Gramps: 1997

Gramps was a stud.  I was twelve when he passed away, but I have many vivid memories of the person that he was.  He was my great-grandpa, and my dad’s grandpa.  He lived in Downey in a pink house (probably because Mamo liked it and he didn’t care about color).  He was loving in a very manly way.  He wore thick glasses that somehow fit his rugged personality.  When I think of Gramps, there are few memories that always come to mind.

Gramps had an amazing garden.  His backyard was a sea of potatoes and strawberries.  Every year he tilled and tended the ground.  He would spend much of his time picking off strawberry stealing robins and starlings with his BB gun in his rickety wooden shed while sitting in a lawn chair.  He later would pay his great grand kids to do it.  

He had a very old red pickup truck.  It had a very distinct and oddly pleasant smell to it along with a very recognizable creak when the doors opened and closed.  It seemed to always have a layer of dust on both the interior and exterior, but still managed to appear and feel clean.  The radio didn’t work but it wasn’t necessary when you were with Gramps.

He was an amazing cook.  I loved hunting, partly because we would stay in his basement and he would cook for us every meal.  His top two ingredients for breakfast were butter and Velveeta Cheese.  His dinners consisted of roast, corn, and potatoes.  His pees and potatoes were my all time favorite meal.  The man could make SPAM taste like prime rib.  He was an effortlessly talented and gifted cook and he shared that gift with everyone.     

He was broad shouldered and strong.  He had a crooked arm that was badly broken when he was a child that would have been amputated had his mother not prohibited the operation.  Rumor has it that Gramps was an amazing pitcher in high school, partly because his crooked arm gave him the ability to throw a nasty slider.

The final memory that I have of Gramps is a sad one.  Justin, Hal, and I were helping out at Grandma Ruth’s and Justin and I ran to Gramps’ to get something.  We got there at the same time that the ambulance did.  We hurried back to Grandma’s and got Hal and then went back to Gramps.  Gramps had put his dish in the sink and suddenly and unexpectedly dropped.  Hal helped with CPR and I sat in the living room trying to make sense of the situation.  Like it was yesterday, I can remember Dad saying, “Come on Gramps, come on Gramps!”  He never came back.  It was a shock to everyone.  I remember on the drive home I looked in the rear view mirror and a ray of light, on an otherwise cloudy day, was shining on a favorite hunting spot of ours.  It may have been a coincidence, but it still made me feel a little bit better.  

We still talk about that day sometimes.  I am convinced that that was probably the best way for Gramps to go.  It happened too early for everyone that loved him, but he never was anyone’s burden, which would have broken his heart.  

 I will remember Gramps sitting in his recliner watching a Cubs game with a Coke and a bowl of Cheetos sitting next to him. 

            

Hunting/Crying: 1992

I have a lot of fond hunting memories with my dad and brother (sneaking through the brush, drinking an early morning Coke on top of the mountain, getting bored and wrestling, enjoying sun rises/sets, and burning Hal’s chair in order to stay warm).  From a very young age I would go with my dad and carry a BB gun just to fit in.  All was good when it was light outside and when I was next to someone.  When it was dark or when I was encouraged to venture off on my own terror would creep in and my mind would tell me about my impending death by cougars, bears, moose, or run-away convicts.  

One memory stands out in my mind.  I was probably eight years old.  I was too young to carry a rifle, but old enough to go without having to be carried up the mountain.  There were a few of us (Hal, Justin, a couple of his friends, and me) sitting on Hal’s Rock at the top of Brush canyon.  It is a deep, nasty canyon, but my favorite place to be.  Toward the end of the hunt it was determined that one person in the hunting party should go through the thick nastiness at the bottom of the canyon and brush out lingering deer and elk.  I was the person.  

I reluctantly grabbed my BB gun and headed down to brush.  When I was about thirty feet from hitting the bottom of the canyon I looked down a couple of ridges and saw a moose probably 400 yards away.  That moose might as well have been a 400 pound winged spider because I was instantly terrified and had no doubt that after that beast finished trampling me it would make exception to being a vegetarian and eat me.  Rather than turning back, I decided to press forward through my fear.  That was a mistake.  The moose never got to me, but my mind did.  Within 5 minutes of hitting the brush I started to freak out.  Instead of going back to Hal’s Rock I stood still and started yelling “DAD, DAD, DAD!!!”.     

Still hear about it. 

The Stinkbug: 1992

These posts will have multiple backlogs.

This was likely my worst day at Ellis Elementary.  It started with a smell and ended with panicky, bitter tears.  

I can only remember the experience, but this is how I picture my morning going that fateful day.  I roll out of bed to a smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins.  I cut the first muffin down the middle with a freshly buttered knife and wait for the butter to melt.  I dip it in a shallow glass of milk and place its soggy beauty in my little gapped tooth mouth.  This process is repeated 4 to 5 times.  I take a nice bubble bath and think about how cool it will be when I can one day shave.  I get dressed in some Springy shorts to accompany my Adidas t-shirt.  Mom combs my hair, making sure that my forehead wave is looking sweet.  I reluctantly brush my teeth and splash on a bit of dad’s aftershave for the ladies.  I put on my shoes, give mom a kiss, grab my backpack, and head out to the bus stop 2 houses down.  I board the bus, it leaves, and I run to the back and wave at mom as I pass the house, keeping my hand out the window until the house is out of site.  The bus pulls into the school parking lot, and I make my way to Mrs. Davis’s, who I am secretly scared of, second grade class.

Queue the memory.  

Early that morning I started to smell the very familiar stinkbug smell.  I supposed that one of my classmates had stepped on one on their way into class or that one had died in the room.  Everyone else smelled it too.  Throughout the day I attended various classes and visited many places in the school outside of the classroom (bathroom, P.E., computer lab, library, etc.) but the smell followed me wherever I went.  People started to blame me for the smell, but I vehemently denied that I was the cause.  Nevertheless, the smell lingered throughout the day, never diminishing and ever-present.

I left school as a literal outcast and arrived home defeated and upset.  As I took off my right shoe I was blasted with a warm stinkbug stink.  Searching for the root of this evil, I found that a large stinkbug was crushed into the front of my kicks.  I feverishly took off my sock and found that the end of my big toe was dyed red from the stink bug.  I supposed that I was poisoned and started to cry.  I then ran into the kitchen, called my mom at work, and told her of my extreme misfortune and impending death by stinkbug poisoning.  She sympathetically told me that I would be ok and to wash my foot.  It took a few days for the coloring to wear off, but much longer to rid myself of the shame that I had incurred that day.        

           

Another Beating: 1994

I can remember this day like it happened yesterday.  The neighborhood boys often retreated to the dirt trails during warm summer days to talk about life and to throw dirt clods at each other.  There used to be huge dirt mounds about a hundred yards north of my parents house.  On one side of the mound was a gradual increase in elevation, on the other, a severe drop off.  It seemed like 30 feet, but looking back now, it was tops 5 feet.  One day I hit a friend in the face with a hug, solid dirt clod, sending him off of the cliff.  Luckily he survived.   That story has nothing to do with my beating, just a fun little side note.

One day while leaving the dirt trails an acquaintance of mine, we’ll call him RW, (one year younger, but in the same grade) started to swear.  Being innocent and bold I told him to stop, likely saying something like, “Big words for a little man”, or “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”  He told me to shut up and we left it at that. 

Later we all headed up the street to participate in some night games.  Wiffle ball was on the menu that night.  We played for a while and this same kid started to swear.  There were younger kids around and me being 10 and really cool told him not to swear in front of the kids.  Again we exchanged words about the improper language.  At this point the 15 kids gathered round in anticipation. 

I was a good example to everyone that night by telling him not to swear, that example quickly deteriorated when I started the fight.  Pretty sure I threw the first punch, but RW most definitely finished it.  I threw a flailing noodle arm punch and he countered with a full on, square punch right in the mouth.  He then grabbed my head and started to knee me in the stomach.  He was a year younger than me!  He was a big 9 though and I could have been mistaken for a first grader.  When I finally got free from his menacing blows and gut wrenching knees, I walked away pretending not to be fazed by my freshly bloodied, quivering lip.  My best friend retreated with me and yelled back at my foe, “Hey, Derrik just beat you up!”  When we were out of hearing distance he turned to me and said, “Dude, you just got your butt kicked.”  It was a severe beating that I will perhaps always remember but would love to forget. 

That was my last real fighting experience.  I haven’t been practicing since then, so I think that if I were to get in another fight the end result would be very similar.  Thanks for the humbling beat down RW!      

Severe Beatings: 1984-1994

I am the youngest of 4 kids.  2 boys, 2 girls.  There are many perks that come with being the baby of the family.  Everyone knows that the baby is very spoiled and showered with love.  Little less known fact is that usually the baby gets pummeled by his older siblings.  I was no exception.

I am part of a very close family.  We are all good friends.  When we were younger we didn’t act like it. 

I think the most common sort of mental beatings that took place in our household were when one kid would tell the other, “You’re adopted”.  It would take long talks with mom and dad to convince us otherwise and calm us down.

When I was little and all 4 of us lived at home, my parents would leave and put Stephanie and Justin in charge.  This meant pain for me.  They would push all of the furniture out of our living room so all that remained was an empty room of soon to be death.  Justin was my Mickey and I was his long shot 50 pound Rocky.  Shondel was the Russian with Stephanie in her corner and instead of injecting her with steroids, she was filling her with anti-Goose propaganda.  Justin would say “ding, ding” and the trainers would push us to the center of the room.  We would run at each other throwing windmill hay-makers connecting rarely, but still connecting.  Nothing was off limits and face punching was strongly encouraged.  Rocky always lost in my house.  Shondel is little and dainty, but when you’re young, 4 years the elder helps a lot.  I clearly remember lying on my back crying, yelling “I hate you” at Shondel as she looked down on me like a fresh kill ready to be gutted.  

The basement in my parents’ house has always scared me a bit.  I still sleep with one eye open and encourage Claire to sleep on my exposed side when we are there.  My childhood experiences are probably the reason for my fear.  My loving siblings would fill me with scary stories, lure me into the basement, TIE ME TO A CHAIR, turn off the lights, shut the door, and run upstairs!  Horrible, right?   

Justin and I have always been good buddies.  When he went on his mission I cried for days (later blog).  Before his mission we would wrestle, and he would win in amazing fashion.  Older brothers beat up little brothers, its science.  He was a dirty fighter.  My mom would yell at him when he was pummeling me and say things like, “Stop it!  You’re going to make it so he can’t have kids!”.  Groin punches weren’t off limits.  He also had a HUGE state championship football ring that he would turn upside down (so the huge part was in his palm) and slap me on top of the head.  Felt like a baseball bat every time.  He also did this thing called kick start.  He would walk over while I was sleeping on the floor and, with shoes on, would swiftly run his shoe across my forehead.  It looks pretty cool when the top layer of skin is rubbed off of your forehead.  We still wrestle, I have won once.       

I love all of my siblings.  We still wrestle.  I don’t punch Shondel in the face anymore, and I’m too big to get tied to chairs, but Shondel is still adopted and mom still yells at Justin.  Thankfully she was wrong!





                                    Dad (Hal), Mom (Kathy), Claire, Me, Shondel, Justin, Stephanie