Before I Had a Dad

As mentioned in the previous entry, my biological father was not a part of my life.  There were a few men in my life as a child, the man I called Papa, my mother’s step-father, whom I adored; he called me Sugar.  There was the man I called Grandpa Bear, the father of my mother’s best friend, T.   T’s family had been like a foster family to my mom, so I grew up calling her parents Grandma and Grandpa Bear.  Then there were my uncles, O, who was in the army and studying to become an ordained minister.  He played the guitar and was so soft-spoken, there was something about him that intimidated me.  There was Uncle J, who was in the Navy and could touch the ceiling in Grandma’s house.  That made him a superhero to me.  He’d put me up on his neck, and then I could touch the ceiling.  Finally, there was Uncle Gary, my mom’s youngest brother.  He was 10 years older than me, and I followed him around like a puppy.  He had a tree house and Tonka trucks.  He loved to torture me – he’d give me “Indian Burns” and twist my arm until I screamed Uncle.  He took me for a walk over a nearby train trestle, and once we were in the middle, too high for me to jump off, he jumped off and told me I’d better hurry because he could hear a train coming. For some reason, I absolutely adored him.

My mother’s Grandfather, my great-grandfather, O, holds only one brief memory, but it’s a memory that holds significance even now.  He lived with my mother’s mother and Papa.  My mom had run out to get diapers or something, but she was not gone long.  Papa was a truck driver, and he was out on the road.  I don’t remember where my grandma was.  What I do remember is that Grandpa O, came to me and told me, “Grandpa’s fingers are too stiff.  I need you to help me to button my pants.”  As previously mentioned, I lived for opportunities to be praised, so helping an old man would certainly fall into that category. I eagerly struggled to button those pants with my four-year-old fingers, putting my hands all over Grandpa’s junk, not realizing what I was doing.  When they were buttoned, Grandpa O told me that I didn’t need to tell my mother about this.  I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to tell my mother that I’d been a big helper, so as soon as she came through the door, I blurted out, “Mama, I helped Grandpa button his pants!”

My mother channeled the voice of Satan.  (I would hear her do this twice more in the future).  Grandpa, who walked stooped over at the hips in a perfect upside down L, ran out the door, got in his car, and drove away.  It would be many years before I figured out why I wasn’t praised for having helped Grandpa O, and still more years before I’d learn that he had been inappropriate with my mom and her brothers when they were much younger as well.