

I learned later that the attraction had been my long blonde hair, turned white under the summer sun, combed back on both sides into the juvenile delinquent "duck tail" school principals despised.

One of my school friends, acting as sort an advisor, let me know that the girl wore "pink panties," a detail I'm certain was totally made up.

Mom agreed to the dance on the condition I get a slight "trim" first.  

Putting an attachment on the barber shears, Mom, gave me essentially a buzz cut and I raced to the school gym.

Once inside, I was met by a boy and girl I knew, actually a serious junior high couple.  They had a grim announcement for me.

"She saw you coming in with your hair all cut off and no longer likes you," they explained about the new mindset of the "Indian" girl.

The messenger, with the approval of her date, offered me a pity dance, something I half-heartedly participated in and then hit the door, dejected.

Mom, who'd made the whole scenario possible, had ruined the ultimate result with the mandatory haircut.