On a personal note

 

The Visitors - John Koch

Shared with Only me

“There is nothing more provocative than minding your own business.” - William S. Burroughs, The Place of Dead Roads

I had a somewhat disturbing dream one night, not too long ago. I suppose the theme was my social anxiety - the source of which I know. It also involved my lifelong sense of not fitting in - anywhere. And not wanting to. It was a dream revisiting something that happened long ago, but in a contemporary circumstance.

Sometime in the early '70's, my friends and I dropped acid and went to a poolside party somewhere in an eastside suburb of St. Paul. It was John, Jim, Bob, Linda and Donna and me. Mary Kay was at the party, I think I knew some of the people, but I was not friends with them. They were all straight. They stared at us as we all arrived. It felt like something out of a film, maybe like The Graduate. The women I was with apparently were not getting along with another group at the party. Whatever - the atmosphere was extremely uncomfortable and I had no social skills with those kind of people. LOL! I had been living and working in Minneapolis and pretending to be normal and sophisticated. (I worked in fashion display, had lived with my boss, 13 years my senior and had to act like an adult in very difficult snobby situations.) Then my friends came to the rescue and I kind of dropped out, enjoying the drugs and sort of reinventing myself. Another pretense, I might add.

Anyway - gratefully my friends were all turned off by the pool party and we agreed to leave - primarily because they started throwing people in the pool. We left.

Long story short, my dream last night was similar. Rather than try to engage in conversation with the people who were there, I went in the house and started to clean. I was hoping to be accepted that way - or excused for doing something nice for the hosts. They came to check on me now and then and I overheard them discussing what I was doing, while speculating why I was doing it. I stepped outside, out of view, looked at all of them and realized they were all strangers to me. That they had no idea who I was or what I was about. They said nice things to me, but were not sincere. I decided to leave and I heard a woman repeating - "You shouldn't go - you're going to end up completely alone... completely alone... completely alone." My first though, 'I don't know her.'

I left. I left knowing that though I am alone, I'm not alone.

That's it, that's the dream. I considered it a reflection of current situation with my family. They seem to have an endless stream of birthdays and get togethers - for holidays - real or made up, e.g. Christmas in July. I'm always invited, I rarely go. Sometimes I have a real excuse, which they don't believe and sometimes I just don't go - no excuse. I never reveal my actual health condition or problems, so they probably think I'm good to go. Just this past week I cancelled three appointments due to personal problems, which made it inconvenient to keep them. I mentioned it on FB, which they read, writing: "Rescheduled my appointment again. Wait until you get old. Things are not that simple. God forgive me for the impatience I have shown to others - reward them, favor them for having endured me." I feel so stupid revealing such things publicly, so I end up removing posts like that.

I frequently take posts down - or rather made it for my view only. I get discouraged sometimes and attempt to express it in writing. Writing helps me think, reading it helps me make sense of it, I've always done that. It seems to help. Afterwards, I tend to remove some posts since it solved whatever I was attempting to understand. That can frustrate readers though.

Yesterday, I noted another lost day. "I missed studio time today, as well as my appointment. I hate that. Nap time came early - Gabs loves that and she makes me happy when she's comfortable. I took the garbage out for trash day though. Oh - and we prayed our rosary outside. I'm relying on Fr. Charbel to help me get my projects finished in time. The saints tell us not to worry."

Most likely not connected to that post, one of my nephews sent me a private message saying I can't come to my aunt's 100th birthday party this weekend. He's on his long weekend off work, so he isn't always clear in conversations - be it live or text. I decided to play around, with a little back and forth. He wasn't in the mood, rather it turned out to be a challenge. Long story short, he was not happy I wasn't coming to the party. About two weeks ago, one of his sisters was unhappy I didn't come to another function.

I told my nephew that I am undependable, unreliable, irresponsible and always a disappointment. His last text was, "You got that right."

At least I got something right and he can feel better about himself now.

I need God's mercy now, more than ever.

I've never been close to family. I left home in senior high and never remained close. After Darold died I tried to be closer to them We didn't really know each other. Years ago, my parents complained about me to my sister's husband, blaming me for leaving home - telling him I was queer. He was freaked, told my parents and my sister I was no longer welcome in their home and he wanted nothing to do with me. So I wasn't close to the kids. After he died, I stayed away, fearing I'd be a bad example and influence for them. So they grew up estranged from me and I from them.

It's been touch and go all along. I have no hard feelings, but I'm not sure they get it - the fact of having been shamed and banned at one time - even though I had already separated myself from the family and sought to make a new life for myself.

So. I live alone now, with my cat.

Once upon a time ... something happened.

The Story.

I began writing stories from my life years ago, but I always stopped abruptly at some point, simply because the narrative would get too serious or I'd try to insert some sort of moral or psychological analysis - beyond my competence.  I wanted it to be factual, but funny - because humor made it seem everything is okay.  I also wanted to be sure I came off as being unscathed and perfectly adjusted despite everything.  Yeah, like I said, humor was necessary to escape pity - be it self-pity or that of others who may be more condescending in their sympathy.  Likewise, no one wants to admit to personal problems publicly.

Sometimes that can be warranted however.

Recently on Facebook I really did connect with family members I haven't been in touch with for years - as well as some old friends.  It's wonderful to be back in touch - to catch up, to reconcile.  For me it was a sort of 'It's A Wonderful Life - George Bailey' event.  It's a good thing and I'm very happy and grateful for it.

Then I crashed, so to speak.  The reason I need to write about it is that for years I blamed my family for causing these flashbacks of anxiety and depression.  Of course I knew they couldn't take the blame for my problems, and I knew they were not the actual cause - and that there was nothing wrong with 'them'.  But with every contact, I recalled emotionally, or felt the traumatic feelings and panic I experienced as a child.  Sometimes these feelings would emerge after a phone call, or just picking up a message on the answering service.  I was in huge denial that I probably have PTSD, which could be triggered - especially during the holidays - by something so simple as an invitation to a Christmas party.

This year, when apparently everything was just fine with the family, the panic hit me harder than ever.  Yesterday I had a flashback of some events which I witnessed as a toddler.  What I can say about it is that I know from experience what real terror is.  That's all I can say at this point.  I could speak/write about it and detail every single event, but I won't do that.  It's a breakthrough nonetheless.  In years past, some members of my family mistook my distancing myself, as well as my avoidance of them as a sign something bad happened between us.  That wasn't why I kept a distance of course, and to be sure I never harmed a member of my family - but that was their 'default' position as to why I avoided family contact.

What happened to me, the terror I witnessed, happened when I was a toddler and a young child.  I suppressed it, and denied it, I even joked about the bad stuff that happened.  That's how I dealt with it.  When it caught up with me, I fled - I ran away.  I left home in senior year, I moved away and tried to invent a new life for myself, and with each new try, I strayed further away.  I did everything in my power to avoid the pain - which is the only reason I left family and friends behind - over and over again.  It's why I never stayed in one place.

Anyway.  It all caught up with me this week.  Looks like there really is something called PTSD.  Prayer really helps.  Patience obtains all.

Sometimes God "may allow or cause you to go through difficult trials of faith when you will not be able to cope with your problems by yourself…. 

The experience of not being able to cope with something, and the feeling of loss, can cause you to have the desire to look for his coming. This is a chance for the growth and the deepening of your faith." - Fr. Dajczer

It's all good.  I learned a great deal this week, and my friend Fr. P offered Mass for me.  Thanks to all for your prayers.

More 1967

Ralph Lauren launched Polo in 1967.

He started with men's neck wear - ties.

Dayton's Kenwood Shop sold them.

Twiggy came to Dayton's.

Audrey.

A few years later

Marissa Berenson was on the cover of time 

with the quote:

"I want to be a saint."

I was impressed.

Remember Antonioni's Blow Up?

Veruschka fascinated me.

I encountered this guy on my first NYC trip,

during intermission outside 'Hair' in 1968.

He was the top male model - debuting around 1967.

I never knew his name, but admired his work.

The woman is Pat Cleveland.

If anyone knows his name I'd love to know it.

(photo is 1970.)

1967

Song for this post here.

Before I forget: A very special Christmas greeting for all of my 'satisfied customers' here at Abbey Towers, and elsewhere in the universe ...

I love this episode - so Christmassy!  (It probably should have been posted for my "I unfriend you" post instead of this one.  Joking, of course.) 

I had to send a 'bio' to the very kind shopkeepers who took me in, - it's for their website.  I write 'about me' all of the time on the blog, but I'm not very good at writing a biography.  (I read somewhere a successful art blog needs more than the photos of your work - people want to know who the artist is.)

Anyway - I wrote the following:

About me: 

Terry Nelson. Minneapolis, Minnesota. A man of indeterminable age.

I usually tell people I'm a painter. I like saying that better than artist - although I consider myself an independent painter, outsider artist.

I don't like doing commissions - though I have very often done so in the past.

I began work in art and design as a very young man at Dayton's in Visual Merchandising. My expertise was windows and cases in the fashion area.

I was in management towards the end of that part of my career - but wasn't very good at it. I don't like to be managed, nor do I like to manage people.  I began painting in the late 1970's - concentrating on the making of icons - Orthodox iconographers seem to prefer saying they 'write' icons, but I prefer to say I paint icons. After being told non-Orthodox people can't paint 'real' icons, I evolved and began to paint western saints in the icon style. I have works in convents, monasteries, and churches throughout the Midwest.

I've also worked with interior designers and applied my skills to murals, painted furniture, faux finishes and decorative objects.  I've sold many such things in fine stores locally and around the United States. Although I have done very little of that in the last 10 years. 

My love is Spanish Colonial style retablo, relicarios, and santos - the Catholic religious art of Latin America and Southwest US.  I have shown my work in two galleries in Santa Fe, New Mexico - both are now closed. I also have small pieces in the collection of the Cathedral there, as well as a monastery and a couple of mission chapels. 

For the past several years I've devoted my time to what I call a sort of neo-magic realism, inspired very much by the work of George Tooker, Jared French, and Paul Cadmus. My paintings are also influenced by the surrealists and a few contemporary Latin American artists. My compositions, though obviously representational and therefore readable, are a sort of pastiche or painted collage of figures and settings which I pull together to form the narrative. I consider my work as a sort of visual documentation of events and their effect upon me. I find this type of painting cathartic. 

What?

tumblr image h/t Jeron 

Listening to the Pope and reading what he actually said: There's a website for that.

The Holy See, Vatican News, Vatican Radio.

Whenever I read what the Pope actually said, within context - especially within official context - he is not preaching a new gospel as some allege.  Frequently he echoes Benedict, John Paul II, Paul VI - his predecessors.  I don't understand what people are talking about in their confusion, feeling they are beaten down, and so on.  Maybe it really is the way I was brought up that what the Holy Father says and how he says it doesn't feel like abuse to me?

As I've said time and again - or at least referenced, I come from a dysfunctional family - a lot of people do, I know that.  I come from a harsh and abusive background - a lot of people do, I know that as well.

As a little kid I loved Stanislaus Kostka because he once 'suffered' staying in a Lutheran household - today I can't recall the details - but it was a trial for him.  His older brother was also something of a bully.  There were other saints who came from abusive, faithless childhoods, or who were disowned by their families - Elizabeth of Hungary, for instance.  These saints gave me hope, enkindled devotion and sustained my faith.  Priests and school sisters suggested to me I was being escapist in my piety - that my piety was merely a coping mechanism, or an effort to gain approval and esteem.  Imagine that.

Some traditionalists think the Pope might be saying something similar to them.  Imagine that.

Stanislaus beaten by his brother.

Imagine that.

Growing up, my family did not practice the faith - I went to Mass and confession alone.  A little kid all alone at Mass.  No one talked to me, welcomed me, asked where my family was.  Imagine that.

My family made fun of me for being religious - they knew I was a bad kid - so they pointed out my hypocrisy - 'go to confession Saturday and act like a creep after Mass on Sunday'.  'Only sissies go to church anyway.'

For most of my life, almost all of my friends and family were apathetic about religion, and or, away from the Church.  Today, some may follow other denominations, others just do not 'speak' or 'understand' Catholic. They don't like church people, or religious people. I grew up like that.  A frequent comment over the years has been, "Well if the Church is so good - how come you're not any better."

Recently in an interview, actress Jennifer Lawrence said something to the effect, that she grew up around fundamentalist Christians, and therefore knows what they are like.  I know what she means - yet a Catholic blogger found what she said offensive and dismissed her for it.  Imagine that.

From my first confession and first communion on, I was the outsider. I too know what these people can be like. Faithful Catholics didn't know - although some did - what was going on in my childhood.  If they did, I carried the sins, the shame of my parents whenever and wherever I went.  I could explain in detail, but I would be accused of whining.  That's not my intention - in fact, I'm grateful for the experience, it toughened me up and helped me to recognize my own sins better.  The mercy of God is glorified.

I still have a couple of childhood friends who remain Catholic - a couple are very faithful, a couple of others may be more the CINO-type, the ones faithful Catholics tend to condemn because they are too liberal. I fell into that trap for awhile - I think I've left that behind now. No one wanted me telling them how or what to believe, what to think, or exactly how messed up their thinking was.

I started to take care of myself instead - to examine my own conscience - and I continue to always discover my need for repentance.

Now I'm glad that we have a Pope who speaks clearly - who speaks and understands the language of ordinary people, in ordinary time.

That's a long intro, to some recent quotes from the Holy Father which I want to highlight - demonstrating his sense of urgency for the time in which we live, and our need for mercy and love.

To the German Bishops:

He turned the bishops attention to the biblical figures of Priscilla and Aquila, the married couple who witnessed with their words and lives to the love of Christ.

“The example of these ‘volunteers’ can help us reflect, given the trend towards a growing institutionalization,” Pope Francis said.

“We always inaugurate new facilities, from which, in the end, the faithful are missing,” Pope Francis said.

“It is a sort of new Pelagianism, which puts its trust in administrative structures, in perfect organizations” – the Pope continued – “excessive centralization, rather than helping, complicates the life of the Church and her missionary dynamics.”

He told the bishops to give more attention to Confession during the Jubilee of Mercy, since “in Confession is the beginning of the transformation of each individual Christian and the reform of the Church.”

“It is also necessary to highlight the intimate connection between the Eucharist and the priesthood,” the Holy Father said.

“The precious collaboration of the laity, especially in those places where vocations are missing, cannot become a surrogate for the ministerial priesthood, or give it the semblance of being simply optional,” he said. “If there is no priest, there is no Eucharist.” - Source

I'm reminded of Pope Benedict XVI speaking about a smaller Church, the loss of institutions and so on - a simpler, poorer Church.  I think Francis and Benedict are very close.


For priests:

The Pope said a priest is “a man of peace” who surrounds himself with serenity, even during hardships.

“It is not normal for a priest to be often sad, nervous, or of a hard character; it is not good, and does no good, neither for the priest nor for his people,” he said.

Pope Francis said “our humanity is the ‘clay pot’ in which we guard the treasure of God,” and so care must be taken to protect it.

The Holy Father reminded priests they are called “to serve our brothers and sisters.”

“We are not priests for our own sake, and our sanctification is closely linked to that of our people, our anointing to their anointing,” he said, adding priests should be “authoritative, not authoritarian; firm, but not hard; joyful, but not superficial…in short, shepherds, not functionaries.” - Source

Christmas charade.

Pope Francis recalled, “Jesus is in heaven, watching us”, and “he will come to us here, on the altar”. But “today too, Jesus weeps, because we have chosen the way of war, the way of hatred, the way of hostility”. This is even more glaring now that “we are approaching Christmas: there will be lights, there will be parties, trees lit up, even nativity scenes... all decorated: the world continues to wage war, to wage wars. The world has not comprehended the way of peace”. - Source

Growing up, Christmas was always a charade at my house ... I know exactly what the Pope is saying.

I'm grateful I never had a comfortable life, a warm and cozy life - otherwise how would I know?

I may try to go to Rome to die next year.

One of the neighborhood child molesters died last week ...

The house where I lived was torn down (foreground) ...

the back of the house in the background was where

the 'love shack' was.

Gumdrop... RIP

Last evening, for some odd reason, I looked up the local obituaries online.  I used to get the newspaper and that was pretty much the only feature I read. I cancelled the newspaper, because I get my news online, and eventually lost interest in the obits.  So it was kind of out of the blue that I decided to read the obituaries last night, only to discover that one of the more well known neighborhood fruitcakes died last week.  I can't use his name because I'm not sure how public his reputation was, he was 76 years old when he died in a nursing facility.  I'll call him Gumdrop - a name the neighborhood girls gave to him.

He never molested me - I think he was more interested in girls.  He was creepy looking, skinny, badly dressed, unfortunate facial features, big eyes, weak chin, a leer rather than a smile, premature balding, and a little hunched over.  I specifically recall seeing him once on the playground when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade, and he was selling Catholic religious medals.  He had a salesman's case and everything.  I was so excited and ran over to look at the medals.  My sister ran over, pulled me away and told me never to go near him.  (I have a feeling he was after my sister and maybe used me to bait her.)  Much later, in middle school and in a new neighborhood, my new friends all knew about him too.

Gumdrop was one of many molesters on the East side of St. Paul.  One heard stories of men pulling over to expose themselves to girls, invite them into the car to pet his puppy, and so on.  We knew some girls were molested, but no one ever seemed to report it.  Some of the boys occasionally hitchhiked from one end of town to the other, and bragged about the blow-jobs.  They weren't gay either - several were the tough-hood types, the ones the more slutty-girls often chased.

Everyone knew who the fruitcakes were, and parents warned kids to stay away from them.  Some were 'queers' others were simply referred to as 'fruity'.  My parents warned me and my brother and sister to stay away from this or that creepy guy.  Why?  As my dad once said, 'he's a g-d d-n fruit, that's why!'

It seems incomprehensible to modern ears that the police weren't always called, or suspicious fruitcakes weren't at least taken in for questioning.  I don't know why that was.  No one mentioned these things except to warn.  It may explain why we today accuse the Church of cover up when it came to fruitcake priests.  Yet that is how things were back then.  That was in the day when it was still shameful for unmarried girls to get pregnant, and when they did - they were mysteriously sent away - to have the baby or do something about it - only to return as if nothing happened.  Another interesting note is that girls were said to have gotten themselves pregnant:  "She went and got herself pregnant."  People today would never accept such language.  Imagine a girl being responsible for an unwanted pregnancy?  Or an abortion?

Anyway - so all of these memories came flooding back last night.  I prayed for Gumdrop and the others.  But it didn't get rid of the haunted feelings, the flood of memories.  I still couldn't go to sleep.

I once looked up another neighborhood molester - the creepy guy next door, whom my parents actually befriended afterwards!  I know!  This guy now lives at the same exact address my family did when we first moved to St. Paul.  It was a different neighborhood, and it was there that I was first molested by another neighbor - and now, that other perpetrator lives there.  That just seems so strangely ironic to me.

Laying awake, I went through all of those mental archives, spilled out like files all over the room, and I spent the entire sleepless night trying to put them all back in order, noting things I hadn't paid much attention to before, praying.  I counted almost half a dozen pervs in my one neighborhood - the last neighborhood I lived with my parents - before I ran away.  Gumdrop never lived there, he just wandered through - roaming the territory.  As for resident-pervs, there was one guy who had a corner store - a lot of guys hung out there - not many knew he was gay.  Then there was the florist - as well as a counselor at the community center - few knew they were gay.  Then of course, the guy(s) next door.  One of the guys just demonstrated masturbation for the boys.  Another exposed himself in the 'picture window' - to women passers-by.  The most well known perv had a 'love shack' shed which he used as an art studio - he also supplied booze and cigarettes, and of course, fellatio.

Overall, last night was a very creepy night.

I have nothing edifying or spiritual to say about it.

Song for this post here.

Christmas 1967

Did you know Polo was founded in 1967 as well?

So anyway - a very old friend and I were reminiscing about Dayton's Department Store in its heyday back in the late 1960's.  The store went through a another renaissance in the early 1980's - something both of us worked through and benefited from once again.  I was in and out between those times - pursuing other interests - although my friend stayed all the way through to retirement.  The store began its downhill slide after acquiring Marshall Fields, culminating in dropping the Dayton name.  Eventually Macy's stepped in, and what used to be a fine department store turned into not much more than an outlet store.

However, it was fun to go over our experiences, recalling anecdotes and stories about the people we worked for and with over the years.  It's quite a history really.  In 1966-1967 Dayton's was on the map in this country as one of the very best retailers not only in the midwest, but the nation.  It was the year the company presented Dickens Village, a well researched, lavishly constructed, historically accurate auditorium presentation for Christmas, coordinated with finely detailed display windows.  In fact my very first job in the display department was watchman for the display windows, my duities comprised making the rounds of the windows to ensure the animation was working well and that there was no danger of fire.  I was so cute and nice, they kept me on after Christmas - and my career took off!  That's what I told myself at least, and I left home even before graduating high school - the job became my ticket out of the East side of St. Paul.  Although in reality it was more like running away to join the circus.

[Read a snippet of the Dickens Village history in the book by Karal Ann Marling, Merry Christmas: Celebrating America's Greatest Holiday.  Click here.]

I'm toying with the idea of returning to 'my story' - sort of a memoir - finishing up where I left off on this blog a couple of years ago.  I lose interest in writing a chronological narrative - which is why I stopped writing - but maybe jumping ahead to the Dayton's part of the story will make things more interesting.

I'll have to change a few names of course, because some of the people we worked with are still alive.  It was an unreal world, let me tell you, especially for a 17 year old kid.  I was glamour struck.  I recall one coworker who modeled herself after a famous movie star, even attempting her accent - she was a complete phony - but a good one - so I'll call her Holly.  Anyway, once I asked her why she was angry with me - believe me, I was so genuinely naive and unaware it wasn't funny, and she looked at me rather officiously and responded in her most imperious tone; "I can see right through that innocent little facade of yours, young man!  You are not fooling me or anyone else."

I of course had no idea what she was talking about at the time, although I was soon to find out.  Looking back, I mostly see the incredible irony in what she said, since it was she who created an elaborate facade for herself, feigning innocence and virtue...  But I'm jumping way ahead of myself and do not want to spoil the story by revealing too much here.

Curiously, the Presentation Director and genius behind the talent and store presentation was said to be a witch, and he kept live crows in his office, his name was Joe Wright and he was definitely an eccentric.  In fact the entire company seemed to be run by and comprised of eccentrics, many of whom were decidedly immoral, yet spectacularly talented: Gypsies, tramps and thieves.  It wasn't until the late 1970's, early 1980's that the business adopted a more stable, professional image.

My first Christmas at Dayton's changed my life.


  

My story.

Defensive detachment.

In case you have been checking back for the story of my life, I've decided to stop publishing it - although I'm still writing it.

The Story: Chapter Three, Part Three

Chapter Three, Part Three

Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well, but I’ll save them for later. Obviously growing up in such a household as mine was confusing at best, yet it seems I was remarkably blasé about life. For instance, I had no idea we were poor, and I assumed our family life was normal. I never believed my brother Skip disliked me, I just thought I embarrassed him, and accepted the fact I had to play by myself. I knew he loved me, because if someone bothered me, he usually came to my defense. Yet it was my sister Beth who took on the responsibility of watching over me, and it was through her I learned the most about being Catholic. She answered all of my questions about devotions, Mass, the Blessed Virgin and the saints. Religion began to be my solace and strength from that time, and I have my sister Beth to thank for it. It seems to me the verse from St. Paul was confirmed for us at that time: “Where sin abounds, grace super abounds.”

That said, wickedness seemed to stalk our family. It’s a phenomenon some people might refer to as a generational curse. Protestants believe such things exist, as do a growing number of Catholics. They base their belief upon Exodus 34:6-7:

“And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation."

A niche healing industry has been emerging to heal memories and generational curses. Believers who accept this notion insist the sins of the fathers follow each generation, and that a “familiar” evil spirit incites the same sins from generation to generation. Perhaps there is some truth in that, for instance, psychologists believe children of alcoholics may have some sort of predisposition for addiction, in much the same way physical diseases may be genetic.

I’m rather dubious about the fundamentalist belief in the generational curse thing; I doubt very much it is as black and white as all of that. On the other hand, I’m certain “demons” of some sort may follow families for generations, inciting family members to repeat the sins of their fathers – but not always. I see it more in terms of temptation – subsequent generations may endure similar temptations, yet are not compelled to repeat the same sins. I have always looked upon adversity as a challenge to rise above, as a sort of discipline that can make you stronger.

I’m convinced of this because of the doctrine of free will. This may explain the fact that although my parents may have been abused or “sexualized at an early age” they never perpetrated the same behavior upon us. (Except in the case of my sister perhaps.) What is more, neither my siblings nor I ever repeated such abuse in our own lives. In fact, all of us seem to have gone out of our way to avoid behaving anything at all like our parents, despite the fact their flaws left their mark upon our lives. When Skip and Beth had families, the family life they created was the opposite of how we had been raised. Both of my older siblings had been determined not to repeat the mistakes of our parents, although my younger brother has been less successful..

As for myself, I resolved at a very young age to never marry, I wanted to live a life of chastity, like the saints. In many ways, this led to even greater difficulties as I matured, as you’ll see. Needless to say, what I have written of my life before the age of reason, my behavior offers proof to the doctrine of original sin and its risidual effects.

To be continued.

[Photo credit: Topper with George and Marion Kirby haunting in the background.]

The Story: Chapter Three, Part Two (Sex in the city)

Chapter Three, Part Two

It occurs to me the house in my dream had to be the Bates house, and it makes no difference whatsoever if one believes in dreams or not, the imagery was definitely file footage from my unconscious. I suspect my search throughout the house is exactly what this memoir is about, my search for meaning in life – or more specifically, in what happened to me. As I mentioned, it was at that address I arrived at the age of reason, I learned the difference between good and evil, and although I was overwhelmingly attracted to all that was good and holy, evil robbed me of my innocence.

In the mid-1980’s, shortly after my mother died, I began to see a doctor for therapy. I wasn’t having any breakdown or crises, although I had some difficulties understanding certain behaviors. I kept it secret from friends and family simply because I was ashamed of seeing a psychologist, and I was afraid others would think I was crazy and “needed” psychiatric help. I also did private pay so that there would be no insurance record. Interestingly, the psychologist offered me medications almost immediately, although I refused, I knew I didn’t need them. Anyway, everyone knows how in the past, mental illness was a stigmatized disease, although that attitude has changed dramatically in the past couple of decades. Today, we recognize many illnesses, clinical depression, bi-polar, and others, that can be controlled with medication and therapy. Today, it seems a good portion of the population is on some form of anti-depressant or mood enhancing drug, so mental illness is pretty much out in the open. Therefore, discriminatory feelings against anyone seeking psychiatric help should be quite rare today.

That said, my therapist helped me immensely when he explained to me I had been sexualized at an early age, something I never even thought about until he said it. Certainly sexual things went on before the family had moved to Bates, although I’m not sure witnessing my parents making love while I was still an infant counts. (I'm sure it must have happened to countless kids who slept with their parents.) Of course, fondling a neighbor, the husband of a woman who happened to be a friend of my mom’s, as well as being molested by an older neighbor boy would fit the doctor's diagnosis. Being four years old at the time of these encounters certainly fits the description of, ‘sexualized at an early age’.

Something must have been very odd in that neighborhood, since it seems to have been a rather sexually active place. The boy who molested me, most likely had been abused by his dad, since some of the things he wanted to do to me fit the profile of adult on child sexual activity. The family lived next door to our building in a single family dwelling – with a garage – where it happened to me. My dad disliked the father, calling him a “god damned D.P.” – which stood for Displaced Person after the war. My dad referred to him as a “fruitcake” (another term for homosexual) and was clearly jealous of his immigrant status as well as the benefits he received from the Government. My brother Skip played with the son, although I have no idea if his friend Rudy molested him too. (After my brother died, Beth told me Skip had been molested in New Richmond. The subject only came up when I mentioned I thought he had been sexually abused as a child.)

My relationship with my brother was confusing at best. On one hand, he emerged as my protector against physical abuse from my parents, yet at the same time, he seemed to resent me. He made fun of everything I did; mocking my piety, my intelligence – I could read simple comic strips before I was 5 years old - and he made fun of my attempts at drawing. He never wanted me to play with his friends, and refused to let me do anything except sit on the sidelines when they played sports. (Privately, Skip could be very good to me. I honestly think his negative behavior towards me was the result of how mom and dad neglected him – something I’ll discuss later.) Feeling somewhat inferior to Skip and his friends became the perfect set up for his boyfriend to exploit me. When Rudy was kind to me, and seemed interested in playing with me, I was flattered and fell right into the trap. And I never told anyone about it – because I thought it had been my fault.

Of course, Beth wasn’t exempt from abuse either. One day Skip and I had been locked out of our apartment by the high school boy my parents hired as our babysitter. Beth was inside. Strangely, both of us knew something was going on, although Beth has no recollection of it. We told mom and dad what happened and they fired the boy for locking us out – but we never mentioned Beth had been inside, nor our suspicions of sexual abuse, for fear of what would happen to Beth. Looking back, it seems to me the kids in that neighborhood were exposed to sexual activity everywhere they turned.

The same can be said for the parents, remember all of these things happened before the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, and I’m fairly certain that when my parents were kids, things were pretty much the same for them. (I have reason to believe they too had been sexually abused at some point in their childhood – but that’s another story.) Obviously, as adults, sex was a big deal for my parents; I mentioned seeing/hearing them late at night, and witnessing other “inappropriate” behavior during the day. (Appropriate for marriage, inappropriate in front of kids.) Typically, when some of their friends visited, the conversation veered in that direction; not just jokes, but stories about sexual misconduct. For instance, once the parents of one of Beth’s girlfriends came over to talk to Betty and Kenny about the parish school. After a few beers, Mr. Rabbet, a door to door salesman, began telling stories of housewives who answered the door naked. It sounds rather juvenile, nevertheless for the time, these were titillating conversations, and totally inappropriate in front of children.

Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well. (I call one of them, "Jill on the window sill.")

To be continued.

The Story: Chapter Three; Part One

Chapter Three: Part One

If you are still reading this, it means you made it through the most boring part of my life – who wants to read the memoir of someone’s infancy? I had to do it however, I wanted to offer brief glimpses into the personality of a couple of the people who will come and go throughout the entire monologue – my parents. Without delving too deeply into why Betty and Kenny acted the way they did, I have revealed just enough for the reader to understand they came from rather difficult backgrounds, having been children of the depression and all of that. Indeed, both of my parent’s childhoods were marked by instability along with elements of abuse, although I will bring that out later in the narrative. There is no telling of a life story without understanding the family or milieu one grew up in, for better or worse, the manner in which one was nurtured has its effects.

The pattern of instability in my dad’s life, losing the farm, the divorce of his parents, moving from apartment to apartment with his dad, continued into his adult life. Our family life took on an aspect of a traveler family, or perhaps more accurately, a fugitive’s lifestyle. I actually credit this sense of exile as a sort of foundation for my spiritual life, especially as I got older. I grew in the awareness that life on earth is indeed an exile and human beings are pilgrims upon earth, as the scriptures tell us. Hence, my sense of home was always more interiorized, because we had no permanent homestead, much less possessions of any value. Feeling the outsider was something I became acquainted with from an early age, which isn’t a bad thing necessarily, except when a sense of shame causes it to seem so.

Our first apartment in the creepy mansion on Bates Ave. was upstairs on the 3rd floor. To get there one had to climb several turns and twists of staircase and narrow hallway, permeated with old cooking smells typical of canned food, escaping from transom windows. We were on a floor where the occupants of various apartments had to share the bathroom. In those days I guess it wasn’t so uncommon, although today it seems unimaginable. Just imagine yourself taking a bath in a tub other strangers used.

Years later, when we had to move into worse accommodations, I recall my mom crying as she cleaned the place, totally grossed out at the filth of the previous tenants, and even more despondent over the depth of poverty we had sunk to. I never remember any tears on Bates however. I’ve decided, since no one is here to contradict me, that with both parents working, there was enough income to maintain a certain comfort level. Actually, for my mom, she was happy if the house was immaculately clean, the cupboards and refrigerator were full of food, and we had beer. I should also mention that although my mother drank in those days, she wasn’t a heavy drinker then, only my dad was – he stopped after work only to return home drunk. It was kind of a workingman’s thing to do back then.

The very first thing mom did after we moved into Bates was sign the family up as parishioners at the Church of St. John on the eastside of St. Paul. Skip and Beth were immediately enrolled in the Catholic school, as they had been in New Richmond. To my mom’s credit, she insisted upon Catholic education for all of us, which I am sure contributed to our well being as we grew up. I of course wanted to go to school with Skip and Beth, but I was too young, although I remember going through their books to find holy cards and anything religious when they came home from school. Mom also contributed to the missions and sent offerings to various religious orders for Masses and prayers to be offered. These organizations often sent gifts, plastic statues and framed pictures, which were given to me for my altar. Thus, mom took care of our souls the very best way she knew how.

Eventually mom left her job at the motel and got a better one at Minnesota Mining, or 3M as it became known. She worked in a newly constructed modern office building on St. Paul’s eastside, a fact which for some reason impressed Skip and I very much. It was a glamour job in our eyes, mom dressed in very fashionable clothes, had her hair done regularly, and made a very good salary for the time – more than my dad earned. I can’t say for certain the circumstances of her leaving Lakes and Pines, although I suspect something may have been amiss.

Not with my mother, to be sure, but with my dad. About 6 or 7 years after they left employment at the motel, one April Fools day my sister played a trick on mom and dad that morning while they were yet asleep. In those days there was a number one could dial to have your own phone ring, which Beth did. As she answered the phone, she pretended the Comports were on the other end – they had been the owners of the motel. Beth covered the receiver just as my parents whispered, “Whoever it is, we are not home!” (I’ll bet that is where my habit of never answering the phone came from!)

Covering the receiver, Beth told them with a sense of urgency in her voice, “It’s the Comports! They want to talk to you right away!”

Well it hit the fan then, they leapt out of bed and my mom yelled at Beth that she specifically told her to tell them they were not at home. My dad was swearing and insisting he was not there and wouldn’t talk to anyone. It was chaos; finally, she grabbed the phone and said, “Hello?” The three of us kids broke out laughing and shouted “April Fools!” Unfortunately Skip and Beth and I were the only ones who thought that was funny – I don’t remember any hitting, but we were in trouble. Neither parent liked children’s humor very much.

I mention this because, knowing my sister Beth, she “knew” something as to why my parents left employment at the motel. (Of course, today she can barely remember living at the motel.) Looking back on how Kenny and Betty reacted to the pretend call from former employers they hadn’t spoken to in years; I’m convinced something happened at the motel they were covering up. I think my dad left employment first because mom discovered he had been dipping into the till. I should have mentioned that when they got into fights, mom invariably assaulted my dad’s character, by bringing up examples of dad’s dishonesty. One of the proofs for Betty Mae’s allegations had been the receipts she had saved from when they worked at the motel. (Obviously she had done her best to cover any discrepancy in the books.) Therefore, my theory isn’t such a leap. And my sister Beth, who was always such a quiet and well behaved girl, sweeter than candy, was actually kind of a stinker – which makes the whole story even funnier today.

.

As I write this phase of the story, my remembrance of the house on Bates evokes the backdrop of a recurrent dream I experienced as an adult. In the dream, I was sure to be on an upper floor of a very large old house, searching for something unknown. I would roam the floors of the house trying to look behind doors, peer into cupboards, looking under furniture for something, yet I never could find what I was searching for. As the dream progressed, I had a growing sense of foreboding about my search, afraid I would be discovered and accused of some crime. I sensed danger lurking in the house, not only as if it was haunted, but also as if someone, or something could leap out at me at any minute. Each dream sequence involved various stages of the search, yet every dream ended with my discovery of a trap door to the basement. I was never able to open the door, either because I was standing on it, or some other intrusion distracted me from doing so. Then I would usually wake up.

To be continued.

[Photo: Katherine Hepburn, Joan Blondel, Dina Merril, and Sue Randall - from the film, "Desk Set" - the photo depicts the type of glamour job we imagined my mom had.]

The Story: Chapter Two, Part Three

Chapter Two: Part Three

Exiled from New Richmond, the family headed back for St. Paul. Our first place of lodging was The Lake and Pines, a motel located in an area that was not even a first tier suburb of the city at the time, although today it is part of the city of St. Paul. Actually, it was a classy motel for the period; I think it eventually became a Holiday Inn. I know, it was by no means the Ritz, but at least it wasn’t a fleabag motel.

In fact, the owners hired my parents as managers, allowing us to have a small apartment there. I remember very little about the accommodations, although I have vivid memories of one Christmas there when I received a realistic looking choo-choo- train, as I called it, but it was rubberized and the wheels didn’t move. I recall being very happy with the train yet disappointed it did not have moving parts or a track. I believe I was still young enough to ask about that without being misunderstood as a total ingrate. I distinctly recall thinking, “No wheels… doesn’t move… looks like choo-choo… not real choo-choo.” (I was a smart kid, huh.)

I also have memories of lying in my crib crying and my parents yelling at me to “shut the hell up” and saying things like – “Keep it up! Keep crying – and you’re never getting up again!” I wonder if most parents just let kids cry themselves to sleep from time to time like that. When my younger brother Tim was born, eleven years after me, many times he was treated the same way when he refused to go to sleep or had an earache. It wasn’t uncommon for Betty or Kenny to slap him until he stopped crying, or yelled so loudly, he would be too scared to continue crying. Therefore, I’m fairly certain I received the same type of treatment. Betty and Kenny could be rather impatient parents, but at least none of us died from shaken baby syndrome.

I never asked why we left the motel, although my mother retained an office position there, taking the city bus to and from the ‘country’ to keep her job. I remember my mom wore make-up and perfume, and dressed up for her job. I was taken along everyday and dropped off at day-care in a garden-center/nursery, called Seifert’s, across the road from the motel. I loved it there, and looked forward to taking the bus every morning with mom. I remember the bus driver being very nice to both of us, and often giving me treats. Because of the experience, I had decided I wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up. The driver liked that, and sometimes, after we left the city limits, he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove. At that early stage of my development, the bus driver had become an important person for me. By his kind, friendly demeanor, he left the memorable impression he liked both my mother and me. Each morning he seemed happy to see us and was always kind. As an adult, his example stands out for me as to why it is so crucial we show kindness to strangers, especially children, since many may not experience it at home.

While my mom continued to work at the motel, my dad found a job as a laborer at Lampland Lumber, a lumber yard on the outskirts of downtown St. Paul. We also moved into a huge, wooden, Victorian apartment building at 252 Bates Ave. in St. Paul, I recall the address being repeated to me so that I would never forget it – just in case “someone kidnaps you.” To this day I can remember the telephone number as well, Prospect 1- 5256. Without doubt, it was a very creepy building, I never heard anyone describe it as anything better than a tenement slum.

While we lived on Bates, I arrived at the age of reason, as well as the realization our family life was anything but happy.

End of Chapter Two

The Story: Chapter Two, Part two

Chapter Two: Part two


Although life must have been relatively happy while dad was away, it wasn’t exactly Sunnybrook Farm for mom. Grandma Eliason, my father’s mother, often came up from the cities to lend a helping hand to her new Catholic daughter-in-law. Granny’s name was Della, and she had been married to Oscar Nelson, my paternal grandfather – a gem of a man, an artist and a scholar. He came over on the boat as they say, from Sweden; his family settled in North Dakota where they established the beginnings of a rather prosperous farm, until the depression. I have no idea how he met Della, herself a first generation Norwegian, but they married and had four children; Hermann, my dad Ken, Viola, and Jim. They divorced after they lost the farm in the depression and moved to St. Paul. The boys finished high school and lived with their dad, and Aunt Viola finished school while living with Della.

Betty Mae despised Della, and Della supposedly hated my mom. Although later, while I was in grade school, when the rather fashionable Protestant matron came around, she usually seemed very respectful of my mother, if not afraid. I often noticed how grandma visibly bit her tongue, then her lips, with tears welling up in her beautiful hazel eyes, while mom berated her. Suddenly, her hands shaking as she grasped her handbag, she would be off, placing a slobbery kiss on my lips before she ran out the door.

I believe I mentioned that we kids found letters of my dad’s from Japan, some were love letters between Betty Mae and Kenny, and others were penned arguments between Kenny and his mom. Dad was kind of a mama’s boy – he idolized his mother. I don’t know if it was because the divorce was Oscar’s fault and she came off as the victim, or what. At any rate, he found himself in an awkward position, love for his mom and love for his wife. The first strike against my mom had been the fact she was Catholic and intended to raise me a Catholic. Della was furious that I was baptized in a Catholic church.

Though born and raised a Lutheran, Della remarried after the divorce, becoming the wife of “Daddy Ed” a Pentecostal tent preacher, with the reputation of being a lascivious man. Della played the tambourine at the prayer meetings, always wearing her characteristic v-bodice dresses, swinging and swaying to the music. Grandma Eliason was quite a beauty, and probably something of a draw for the men folk to come out to the revival meetings Ed conducted. I actually remember him – without hearing anything from anybody, he just came off creepy and mean to me. Betty Mae later claimed he had put the make on her, touching her breasts and other parts south. In mom’s eyes, that somehow made my grandmother a slut for marrying Daddy Ed.

At any rate, while dad was gone, granny often stopped by between gigs to check in on mom. Unbeknownst to Betty Mae, grandma had been writing to my dad claiming mom was cheating on him – I have no idea if it was true or not. The upshot of their correspondence led Della to take it upon herself to rescue me from my unfit mother. One day, while mom was coming out of the dime store downtown, ‘Della’s car screeched to a halt, almost driving up on the curb. With the engine still running, she jumped out of the car, lunged upon my mother and attempted to snatch me out of her arms. A huge struggle ensued, lots of screaming and tears, until a policeman came over and ordered granny back into the car and off she went. I was saved from being raised a Protestant!

Naturally, I have no recollection of the scene since I was no more than a year old, although it must have impressed me and contributed to my love of drama. Nevertheless, my recollection of the episode is limited to what my mother told everyone, over and over; when she attempted to convince her listeners my dad’s mother was insane. At the time mom was successful in getting a restraining order against Della and her preacher man husband. (He kind of looked like President Truman.) It wouldn’t be the last restraining order against Della, and mums liked them so much, she would come to have them served on others from time to time. She loved restraining orders as a form of punishment – better put, harassment - against people she wasn’t fond of. They were easier to obtain than say, commitment papers, arrest warrants, reform school admissions, what have you. Mom reserved these threats to be used against immediate family members only and then just for special occasions.

I expect many of the fights which ensued between Kenny and Betty Mae upon his return from Japan, may have centered on the tumultuous relationship with her mother-in-law. I’m sure there were many stories about mom that grandma had written to my dad, needing clarification. Obviously mom was successful in convincing my dad that grandma was a liar. No doubt the “grandpa’s hands” story may have convinced dad to renew the restraining order against the Eliason’s. Although that may have cut some of the funding grandma supplied dad – she had always been good for a loan. That lost resource may have been another motive for dad embezzling funds at work.

To be continued.

(I'm doing shorter segments per post.)

The Story: Chapter Two: Part One

Chapter Two: Part One (Sorry, graphic language.)

Leaving New Richmond was very difficult for my mother. Life in a small town was not at all about night-clubbing and partying, I’m convinced this period represented a new beginning for her. My dad had more than a good job; he had a position, a career full of potential. They owned a house – the last house we ever owned. My mother had her gardens, which Beth, Skip and I helped her to tend.

In fact, when she was dying, before anyone knew she had incurable cancer, she asked my dad to call me to let me know she was in hospital. She told him to be sure and tell me she had been thinking about how we gardened together and how I invited everyone to come and “smell all the ‘putty pews’” – my words for pretty flowers. Dad called me and told me that over the phone. Oddly, her reminiscence had been my signal she was dying, and before leaving work to visit her in the hospital, I called my friend Fr. Gerry to set up a time for him to come to hear her confession. I surprised her at how quickly I showed up at her bedside.

“You didn’t have to rush over here, I just wanted your father to let you know I had fallen and they are doing tests. The doctors were just here. I’m glad you came though.” She said, clasping my hand.

“When dad said you brought up the ‘petty pews’ I knew it was serious. You’re going to die aren’t you.” I stated that so matter of fact, I startled the two of us. It almost took my mom’s breath away, prompting her to reply with stunned surprise.

“How did you know that? Have you spoken with the doctors? You saw them before you came in here! Don’t tell your dad yet, I want to tell him when it’s time. He won’t be happy about this; I’m scared I’ll get beat up for it.”

She kind of shrugged her shoulders with a giggle, and then we both laughed, not that it was so funny, it was simply the absurdity of the situation; my dad angry because she was dying and taking it out on her – nothing ever changes. I then explained that when she mentioned how we used to garden it was like a clarion call to me that she was dying. I had no idea she had been sick since the previous Christmas, nor had I talked to her until that July day. No doubt, God or our angels had a hand in our silent communication; however, I think it was mostly based in nature, the bond between a mother and her son. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself – the story of her death is an entire chapter to itself.

Throughout my childhood, mom loved to recall life in New Richmond, once again providing evidence it was the happiest time of her life. She loved our dog Hermann, the big Labrador who had been a babysitter for all of us until my sister was old enough to supervise even him. Hermann went with us to play at the park across the street. He took us to Mass and was so well behaved; the ushers allowed him lay beneath our pew at the back of the church. Mom and dad never attended Mass, so Hermann accompanied us, with Beth, who had already made her First Communion. The church wasn’t far from the house, a mere two blocks down the street.

In a special way, Hermann was most especially my dog, since he never left my side, although he also knew I was his meal ticket. We used to hide in the cupboard under the sink and take naps – after we ate our dog biscuits. Mom loved to repeat the story, “Terry and Hermann would be under the sink, with the doors closed and you could hear Terry, ‘One for Hermie, and one for Terry’ until they had their fill of biscuits and fell asleep. When I’d open the door Terry would be lying on the dog, with his thumb in his mouth and holding the tip of Hermann’s tail in his ear.” That memory delighted her for the rest of her life.

I think mom found a certain bliss after my dad went into the Army, she was alone with the three of us, and she settled into domesticity. I’m quite sure she attended Mass each Sunday with all of us, and knowing her piety, she must have prayed numerous novenas for my dad and for all of us kids. Something also tells me she consecrated all of us to the Immaculate Conception at the time, which may account for my particular devotion. I’m quite sure she would have requested nuns she had known from her school days with the Notre Dames, to pray for us as well. (There must be some reason that my brothers and sister turned out as well as we did.) Her devotion to St. Therese of Lisieux had been intense all of her life, and when I was born, she named me after her – not the name Therese of course, but Terrance, with the nick name of Terry. Several years later I had lamented my lack of a patron saint, and nagged mom to tell me who mine was. Short fused as she was, she slammed the lid down on a pan and shouted, “St. Teresa!”

“Which one? Which one?” I asked eagerly.

“Jesus Christ! THE LITTLE ONE! Are you happy now?” She was going way over the top, and I knew I better leave her alone.

Indeed I was happy though, Therese had been a favorite saint of mine even back then in 2nd grade, and I immediately adopted her as my godmother. Looking back upon the incident, I’m fairly convinced my mom’s ‘high anxiety’ was not only related to her neurotic guilt about her spiritual state, but she may have been concerned about gender issues.

While my dad was in Japan, she never cut my hair while I was growing up. No, she was not trying to make me a little girl; she just loved my hair – which strikes me as very funny today. “Ooooo! Love the hair!” Anyway – it was special – it was almost white blonde and wavy. Don’t worry; I’m a male, and I have always been duly embarrassed by photos from that time. Thank God when dad returned from the service, he immediately took me to a barber and had it all cut off, telling my mom, “He looks like a God damned little girl.”

End of 1st part of chapter two. 1st rough draft.

(Photo credit: Little Shirley Temple. LOL!)

The Story Continued - Chapter One - Part Two...

CHAPTER ONE: Part Two

That said, my second memory around the same period is of her lying at the bottom of the stairs in a navy blue satin robe with rose piping, whimpering. My dad had pushed her. That is all I remember however. My sister Beth has no recollection of the incident, although she does recall my father beating up my mother at that early stage of their marriage.

From what I can determine, the Nelson’s lived in New Richmond for about 6 years. Unfortunately, it remains a sketchy period for piecing together family history. What I can figure out – mostly from various accounts retold by family members now deceased - Kenny and Betty Mae moved to New Richmond soon after they married. However, they were surely seeing one another before my brother Skip was born, which means they were a couple when my mother worked as a black-jack dealer in Reno, while waiting for her divorce to be finalized. Although, I doubt my dad joined her there.

I know that Beth was sent to San Francisco to live with Nana and Bumpa during my mom’s sojourn in Nevada. And I believe my dad continued working as a shoe salesman at a department store in downtown St. Paul while mom was away. Skip was 3 years older than me; therefore the year of the divorce had to be 1946. This timeline makes more sense, since, soon after my mother’s return from Reno, Skip was born. According to my father’s account, he was present for Skip’s birth.

Though dad never adopted Skip, he often tried to prove his love for him by repeating the story of how he had been there for my mom during his difficult birth. (This was because, so the tale went, the rotten first husband had deserted her.) Dad also claimed to be responsible for naming my brother “Skip”. We all had been told this story over and over, until it became fact. Oddly enough, my brother was given the same name as his father, Robert, although mom insisted he had been named for her brother Robert – not his father. At any rate, the reason Skip was given that name should have been obvious, yet for our family, it became sort of a multiple choice answer, depending on the condition of my dad when he told the story. Thus, any of the following explanations might apply.

A) The birth was difficult but the strong baby boy “Skipped” into life.
B) He was such a little commander; he was just like a “Skipper” on a ship.
C) My dad didn’t name him and may not have been at the birth.
D) My mother and dad called him Skip so she wouldn’t have to call him “Bob” like his real dad.
E) Who knows – they lied about everything.

Okay, so at some point, maybe a few months after Skip was born, Betty and Kenny were married at the courthouse in downtown St. Paul. They and the wedding party then drove up the hill to the Cathedral to have their wedding photos shot there. I know this because they had a photo, just one photo. Of course, I don’t really know if they had simply posed on the steps of the Cathedral on another occasion, only to represent the same photo in later years as a wedding picture. Whatever the case, when I happened across the photo, my mom passed it off as from her wedding day. I suppose I was about 6 or 7 years old when I asked about the picture. I clearly recall asking her why she hadn’t been wearing a wedding dress, and she quietly explained it had been fashionable at the time to get married in a suit. (This would hold true during war time and in cases when the bride couldn’t afford a gown.)

Obviously impressed my parents had been married in such a grand church, I pressed mom for more details. I wanted to know where all the pictures from inside the Church were. She quickly stated the priest did not allow photos in the Church. (That was probably true for the time as well.) Excited about anything to do with the Catholic Church and sacraments, I eagerly asked if the Archbishop had married them. Suddenly, exasperated with my incessant questions, she grabbed the photo from me and shouted, “That’s it! I will not be brow beaten like this! Get outside!” Shortly after that, Beth explained to Skip and I how it came to be that she and my brother had a different dad. That day Beth taught us the definition of divorce and how it applied to mom. She did her best to explain why they could not be married in the Catholic Church, which meant they lied about the Cathedral wedding and had really married before a Justice of the Peace instead. Then looking at me, knowing how religious I was, she added that they were probably going to hell too, all because they got married outside of the Church. But I’m jumping way ahead here.

Back to New Richmond. Somehow, sometime, after the wedding, mums and dadums bought a house in that quiet, idyllic, unsuspecting little Wisconsin town. Dad had been hired by a plastics company there. From what I understand, he was in management, and worked in accounting. I was born in 1949, and baptized at the Church of the Immaculate Conception in the town – my baptismal certificate is the only evidence I have that we really did live there. Unfortunately, anyone who could help me out with memories from the time as to what life was like for the Nelsons, have either died, or repressed their memories – which is pretty much what my sister has done. As I mentioned, what memories she does retain are all mixed up as far as the timeline of various events. Thus, to make a long, boring story short, I’ll cover that ground quickly with what I’m able to recall from the anecdotal evidence repeated to me throughout the years my parents were alive.

After I was born, my dad was soon drafted into the Army to serve in the Korean conflict – which began in 1950. In his tour of duty, he never saw combat, although he had been a medic stationed in Japan. I know my parents corresponded, but the letters have since been lost. Dad returned home and was reinstated to his position with the plastics firm. As mentioned, Beth recalls our parents fighting a lot, and by that time, dad had already escalated to physical abuse, behavior I thought relatively uncommon for newlyweds. Why he would get so angry that he physically abused my mother, I am unsure, but I have my theories.

From the moment of my birth, my Catholic, wanted-to-be-a-nun, guilt-ridden, neurotic mother decided I was a bastard in the eyes of the Church, since I was born “out of sacramental wedlock”. Naturally, that idea never sat too well with my dad, a born and raised Lutheran, who was sure to knock mom around every time she brought the subject up. (Which she seemed hell bent on repeating throughout my childhood, especially when she got angry with me or my dad.) As I said, I have no recollection of any violence at that time, except for the time my mom was lying at the bottom of the steps – in her silk robe. Turns out, that robe was a souvenir my dad brought back for her from Japan.

I suppose I ought to have mentioned that my mom and dad were party people, sort of Nick and Nora Charles types. Amongst their circle of friends were cocktail lounge lizards, a couple of close relatives who liked the night life, along with a few other shady characters. My dad was an excellent dancer; my mom was not, although what she lacked in dance floor grace, she made up for with her seductive charms. Dad danced with other women, mom flirted with other men. (No offense to be-spectacled women, but in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s, I had the impression women who wore glasses were considered unattractive, therefore, as a child, I couldn’t imagine what men saw in her?) That said, I’m fairly certain Kenny and Betty’s social life became the main source of their problems, not simply because of mutual jealousy and insecurity, but because finances were strained as well. In a small town, although they didn’t have the night clubs they enjoyed in the city, Betty and Kenny were regulars at the local taverns, and adjusted quite well to the “common life”. In fact, I think they must have had starring roles as the down-to-earth, sophisticated city slickers who moved to the country to settle down.

As their social life gained momentum, so did the drinking, and as I hinted, the money was apparently running low. Soon my dad started appropriating funds from the company he worked for – to supplement their lifestyle and probably meet house payments. It wasn’t long before he got caught – it was a small town – everyone knew each other, and the Nelson’s were living the high life. I have no idea how he got caught, all I know is, he lost his job and went to jail. Neither do I know what happened at his trial, much less who his lawyer would have been. My dad was a charmer and must have presented very sincere, so it is not surprising the judge let him off with a suspended sentence. Of course we lost the house and moved back to St. Paul, Minnesota… and no one - except my mother, would ever again dare to bring the matter up.

Earlier I mentioned the verse from Psalm 50, "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived." I hope you are beginning to see how that verse fits in with the story of my life. Although, as my story unfolds, I’ll explain how guilt had been perverted to become synonymous with shame. Guilt is about something we did, shame is about who and what we are. Yeah, guilt can be expiated… shame is far more destructive and debilitating.

End of Chapter One.

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Note: This is a very rough draft, so expect some editorial changes. Photo: Nick and Nora Charles.