A Boy, His Dog, and His .22
There are three Parts, each one the same yet different…
Part One
Dad was from an extremely dysfunctional family: alcoholism, sexual abuse, and mental illness, replete. He and his sisters, Helen and Ruby were raised by a strict Nazarene mother Clara Margaret Short. I was named after her, Margaret Clara Short.
Dad’s Uncle Ari was a schizophrenic defined as; one who has episodes of psychosis, sees things that are not here, conspiracy theories and sometimes dangerous. I consider it the worst of mental illness, those that suffer live in a different time and in a different word. Decades later I was diagnosed bi-polar, fairly harmless… until when I was manic.
Dad told me about a time when Ari was running around the property at Grandma’s house in a fit of rage. Grandma was so scared she gathered her three children wrapped them in a blanket to keep them warm and hid behind a bush to keep them from getting harmed, so she wasn’t strict all the time.
I met Grandma only one time when parents, sisters and I were at her house. I remember it was cold and grandma served cold asparagus with dinner. Afterwards she herded the five of us little girls in the kitchen, took out her glass eye and put it in an eye-shaped dish on the windowsill, it was scary for little girls. She explained she lost her eye when she was dragged behind a running horse. It must have been terrifying and it was a wonder she lived through it.
Grandpa often abandoned his family, he was a serious alcoholic and it ruled his life and affected his family in a very negative way.
One summer Grandpa went to Eastern Oregon to work in the haying season to earn money for his family waiting back home. But when he got back, he’d spent all the money he’d earned on alcohol. Dad called him a ner’do-well, which meant he was a worthless person. It was hard for his three children to have a father like that.
Dad was the baby in the family but he shouldered all of the responsibility for it. Grandma banged her iron skillet on the wood stove a signal for him to take his dog and .22 to get some meat for dinner. The land was barren and rocky; hard even for weeds to grow. I wondered sometimes if he didn’t come back home with any meat? He was the responsible one just like me, sometimes it’s a lot of work.
My only memory of Grandpa he was sitting on a rocking chair on our farmhouse front porch, his eyes were as blue as my dad’s.
Part Two
Helen, Dad’s older sister showed a harsh reflection of their growing up years. She married a Native American, he wore a black patch over one eye, just looking at him was scary for me and my sisters. Their house was small; only two bedrooms, one for the parents and the other was shared by their four boys and their little sister.
The whole house was messy and cluttered. The kitchen a jumble, canned foods, milk cartons and cereal boxes covered the counters. The table had a Lazy Susan in the center which circled around at a person’s every whim. No need to “Please pass the” it was all in reach in a do-it-yourself-mode.
As was typical in the Dad’s family, mental illness ran gambit and Helen’s family was no exception. Passed from one to the generation to the next like an unstoppable plague even into the second and third generations.
Michael, my cousin who was the same age as me, committed suicide two years after he married Amy. His sister Rose wailed mournfully over his casket saying “Why didn’t Michael come to dinner? Why didn’t he come, why couldn’t I save my little brother?” It was as if she was trying to bring him back to the land of the living.
Part Three
Dad’s youngest sister, Ruby and her husband lived in Cottage Grove, one hour north from Roseburg and an easy drive, so we went to see her husband Fred and their three boys at least once a month. Meanwhile, Helen lived in Portland which was over three hours north. It’s odd but I remember Helen’s family and home, much better than Ruby’s.
They were complete opposites. Helen’s house was messy and cluttered; Ruby’s neat and tidy everything was in an orderly, controlled environment, just like me.
They had three boys, the youngest, who was my age was also diagnosed bi-polar, like me in our adult years. A bad thing to have in common.
Ruby’s husband was a pastor, until he ran away to another state with the church secretary. I don’t think Ruby ever got over his betrayal. She had sadness about her, almost certainly an undiagnosed mood disorder.
There was a picture hanging on the dining room wall of a Native American on his stallion. Both of their heads were bowed low, it was a mournful picture. Maybe the man wanted to escape to a better and safe place.
But there’s still hope.
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