the folks

My parents were always some of the strongest, most determined people I have ever known. Once they set their minds to something, there will be no rest until it is accomplished, possessed, or fulfilled. They have passed that trait onto me, which I often use in less than productive ways. The one area they wavered in was whenever they saw me in pain. There was no limit they would not cross to alleviate my hurting—unless the hurt was for my own good or the pain could lead to better things for me.
In addition to my detest for spelling, I loathed reading anything more complicated than my ‘Archie’ and ‘Garfield’ comic books. Dad would work with me on spelling, and Mom would try her hand at teaching me to read. Both of them had their work cut out for them. Before we would go out to dinner with friends or to meet my grandparents, Mom and I would be found in the bathroom. She would be taking out the hot-curlers from her hair and brushing them out until they were sleek and smooth, curling her eye-lashes, and applying the minimal makeup she required to glow. While she undertook this process, I would sit on the floor my reading book propped up on the closed toilet lid. I would read about how the mouse used the fox to cross a river, the goose lay golden eggs, and some damned frog went on some damned adventure. By read about, I really mean blubber. I would sit there and cry and wail, frustrated by the never ending string of words in front of my that seems to be conceived with the single minded intent of my torture.
Mom would rarely get frustrated with me, although she would express her concern that I was not learning to read and how she wished I could learn to enjoy the written word. She had grown up with less money than wheat farmers who reside in the desert, and books had provided her an escape from a dreary life and with visions of a life with less conflict and torment. She would run her fingers through my hair and pat my check. She would close the book and get out a piece of paper. Quickly she would draw four different profiles, always two boys and two girls. Inside, where their faces should have been, she would construct addition or subtraction problems. Now, I liked math even less than reading, but I loved drawing, especially drawing people, so her math problems were pure magic, and I would forget about the escapades of the various animals that tried to appear interesting on paper and solve the math problems so the beautiful people Mom had created would be complete.
I think I learned to cry from my Dad. Unless I did something bad and was crying due to a hearty spanking, if I was crying then Dad was crying. There are very few animals in the world that I have not owned. Half of the time, we could have charged admittance into our house as a wild animal park. Having a gazillion animals meant experiencing a gazillion deaths. Each one traumatic. Each one earth shattering. Each one preceding torrents of tears. My new baby bunny dying in his sleep the very night we brought him home. The baby hamster getting partially eaten by their mothers. My chickens treated as a buffet by the neighborhood cats. My pheasant having a freak heart-attack as we moved her pen. My dog Ginger getting put-down due to infection. My tank full of guppies floating thanks to the gallons of fish food dumped into their water. My parrot flying away when we let his wings go to long in-between clippings. My white Pomeranian, Bingo, having his backbone cracked in half by the garage door. Well, you get the idea. No matter what the animal, no matter what the cause of death, Dad was there. Sitting by my side. Holding me in his arms. Bringing home a new animal. Always bawling as hard as his fat little son. Not because the animals were dead, but because their death’s brought me pain.
Mom was my strength growing up. Good boundaries or not, we protected each other and confided in each other. Any honor, integrity, determination, and tenacity I poses is due to her regal influence. As I have grown into a man, she has grown into a friend and a pillar of strength.
As you already know, my feelings for my Dad have been rocky, at best. I remember the first time I hugged Dad, truly. It was nearly three years ago, at Six Flags, no less. We were walking behind Ted and one of his friends, conversing over all the drama, death, and hurt our family had endured. I was overcome by the amount of changing he had done, in order to save his family, and of his own brand of love that he has lavished upon me. I was overcome by his vulnerable and loveable humanity. Without even knowing what my arms were doing, I found myself embracing him, standing outside some rollercoaster, and confessing my new found love for him. With each passing year, I see more of him in myself. His tenderness, artistic flair, and endearing insecurities. Although I live my life in a way that terrifies him, he continues to stand by his son and offer his consistent love and his tears when I am in pain.