The Lesson

“My father’s house shines hard and brightIt stands like a beacon calling me in the nightCalling and calling so cold and aloneShining ‘cross this dark highway where our sins lie unatoned,” Bruce Springsteen, “My Father’s House” The mobile home at the edge of town, just beyond the lights of Fargo, swayed, moving with the rhythm of the coming winter snowstorm. Inside the aroma of the just-finished meal, pot roast, vegetables, and oven fried potatoes still clung to the warm air in the kitchen. The smell brought back summers at my Grandmother Kaiser’s in Fargo. She had spent much of her life cooking in boarding houses, or feeding the threshing crews that crisscrossed the North Dakota plains. Her recipes had been passed on to her children and grandchildren. Well into her 80’s she insisted on cooking such a meal, always ready promptly at noon, even on days when the summer Midwestern heat and humidity threatened to overwhelm all but the sturdiest of pioneer stock. So it was that on a brutally cold Sunday night, I found myself sharing such a traditional supper with my dad. For the two of us these moments were rare. His years of erratic parenting had produced in me an anger and cynicism of a deep and profound nature. From the time I learned to express myself, we were never a good match. I loved him, I hated him. I respected his intelligence, his toughness and loathed his weakness and stupidity when it came to women, family and liquor. I am sure in many respects he carried the same feelings of disappointment and anger toward me. I was not the son he wanted. I fell far short of that mark. In the end, our relationship had become a bridge that neither one of us was willing to cross.On this particular evening the past was forgotten. I loved these moments for they did not come often. I stood in the kitchen and dried the dishes while my father washed them. Outside the snow fell in an ever changing lacy pattern and hung for an instant against the blue/black winter night sky. The coffee began to perk, the scent of deep dish apple pie began to assert itself and the evening slowed. Time for the moment had stopped. My father, the shiny new DeSoto and me Seattle-1946 I cupped the mug of hot coffee in my palms holding it to my face, steeling myself for the ride home and the endless wait for the car heater to warm up. My father smoked, sipped his coffee and stared out of the kitchen window watching an endless parade of snowflakes driven by the prairie wind. Because we found it hard to talk to each other, it was impossible to tell where he drifted off to. He never shared and I never asked. In these moments of silence between us I always found myself drifting back to the same place. I struggled to untangle our relationship, our expectations, our needs and how we had failed each other.My father’s main objective when it came to being a parent, was to make me tough. He had done time in prison, therefore he had an intense loathing of anyone attempting to exert even the slightest form of control over him. He tried to pass this deep seated belief on to me. To this end he beat me to make me tough. He never missed an opportunity to pass on the code he lived by. “Never take shit. Whether it is delivered in a truck or by silver spoon, it tastes and smells the same”. In the end, I learned his lessons all too well. I never failed to fight back, to hold my ground no matter what the cost, to me or those I loved. As I grew older he would often ruefully reflect on the fact that I learned these lessons all too well.One example of my father’s parenting style is a vivid memory that I often find myself reflecting upon.When I was in the third grade I finally managed to learn to ride a bike. At the time we lived in Sibley Manor, a sprawling, somewhat glorified housing project located on the outskirts of St. Paul, Minnesota. I did not have a bike of my own so I had to learn to ride by borrowing bikes from other kids. Luckily Sibley Manor was swarming with children my age who were willing to loan me their bikes and teach me the intricacies of riding one. One night we were sitting around the TV watching, “The Gillette Friday Night Fights,” when out of the blue my dad announced, “Kid it is time you had a bike.” Like many of the things my father did, this statement had to be acted on immediately. Within moments we were in the car on the way to the closest bicycle shop. Sibley Manor-Home Sweet Home It was late on a spring evening by the time we arrived at the bike shop. It was closed but the lights were still on and the owner was still inside. My father knocked on the door and then on the shop’s front window. The owner appeared and pointed to the “Closed” sign hanging in the window of the front door. My father was a man who would never take, ”no” for an answer. Saving the most persuasive argument for last, he held a crisp $50 bill to the window. Presented with an opportunity for an instant sale, the owner relented and opened the door. After an hour of negotiating a price and the required assembly, I was the proud owner of a beautiful shiny red Schwinn. My world was perfect. All of my dreams had come true. This was one of the few moments in my life, that I would be just like everyone else. My dream come true Riding my bike back and forth to school and around Sibley Manor and the surrounding neighborhood became the best thing that had happened to me in my albeit short life. I had friends and I had freedom. It was joy without end A few weeks after I got my bike, I came out to the Homecroft Elementary School bike racks only to find my bike gone. The most important thing in my life, had been stolen. In those days few of us had bike locks. You did not steal your friends’ bike. It was a code of honor that kids who resided in Sibley Manor lived by. When I got home that day, I did not mention anything to my parents. I sullenly ate dinner, went to my room and cried myself to sleep. I had no idea what to do. The next day the bike thief had the audacity to ride my beloved Schwinn to school. He was a fifth grade boy with a reputation for bullying and causing trouble. He was two years older than I was and much larger and stronger. I stood by the bike racks watching him. He glared at me daring me to act or to say something. Finally I asked, “Can I please have my bike back?” He locked up the bike, sneered and walked away. I was afraid to tell the principal and it was impossible to steal my bike back. I was out of options. I skipped school that day and cried myself all the way home. In spite of being scared witless, I decided I had to broach the subject of the stolen bike with my dad. After all, sooner or later he would discover that the bike was missing. If I had been an adult I could have predicted his response. It was terse, to the point, ”I bought you the bike. It is yours to take care of. I am sure you will think of something. Is there anything else?” Disappointment and sadness overwhelmed me. No help was forthcoming from my father and the boy who now was riding my beloved Schwinn, was from my point of view, invincible and unbeatable. Still I ached to get my bike back and I was desperate. Homecroft School-Where I learned to stand up for myself The next day after school, I managed to beat back my fear of the bike thief. I confronted him and this time I did not ask politely but rather demanded that he return my bike that instant. He spit on me and then muttered, almost as an aside, “Why don’t ya try and take it.” The words were like a punch in the stomach. Once again I was timid, afraid and powerless. He mounted my bike and prepared to ride off leaving me red-faced and defeated. Something snapped inside of me. The fear was replaced with a white hot rage, something I had never felt before. Suddenly, I picked up a sturdy tree branch, about half the size and shape of a small baseball bat, that was lying near my feet. The first blow separated my tormentor from my beloved Schwinn. The next two or three rendered him face down on the ground. His nose was bleeding. He was curled into a semi-fetal position and sobbing. Through the tears, he pleaded, “Please don’t hit me again” Then he added, “ You can have your bike back.” That point was moot. I had never been a violent or an aggressive child, quite the opposite. My father considered me somewhat of a sissy. In those moments, for better or worse, something inside of me had been set free. I would never be the same again. For good measure I hit him twice more as he attempted to get up. In a voice I did not recognize as my own I yelled, ”Don’t touch my bike again.” Then it was over. The bully scurried away. I rode, shakily off toward home. I did not notice that my hands had been bleeding. There were jagged places where the branch had punctured my palms. When he arrived home from work that evening my father must have noticed my bike was in its accustomed place in the hallway near our apartment door. If he did he never mentioned it. Neither did I. I waited for reprisals from the bike thief or his parents. There were none. In the weeks that followed, my dad deducted $2.00 from my fifty cent a week allowance to cover the cost of a bike lock. He left the lock sitting on the seat of my bike. Like most of the interactions between us in the years that followed, there was nothing to say. The problem was solved. Oddly, without interaction or connection. It was the only way we knew.