where the writers are
Late Thanks

We were raised in a poor neighborhood, living in the basement of a lady's house. My dad was a steel hunky - yes, that's what they called them. Mom quit school at fifth grade. Dad actually finished high school and went to business college. Mom was a tiny little woman who was used to being dominated. Dad was a very violent man thoroughly displeased and disappointed with how his life turned out. I watched my dad hit my mom, slam her into the wall, and throw her across the room. Daddy was six feet five inches tall. Mom was five feet and three inches tall.

She could sing and she played the piano by ear. Dad was a lyrical baritone and wrote music. He knew all the operas: the composers, the stories, and the opera singers. He had been a little theater star in various towns in Texas. He always played the villain – a handsome villain. He could have doubled for Rudolph Valentino. I often wondered what happened to so destroy this mountain of talent.

I used to hate my childhood. I hated the violence. I hated that every holiday ended with the cops coming to our house. I hated seeing my mom cry. I was afraid of my dad. He would backhand me and ask questions later. I was beaten with a belt for things I didn’t do.

Yet, there were moments of singing with him around the piano. There was the time when the old tube-style TV quit working. He pulled the insides out and got down on his all fours and with his face shining through the glass screen, recited a portion from the Shakespeare’s "The Tempest" and also "Death Takes a Holiday." I was captivated. He was a magnificent ballroom dancer and one of my favorite memories is dancing on Daddy’s shoes. As I grew taller, he taught me to waltz and foxtrot.

If I had the opportunity today, I would thank my dad. He’s gone now. But his love of fine arts, his knowledge of music, and even his story telling have greatly shaped my life and my personality. It was his encouragement in music that allowed me to become a vocalist and use that talent for additional income when I became a single mom. It was his love of dance, that gave me confidence to go to the Officers’ Club to dance after my daughter’s father left me. It was his love of books and reading that created my love for words and language.

So, thanks, Dad. I’m still singing. I’m still dancing. I’m still acting, and I’m still writing. I love you.

Keywords:
Comments
2 Comment count
Comment Bubble Tip

Very moving. It is so hard

Very moving. It is so hard to find the small moments of beauty when there is harshness and violence in family life. This reminds me very much of my mother, talking about her childhood in a Slovenian American family. Even that word "hunky"...one of the many derogatory terms for working class Eastern Europeans. (They got called bohunk, polack, in Cleveland, where they grew up.) Thanks for sharing this and best of luck with your writing! Blair

Comment Bubble Tip

Thank you for your kind

Thank you for your kind words. Mamma was German; didn't even speak English till she was 14. Dad struggled and fought all his life. Lost his baby brother at 8 - typhoid. His dad was murdered when he was 12. Thank you again. Sharon