My mom was raised in a little farm town in northwest Indiana. Third from the tail end of a gob of siblings—my oldest jokes that after a while, my grandmother must have thought Back off, George! every time my grandfather got anywhere near her—she had a pretty idyllic childhood. When I was little, I loved the stories she’d tell about her early years, especially those of the shenanigans she and her younger brother got into.
Being born a girl in 1920 came with a limited and limiting set of expectations. Being born a girl in 1920 in rural Indiana narrowed the scope even further, removing what little wiggle room might have been afforded those in more populated areas. My mom, never one to follow, wanted something different. For starters, she wanted more schooling than was the norm at that time, especially for girls. She wanted a college education, a motorcycle, and a job as a journalist with a big news outlet.
What she got was my dad.
He was handsome and charming with a twinkle in his eye and a quick sense of humor. She’d find out, but not soon enough, that he also had a quick temper. A fiery one. Married in the spring of 1941, in deep shit not long after. But being a wife in 1941 came without an escape hatch. They had their first child just over a year after they married, a second 16 months after that, and less than three years later, their third. Being a mother of three in 1946 with a husband who was often warm and tender but never more than an inch away from losing control put a woman in one helluva predicament.
I’ve heard the stories. They aren’t pretty. I’m not sure it’s possible to keep a family’s ugliest chapters buried, or even if it’d be right to do so, but they filtered their way into my childhood. I was fortunate though, to have been born the fifth of five (baby #4 came along eight years before me) and by that time, my dad was no longer that guy. The story is that my oldest brother, at 15 or 16 and taller and stronger than our dad, grabbed the old man by the front of his shirt, slammed him up against a wall, and told him directly that if he ever again raised a hand to our mother or any of my siblings, it’d be the last thing he ever did.
It stopped immediately, which meant he could in fact control himself and could have all along. I’ve yet to fully come to terms with that truth.
The dad I got was an entirely different guy than the one my siblings had, especially the oldest three. Mine maintained the warmth, tenderness, and quick sense of humor of his younger self, but outbursts were rare, they were never physical, and none were ever directed at me. He was fun—a jolly Irishman in the best sense of what that brings to mind. I think part of him saw me as his second chance, and he reveled in it. He sang to and with me, danced with me, my small shoes on the toes of his, and whenever we had ice cream sundaes, he’d pretend he didn’t like maraschino cherries and move his to the top of my sundae because he knew I loved them. He was, with me, the man and dad he might have always been.
Fast forward to earlier this year. I was sorting through some of my sister’s things when I came across a photo of our dad as an infant. I looked at that baby and was overcome with emotion. There he was, innocent and full of possibility and there I was, knowing how his life had played out. I looked into his eyes and said aloud, “You will abuse your wife and your children. You’ll alienate all but one of your kids, and what you do to the one who stands by you until your end will cost him everything. You’ll know it will and you’ll take some sort of sick pleasure in setting him up for a terrible fall. Ultimately, you will die bitter, defeated, ashamed, and in significant pain.”
And then I sat down and cried.
I’ve often wondered, not just recently but all throughout my life, what if things had been different? Mostly I wondered how my mom’s life might have been different if she’d gotten the education, motorcycle, and job. Or even just a kinder, less damaged man. One who was uncomplicated and whole, who gave her a gob of children and after a while made her think Back off! whenever he got anywhere near her. She deserved all of that. She deserved a better life. And though I said my last goodbye to my father—one that was filled with anger for him and sorrow for me—more than a year before he died, he deserved a better life, too. A better beginning, a better middle, and a better end. What if?
~*~*~*~*~*~
Final note: After finding that baby picture of my dad, I wrote the lyrics to the song in the following video. It all just sort of spilled onto the paper and the final version remained largely unchanged from what I’d written that day. I sent the lyrics off to a man on fiverr who wrote the music, performed the song, and sent me the audio files. Elliott was a joy to work with and delivered far beyond my expectations. I hope you’ll give it a listen and if you decide to have him put your words to music, please tell him I said hello.
(GBE Topic #16: “What if…”)
Please leave a comment. This isn’t a “me” blog. It’s a “we” blog and I love hearing from you! Oh, and if you comment anonymously, please let me know who you are in your comment.
elizabeth grace 
Despite the sadness, this a beautiful memoir. I think it’s nice that you were able, just a little bit, to recognize that your dad deserved a better life as well. I don’t say that to excuse his behaviors, but that no matter how much we want it to be and pretend that it is, life just isn’t fair.
The song: I love the song. Why isn’t it being played on the radio?
LikeLike
Even as a child, I had compassion for my dad. The narrative of my father’s childhood came to light in bits and pieces (never from him directly), much like the way stories of my dad before he was my dad weaved their way into the fabric of my childhood. His mom was the kind they make Lifetime movies about. She was still alive when I was little and though at that time, I knew nothing of her past, I was afraid of her. My brother who was eight years older than me adored her, but I instinctively kept my distance. I could feel danger, though none really existed for me.
My dad, for all his faults, did far better for his family than what had been done for him. My oldest siblings talked about how wonderful our paternal grandfather had been (he passed before I was born), but my take on him is that he was a coward, at best. There’s no way he didn’t know his children suffered at the hands of their mother, but he did nothing. I believe he shared responsibility for what they endured. Heck, even when I was a kid, the police response to domestic violence was “How a man chooses to manage his family is up to him.” As long as a man didn’t send his wife or kids to the ER or the morgue, nothing was done, so in my grandparents’ day, it surely was just as bad, if not worse.
I’m not sure what comes after our time here, but I do hope that if we get repeated go-arounds, my dad’s next chapter was more gentle on him. My mom’s too.
And it pleases me to no end that you like the song! And wouldn’t it be something to hear it on the radio?!
LikeLiked by 1 person
If I knew how to try and get a song on the radio I would try and do that. I really think it’s good.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ah Beth, the more of your writing I read, the more we have in common.
LikeLiked by 1 person
We are kindred spirits, for sure.
LikeLike
Bittersweet song. Your hope, optimism and heart are strong in the lyrics. I feel so strongly that you broke the cycle of pain. And though your loss may always be with you, I have the feeling you’ve taken the moments of joy and magnified them into the world. become so much more than you were given. ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re very kind. I made a purposeful decision to have the crap stop where it was. To be fair, I think it was easier for me to do that than it was for my siblings since my experience was far different than theirs.
LikeLike
All of those what ifs unfortunately could not be answered in your mom’s story, but I’m sure she would be proud to see you answering them every day, with your own life story of how you have broken the cycle and make sure that it stays broken. You carry your mother’s love every day with every kind thing you do and with you, all of her dreams continue to come true.
-Trish
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you. I’m enormously grateful for the gift that my mom was. To remain loving and joyful despite all that she endured says so much about her strength and her spirit.
When I’ve said before that I wonder what my mom’s life might have been had she not married my dad, sometimes the response has been, “well then you wouldn’t exist.” I don’t agree with that. Not only would I absolutely exist (I see this body as temporary housing), but I truly believe I was always going to be hers. Somehow, I would have still been hers.
LikeLike
I enjoy reading your blogs-even if the story is not a pleasant one. And to write a song, and even more, have it put into music….well, that’s awesome!
LikeLike
Thank you. I’ve written a few songs and had them recorded. The other will be put to video soon. 🙂
LikeLike
This was such a poignant and powerful post. I appreciate you sharing your personal experiences and reflecting on the “what ifs” of your family’s past. It really got me thinking. How do you think your mom’s life would have turned out differently if she had achieved her dreams of education, a motorcycle, and a job as a journalist?
LikeLike
Thanks for your visit and your comment. My mom was extraordinary. She had many gifts, but I believe her biggest were her curiosity, her love of life, and her ability and willingness to really see, hear, and value people. Her legacy is love.
Had she had the benefit of advanced education, her world and reach would have surely been broader, and more people would have received her kindness and grace. Those things bring meaningful success to all they are a part of, so my guess is she’d have traveled joyfully to places far and wide, connecting with people and helping them to see the beauty in themselves.
I also believe that whatever her path, I would have been a big part of it. That may sound a little woo-woo (and it may well be), but I believe she and I have always been and will always be connected, however that might manifest.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for your reply. An intriguing answer,
LikeLike