A list of "offenses" by very pure-hearted Charlie

Mom and Dad were married for 50 years. Here is the tiny list of “bad” things Dad, a very fine gentleman, did during that union in approximate chronological order. I badly regret not discussing this more with him before he was suddenly killed. Had we another month, they would have been addressed in my late-game drive to document Dad's feelings and experiences.

A Sinister White Russian Pits Mom Against Dad
In what I think was the early 70s, it seems Dad had a bit too much to drink and may have, well, fawned some over his boss's wife at a social gathering. I don't recall much, but it pissed off Mom, previously cheated on and infected by The Sultan of Sodomy, something terminal.

On that fateful evening, Dad fetched a drink - a white Russian - for the woman. That alone might have annoyed Mom. The woman apparently took a swig of it, grimaced mightily, spat it back into the glass, proclaimed it “the pits,” and returned to sender. In an act distant from his best idea ever, Dad handed it to Mom and told her to do something with it, or some such thing. Having seen it many times, I'll never forget Mom's surely-exaggerated mocking of the drink-spitting and pits exclamation.

That was my first exposure to the drink known as a White Russian and the state of affairs known as the pits. I literally detested that drink well into adulthood without ever trying it. My position on pits is varied, though.

Dad was very deferent toward authority and those he felt were stationed above him, be it the church secretary or the butt doctor. Put a few drinks in him and I can imagine him getting a little goofy, but still, innocent enough. Mom was inherently nervous, and throw in nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, ego, history, disappointment, and possessiveness in a social setting, and wow...one has a damn cyclone on their hands. I don't even wanna think about it.

This was pretty far from Dad's finest hour, but if that's as bad as it's gonna get across over a half century saddled with those neglectful and exploitative lunatics, all I can say is, “Well done, gentle sir. Well done, indeed. Gentle sir, indeed, too.”

Dad was forbidden from getting tanked up again and Mom forever frowned mightily upon all illegal and excess intoxication. They drank daily, but in strict moderation. Had she known what was going on during my high school and college party rampage, she would have been in shock. And we, just havin' fun an' all, still stopped way short of how the truly hardcore people raised hell.

The Ramirez Incident
Years later, around 1976, they were having an issue with a female tenant named Ramirez in one of the apartment buildings we owned. I don't recall the nature of the dispute.

During the incident, Dad uttered a sentence to Mom containing the phrase “leave the poor woman alone.” Never did I see him so rebuke her and it's fair to assume he never did it again. Mom made him pay for that bold move for years, even throwing it in his face when he, against my advice, called home to check in a mere couple of hours into a rare trip to Arkansas.

Watching some local sketchy teens waiting to use the pay phone laugh at Dad's groveling (“Ramirez was years ago, angel!”) during that call is a worst childhood memory. Poor guy. I admit, though, that when I was a sketchy teen, watching a square lookin' adult heave his dignity under the bus was quite welcome. When it's your father, though, it's quite different.

Dad spoke Spanish and befriended his tenants, treating them well. Mom, when she got the right hair up her ass, could about badger the shit out of someone. When driven, she was relentless. I think he just felt some sympathy for Ramirez and spoke accordingly without sufficiently vetting his words for MomWorld.

After, I associated the name Ramirez with substantial evil for years. Funny how things can get lodged in a kid's mind. I later got to know a teacher named Ramirez and had to concede she was, at worst, just slightly evil. Fine. I can admit when I'm wrong. But later, when Richard Ramirez turned out to be the infamous Night Stalker, I was all like, “Yup! See! See!!!”

Owl Kick Your Ass
Later in the apartment stint, Mom called the manager and asked to talk to Dad. The property manager, a strange woman named Liz who was obsessed with owls and wore big, goofy glasses rendering her distinctly owlish, told Mom that Charlie couldn't be disturbed, for he was having his coffee. For sure, Dad loved his coffee.

It was indeed a strange thing to tell Mom, but Mom found it worse - she later went Krakatoa on Dad. His bewildered defense, shoulders triangularly shrugged and extended palms upward, that he had no control over what that woman says, cut no ice. Mom, locked on suspicious after her mistreatment by Aydin, thought something funny was going on. However, much unlike Aydin, Dad was not a scumbag, see. It's quite simple, really.

Once an altar boy in his Catholic church, Dad was a very faithful man none inclined to be sleazy and he wasn't much for taking risks. I suspect Liz was just a silly old bitch who had designs on Dad and was cattily trying to throw a monkey wrench in the works. If so, well, heck...it sort of worked, didn't it? Or, she just was one of those clods who say strange things and unwittingly get others in deep shit. Regardless, Mom's ire was unfounded.

The Medallion Spanish Galleon Stallion
Spanish Galleon exterior Another favorite restaurant was Spanish Galleon at Medallion Center, the next major intersection north from Mom's beloved, skanky Poncho's Mexican Buffet. While researching this piece, I was surprised to learn both places were owned by the same outfit. Go figure, eh?

Spanish Galleon was heaven for a kid who loved eating out. It looked like a big ship, festooned with massive aquaria and in-your-face decor. Their unique long hush puppies were killer, as were their candle-warmed melted butter apparatuses. Neila loved their lobster thermidor, presented in a stoneware dish with browned, bubbling gruyere on top. Never did she fail to graciously share it with me. Dad was big on their fried catfish. And finicky Mom apparently tolerated something there, for we went more than once.

Some fine evening, I was there with Mom and Dad. The place was packed. At a restaurant, if Mom wasn't eating, she was smoking. Immediately after we polished off two dozen fresh oysters, she whipped out an uncool Kool and sparked it up. Dad did same.

Nipp It in the Pud
A woman from the next table approached, politely asking if they could kindly refrain from smoking. Her daughter, beset with allergies and asthma, was having a rough day. She pointed at a quite lovely young lady, watery-eyed, coughing, and, I'm glad to say, distinctly braless. With each cough, her pert nipples wrote a different letter of the alphabet through her tight t-shirt as if trying to send me a message. It was beautiful. Hell, if asked, I would have burned down the cigarette factory for her.

A restaurant too good for that shitty world Dad promptly manned up, thoroughly snuffing his misery stick. Mom, though, would have none of that. She stood firm, like a true stallion, for her right to pursue happiness.

After finishing the one, she lit another while staring daggers at poor Dad and the poor interlopers at the neighboring table. Unnerved, they summoned staff and were soon moved, plates of food and all, to a table that had freed in the tiny nonsmoking section.

Mom was uncharacteristically quiet the rest of the meal. Leaving, I suggested we drive along the west side of White Rock Lake as we often did returning home from dinner. On the way, Mom started to rag on him for helping that young lass by 86ing his cig. His eminently sound and honorable defenses fell on deaf brain.

Looking back, the speed at which he leapt from the car to, per our custom, talk to the anglers upon parking at the dock was amusing, in a tragic way. Mom, as usual, remained in the car, smoke billowing out the passenger window. She looked mad.

Puzzlement. Irony. Wheezing. Lies.
The fight continued at home, and I remain at a loss regarding the foundation of the complaint. An emotional investment in whether or not he smoked at that moment (and, of course, the best answer is to not smoke ) is nonsensical. The problem seemed to be that he sided with the mother and her amply-nippled daughter over uniting with Mom over the right to make a stranger not breathe well.

Ironically, Mom would soon lose her ability to breathe adequately, heaving Dad's already-shabby life square into the shitter.

Many years later when, during a quarrel, I finally itemized Mom's mistreatment of Dad, I was surprised when she actually acknowledged AsthmaGate did occur. I was not surprised, though, when she grossly misrepresented it, insisting she became upset because Dad very rudely demanded she put out her smoke after the woman's equally rude insistence.

Utter hogwash. The woman was distinctly nice and not once have I ever seen or heard of Dad very rudely demanding Mom, or anyone (other than I) do anything. Ever. Not once. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Never. It's striking how disappointing it is for even a grown man to recall his mother lying like that. No matter how old one is, the shattering of illusions strikes to the core.

My Family Is Now Your Family, Chump
As well-addressed here, Dad was excised from his excellent family by Mom and her band of loonies as they gulped down his life like an anaconda eating a goat.

But, Mom could not explicitly forbid Dad from seeing his family, for such is too ridiculous to justify even with Mom's ardent sophistry. Nor could she later throw such in his face, like with white Russian or Ramirez, when upset. “You dared to visit your wonderful family!” just ain't got much juice in it. Same goes for putting that cigarette out. Stooping to using such as recrimination fodder is, apparently, a short shelf life thing, sort of the sushi of absurdity.

Instead, she would unleash a barrage of torment and passive aggression lasting weeks or even months when he would shake off his leash and head east

Between the whole-family jaunt to Arkansas when I busted my preschool-aged head on the walkway around 1972 and when his mother died in 1985 (and then until when Mom died 30 years later), I recall Dad making it to Arkansas just four times - twice with me, twice alone, never more than two nights, and always without Mom.

His sister's driveway was about four hours away and he had old friends in towns along the way. Circumstances begged him to hit the road. Mom should have been pushing him out the door and wishing him Godspeed in no less than twice-yearly visits to his old turf to keep his treasured ties alive before the inherently heartless clock struck "too late."

Looking at the big picture, that deprivation inflicted on Dad, who gave so much and was so fundamentally decent, is likely the chapter of this saga most painful to me. When we discussed it in 2018 near the end of his life, he wept (“It's toooooo late, now.”). The whole thing just rips my guts out.

I know I was just a kid, but I was no stranger to mounting the soapbox, so badly remiss was I in failing to stomp my feet for a family meeting to set things right with indisputable, non-negotiable conviction. I was the only one who could fix that, but fell way short. And, not just for Dad, but me as well. After all, that's my family, too. What a terrible loss.

A Camaro to the Thigh
Dad and I were to go to Arkansas for one night, Thanksgiving, 1979, returning on the holiday evening to be with Mom. But, a week before, I got hit by a muscle car driven by an uninsured Lynyrd Skynyrd-lookin' redneck who thought he was Burt "Bandit" Reynolds. Dude ran a red light on Gaston and plowed me after I failed to duly regard my safety upon deboarding the city bus on yet another library shot.

I should have been killed, but an amazed witness in Jack in the Box said I managed to throw my books-stuffed leather jacket at the car, cracking the windshield, then protected my head after flying about 30 feet and landing on the pavement. I remember nothing between seeing the car and waking up in the street with a broken foot and a serving platter-sized thigh bruise.

So much for Arkansas. Dad would have to go solo. Bummer, 'cuz we had fun on the road, even on short shots for his business and a burger. We both liked noticing and talking about things. Mom gave him the expected cold shoulder and icy sendoff, but he made it out in one piece, bless his dear heart.

That night, in the wee hours of Thanksgiving, the call came informing her that Grandpa Theo had died at age 81 after a years-long dreadful decline in hospitals and a miserable nursing home. I recall being awakened by the phone, then her telling me he was gone as she sat on her bed. The moment was oddly devoid of warmth and at one point I was told to leave her alone. Neither of us were at home in our worlds then. It was really sad.

Mom would use Grandpa's passing and my injury to pummel Dad into the stone age for not being there, even though the old guy could have easily croaked a year or two earlier or later. It was somehow both expected and a surprise, and know, kind reader, that I'm talking about both Theo's death and the pummeling of Dad, which got an impressively early start.

Rise and Shine, Lowly American Bumpkins
Absent good reason, Mom predawn-called Arkansas and rousted everyone. Understand that this was back when people had one phone in the middle of the house that rang as loud as a drum solo. I'd not be surprised if it was the first and only time she'd ever called Dad's mother's home. Me, I would have waited until proper morning. Or just waited for Dad to call, which he never neglected to do. Or, best yet, just fucking hold off until he returns that very evening. Why pointlessly mess up the day?

She gave him the expected ball-busting, with the words “all alone” and “broken foot” prominent. I think at some point he asked how I was doing, for she said “He's fine” and quickly snapped back to giving him hell. I can only hope not too much of the family was amassed around him listening. Then, her essential ghosting of him went on past Christmas. Yes, I'm dead serious.

And, my injury was not a factor. Not at all. I actually made Mom breakfast that morning and was learning crutching tricks and acrobatics, things that would, um, come in handy for months starting the next November.

Reagan later came and got me and I had early Thanksgiving dinner at his parents' home while Mom, who still drove and did stuff then, ran around tending to dead guy stuff. It was the only time I ever was in their home even though they lived in our neighborhood, and that home would later be the site of some noteworthy events.

It was not a happy Thanksgiving. That was my first human death, I was rightfully worried about how Mom would treat Dad upon his return, the Oilers beat the Cowboys, the turkey and dressing were nowhere near as good as Dad's, and the fruit salad was this strange ambrosia stuff with orange slices, marshmallows, and coconut instead of the funky pink cranberry, banana, pineapple, and Cool Whip concoction I was used to. Reagan's family, though, was very nice and I much enjoyed throwing his beautiful, worn NFL regulation football outside with him and his way mellow brother.

I was crushed by the loss of my beloved Grandpa Theo, but that loss was years before when his brain was shredded by dementia. I had long ago mourned him and moved on, visiting him at the Convalescent Center was a multifaceted nightmare, and his one excursion from the facility to stay with us for a day was a disaster resulting in what was perhaps Mom's worst hour.

I'll especially detest writing up that one.

She HAAAAAATES HIMMMMMM!!!!!
“I HAAAAAATE YOUUUUUU!!!!!”

It was the loudest and angriest I'd ever heard Mom shriek, which is sayin' somethin'. It was also the most dresses I'd ever seen Mom heave at Dad. Actually, it was the only time I'd ever seen Mom, or anyone, throw dresses at Dad, or anyone. A few years later, I would be slightly reminded of the episode by the vastly infamous wire hangers scene from Mommie Dearest, but, since I was watching it with Mom, I kept that insight quite to myself.

Rewind a few hours. Mom needed a dress. We went to JC Penny at Northpark Mall. She combed the racks, Dad followed, her purse on his shoulder. Some people snickered at him. I'll carry a lady's purse any day of the week, but Dad carried it in full-on bitch mode, strap over shoulder, hand grasping bottom of strap exactly as women tended to. In late 70s Texas, a 40-something dude light years from being a hippie posed so with a purse was gonna get noticed.

He didn't care, though. His ego had long been stripped down to the bare wood.

Mom was having a hard time finding a right dress. There was tension. After bearing three weird-ass kids, being cut almost in half by kidney stone/peritonitis surgery, and never exercising while being prodded by middle age, her treasured tiny waist and hourglass had faded and she was at a loss. Instead of beauty heaving itself into in her lap, she would now have to work for it.

And, I think the occasion behind the dress involved Dad's family, making a bad attitude from her all the more likely. We were only allowed to endure bother for Mom's family.

At some point, Dad got a sour look on his face in response to a dress, or its price tag, or some such shit. Not a devious man, he was not great at the art of poker face. His mask was expressive and prone to convey anger or dismay in excess of what he likely felt. In this case, that quirk pissed off Mom to extinction level event heights.

You're Confused, Pilgrim
At home, her discontent simmered. The dress she'd chosen was awful. Sloppy fit, long sleeves, sealed up almost to the nostrils, and all one shit brown color, Goofy fake buttons and a strange panel on the front. I later remarked that it looked a confused pilgrim and Mom couldn't help but laugh. It was an appreciated flash of relief from the tension. That thing was a surrender purchase if such ever existed. I wish I had a photo.

The vibe in our home was poor. Years of long-stacked poor.

On top of that dress stuff, she didn't much like her husband, youngest son, only daughter, son-in-law, daughter-in-law, mother, city, county, state, or nation, so there's that. Poor Mom. She was a shark out of water, miserable. Dad's sourpuss look was merely a trivial catalyst to stir the anguish that forever followed her.

She started to rag on him for offending her by gettin' all ugly in the face at the mall, then cycled through the described-above "Vladimir Ramirez" spiel. As a simple, wise, open man ruled by good faith, Dad was not a master of diplomacy, defense, or strife, and I think his lack of backbone upset Mom even more despite her also deeply relying on it. Paradoxical, I say.

Next thing we knew, she was off to the races, throwing a foot-thick stack of dresses unto him while screaming at least twice that she hates him, this dear man who never did a bad thing in his life and raised her kook mongrels as his own.

I, often the referee in their fights at age 11, was standing on the bed hollering, “Stop it! Stop it this instant!”, tween shriek cracking like the laddie in T2 and a choice of words bringing to mind one Dr. Zachary Smith. I marvel at how clearly I remember that, but much of the rest of the day is a blur. A sad, creepy blur.

They later disappeared into their bedroom. After a while Mom summoned me as Dad sat at the kitchen table wringing his hands. She told me they were divorcing and asked who I wanted to go with. Shellshocked and trained like a carnival seal to cleave unto The Istanbul Bunch, I chose her. Now, I'm actually yelling at the screen, “No! DUDE! Go with Dad! Are you NUTS?”

Dad was so miserable and defeated. It was truly heartbreaking. Mom had long held over our heads the tacit threat that she had the will to leave anyone, anytime, and now it was coming to pass. This was to date our family's darkest moment. Spent, I retreated to my room, got all the way under the covers, and binged on my Foreigner Double Vision 8-track tape.

A Quiet Undivorcification
Eventually, things settled down and we just acted like it never happened. I recall Dad meekly asking her for the receipt so he could return the confused pilgrim shit dress, and that's about it. Never again was the prospect of them separating raised.

Mom's wheels fell off soon after and she hit the sofa for about 35 years, running things and building wealth while bossing Dad around and casting aside every duty of being a wife. She ran out of steam a few months after their 50th anniversary and expired.

A Kneely-Fatal Error
Thanksgiving weekend, 1980, a year after Theo's Turkey Day departure, Dad and I went deer hunting for the first time after going fishing just once to date. Unfortunately for him, by the time we were an hour past lunch on the first day, I'd sagely managed to accidentally blow one large exit wound and one huge entrance wound in my right knee with a high-powered rifle, birthing a new, challenging life and tons of grief for Dad.

I certainly understand that a parent may become rather cross if someone goes off with their semi-precious spawn, then brings it back in an emergency vehicle missing parts and most of its blood. Mom was not unreasonable in being upset with him.

However, it was my fault. I convinced Dad to let me go off on my own and shrewdly padded that with a claim that we'd be more likely to bag a buck if we split up and covered a clearing from both ends. That did not pan out; not even close. Thanks to a breathtaking lapse in basic gun safety on my part, I was gravely and forever injured. A chapter engaging that day in detail is forthcoming.

Yes, he had a role, but it was my fault. I really stuck it to him that day, and it was many years before I duly grasped how badly.

Dad was so upset, pale. and terrified that I was worried to death about him. Yes, he was very concerned about me, but he was also scared beyond description of Mom. I feared he would drop dead several times during the ordeal, so, when I talked to Mom on the phone from hospital #1, I lied and said it was just a flesh wound, then begged her to not blame Dad, who, I must add, had just botched the all-important first call home in epic fashion.

As I was meatwagon'd the 100 miles from hospital #1 to local care after being stabilized, I kept badgering the driver to radio ahead to hospital #2 and tell them to tell Mom not to fuck with poor Dad, who followed behind us, driving poorly and white as a sheet. I forget how he phrased the radio calls, numbering at least two plus a reminder, but it was amusing. Cool dude.

Mom left admonitions to leave Dad unfucked-with starkly unheeded, I later learned. None of it happened within my sight or earshot, though. I'm sure she was furious, for this was a bit beyond a grouchy look at the mall, and she held it against him for a long time. And, Ronald Reagan had just been elected in a landslide, so she hated the world even more.

I swear, 1977-1980 was just plain brutal for us.

Mom was great in her care and comforting of me in the two weeks in the hospital, almost never leaving my side, and in the first few weeks at home after. It was her finest hour. The only times she faltered were when my gruesome injury was exposed. Dad and I had to deal with the irrigation and dressings, etc. The skin graft and all that was pretty gnarly.

After a sort of shaky start in this one, Dad was solid as a rock for my recovery. He just needed to know I wasn't going to die, resulting in either the loss of his beloved wife or his beloved wife tormenting him for, in her eyes, killing me, until one of their dying days.

The Magic Healing Power of Different Bricks and Shingles
As I recovered, Mom declared that she wanted to build me a custom home to “distract me from my suffering,” a way of going about things I found strange. I was perfectly happy where we lived and I now suspect the real reason was to distract her from her suffering. That set in motion much interesting stuff, from The Golden Psycho badgering us to no end because he wanted his own bigger custom home to The Sue Chef, entrusted to do the right thing, trying to shaft me out of a juicy chunk of my own childhood home over 40 years later.

I came to realize that healing came from tracking down inner peace and understanding, and, even though it hurts like a sombitch, if I could go back in time, I would not change my getting shot. It produced a character I and mine are very happy with and I made that clear to Dad, setting him free from that prison on what essentially and unexpectedly turned out to be the last evening of his life. My goal was for the knee to outlive Dad, and it has.

At the same time, it's my biggest regret due to the upset it caused Dad, Mom, and everyone else.

Can a Barracuda Make a Pretzel?
Finally, the fiasco from selling our first house. It went sour and ended up in court for years, the start of many a year being ruined in courtrooms for my family.

In brief, in court, innocent and rattled Dad got spun and embarrassed into a human pretzel by a barracuda of an attorney. I'm told he repeatedly screwed the hell out of the pooch on the stand something legendary and even his literal, physical, loins-based manhood was run through the wringer. Long story.

Our attorneys wanted to strangle him. The whole story is a jaw-dropper too detailed to include here. Poor Dad.

That court meltdown was followed by a death march home from San Antonio in which Mom belittled and interrogated thoroughly-humiliated Dad throughout the five hour drive. When you fuck up, see, Mom strove to ask every conceivable question about how and why and what you fucked up, leaving no stone unturned. When she was the offender, though, the discussion had to be as brief and cursory as possible, lest she call you a tiresome lunatic.

As that unfolded, I, left alone at home, had a small all-night party after which about ten people went to school, for starters, drunk on tequila. A Mexican/redneck "hybred" fornication bastard bambino was conceived in our guest bedroom. We had the place cleaned spotless and all tracks covered...perfect crime...then, a bizarrely unthinkable chain of hypocrisy-riddled stumbles the next day by one of my guests blew the lid off and I got nailed. Little came of it, though.

How I bemoan people who do stupid shit, and they seem abundant. Yes, abundant.

cRap Sheet
So, there you have it. All of Dad's “wrongdoings” across more than 50 years, and Mom was a yapper, so I doubt there's much missing.

One bout of silly drunkenness, an exasperated plea that a peasant woman be left alone, a bizarre utterance from an strange employee, snuffing his cigarette to help an ailing young lady, going to see his family for a day or two, a sour facial expression at the mall, failure to keep me unshot, and a courtroom meltdown under pressure.

Uh, god damn. When one looks at it all once now with a knowing eye, it's insane.

Insane, I tells ya. Poor dad.

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Dad's Rap Sheet