Did You Wash Your Hands?

Just a short-one today...

I've spent a large chunk of time in places that either don't have outhouses and/or bathrooms, or maybe just have "vault" toilets. I'm sure you're asking yourself, "why in the world is he telling us that?"  I'm just giving you a little background info. Umkay?
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I spent a lot of my childhood at my grandma's house. It was actually more like a cabin. Not a mountain cabin, but a desert version. It was a very rustic place, but it did have an indoor bathroom and septic tank. Normally, that would be a great convenience, but we (me and my brother) were never allowed to use it during the day or evening hours, we could use it in the middle of the night, but only if we couldn't wait until morning. 

That means that ninety-nine percent of the time, we used the outhouse. Upon our return, there was never a single word said about washing our hands. However, on the rare occasion that we used the indoor bathroom (snow, rain, thunderstorms, etc). She ALWAYS asked if we had washed our hands. 

Is that more than a bit odd, or is it just me?

You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up!

About 18 months ago I received a Facebook message from a lady who thought I might be an illegitimate member of their family. In fact, her family referred to me as "Uncle Pat." Here is my blog post relating to the incident.

A month or so ago (okay, it was October 27th to be exact),  I received a comment on that post, from a person who though she was my sister.  Okay, but I don't have any sisters! I didn't "approve" the comment to be published because there is too much personal information in it.  I did contact her though...

Quite a few of you have been following my blog for long enough to know that I am from the most dysfunctional of families. For those of you who don't know, this post is yet another entry into my crazy family history.  I have three brothers.  That's all...

Okay, so Christine and I exchanged several emails on the subject.

• She was adopted directly from the hospital she was born in (in my home town). 
• My mom had a friend with the same name as Christine's adoptive mother.
• She saw what she thought was the name of her birth mother when she was a teenager.
• She googled the name she saw (my mom's name) many times over the years with no hits.
• My mom's first name (and our last name) is very unusual.
• Two months ago she finally got a google hit on my mom's name.
• It led her to this post about her.

We emailed and we spoke. This was all adding up to her maybe being right.  I was fourteen the year Christine was born. You would think I would remember if my mom was pregnant at that time. I didn't. This wasn't a very good year in my life and I spent a lot of it "under the influence" of anything I could get my hands on. I even flunked 8th grade that year.

We met about three weeks ago and took a DNA test. We sent it to the lab and waited. Before they sent us the results of the test, they said they would call and let us know. After meeting her and talking to her several times, I was really hoping we were siblings. I have no negative history with her (as I do with my brothers) and she is VERY nice. I like her  a lot.

Today the lab called. Christine and I have the same mother!
See?  You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up!


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Zero Defects

My recent posts have been bouncing between photos and poems. I figured it was time to work in some stories about my crazy and dysfunctional childhood.
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My mother was a pioneer in the field of "Zero Defects Quality Control."

I don’t remember ever seeing her cleaning house after my dad left (I was 5), we were given those assignments. She checked our completed work with the zeal of a newly promoted drill instructor.

Didn’t do a perfect job? Do it over. Still not perfect? Do it over again.  If she had the energy, she would keep it up all night. If she didn't have the energy, we'd have to redo the work and then wake her up, so she could hold yet another inspection. On a school night?  It just didn't matter to her, it could have been Christmas eve.

She didn’t just check out our work like a normal person. She of course, would check it out like a crazy person. She would even check the bottoms of the chair, table, and couch legs. There had better not be any lint or hairs on them at all. If there was, you know...Do it all again!

The exact same process was applied to doing dishes. The crazy lady would go through the drawers and cupboards to inspect every freaking piece of silverware and every dish.  They didn't just have to be perfectly clean, they had to be perfectly dry as well.  If she found a single speck of food, or dust, or a drop of water, we had to them ALL over again.

Somewhere along the line, we figured out that this wasn't really about doing the dishes, or cleaning the house. It was about control.  It became very apparent, when we couldn't find anything on the dish, or fork, or spoon, that made them still dirty.  When I spoke to other kids about chores, I realized that I lived on a different planet than most.

I lived on Planet Crazy...

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Another early post. This one had 4 comments (3 by family and friends).

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Coffin Full of Hate

Coffin full of hate
Coffin full of emptiness
You lived your life as a crucible
They all feel pain for you now
But they don’t know
Who you really were
I was there
When your spirit left
I felt it fly away
It blew through me
Like an ice cold wind

Casket borne
Peaceful now
They line up
To take a glimpse
I view you not the same as them
For I knew your pitiful walnut heart
And even if I must conceal it
They won’t catch me crying
Softness for you?
It need not seek haven in my heart
There’s no place for it

You hid your face
From all but me
Projecting a facade
For them to see

You are no more to me now
Than I was to you then
Nothing...

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another very old one...

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Oops!

Many of you are new (or newish) to my childhood stories, please don't think I'm being too hard on my mom in this blog post. If you go back and read some old entries related to my childhood, you'll soon agree that I'm being pretty darn nice...
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My mom was a terrible cook didn't cook very often. We always looked at that as a good thing.  To the best of my recollection, she only prepared Thanksgiving dinner a couple of times. When she did, a pre-cooked ham was always the main course.

For reasons known only to her, one year she decided to cook a turkey. It was probably because she had recently decided to get married again for the second, no third, oh yeah, for the fourth time.  She was probably trying to impress her latest victim new fiance. I believe I was in ninth grade and my younger brother was in second. The other four or five people were friends of my new, soon to be step dad.

The table was full of all the normal Thanksgiving things.  Nice dishes, formal silverware settings, the whole shebang. I think there was even a center piece. I'd never seen any of this stuff before and wondered if it was all stolen property where it came from.

Everybody was sitting at the table waiting to eat, my brother and I were sitting at one end and were the only ones who could see into the kitchen.  My mom was at the stove transferring the turkey from the roasting pan to the serving platter with a couple of large forks. The turkey started to get away from her and she dropped it. 

The turkey hit the floor with a thud, everyone at the table looked up in surprise. My mom yelled out, "It's okay it fell on a piece of paper!" Only my brother and I could see that there was no paper, or anything else on the floor but our dinner. She picked the turkey up off the floor in a split-second. My brother and I looked at each other and then looked back into the kitchen to see our mom staring at us. She was pointing at us with one index finger while using her other hand to make a "keep your mouth zipped shut" motion with her other hand.  She didn't have to do either of those things. We knew by the fire in her eyes, that if we said anything about there being no paper, we were dead meat in big trouble.

My mom proudly marched into the dining room with the no doubt cat hair and dust laden turkey. All the adults oohed and awed as she set the platter on the table. She was positively beaming as she asked her new fiance to "do the honors," while shooting me and my brother another acid glance.

Before carving, my soon to be step dad, started scooping dressing out of the bird and into a serving bowl. Yes, ladies, gentlemen and dear friends. You know what happened next.  The last scoop was not full of dressing, it was full of the "giblet bag" that my mom failed to remove before cooking the turkey. Peyton looked at mom and said, "you are supposed to ta....." She didn't say a word, but somehow he knew by the by the look in her eyes, not to finish his sentence. She had a smile on her face for everyone else at the table and pure evil in her eyes for him. 

Everybody in my mom's life understood what that glare meant, just as clearly as if she said it out loud.  It meant, "I am crazy, I am more violent than you can imagine and I am capable of hurting you or worse."   Amazingly, he married my mom anyway. It didn't last.  A Las Vegas wedding and a Tijuana divorce...

The only positive thing that came out of the entire affair was related to her dropping the turkey. From that point forward, continuing until today. When somebody drops an item of food on the floor or ground, even if they have no intention of eating it, we always say, "good thing it fell on that piece of paper!"


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First Day of School

A few of the blogs I follow have had recent posts relating to the first day of school this year for their children.  As many of you are well aware, I don't have many fond memories relating to my own childhood.

The first day of a new school year is no exception.

I was 7 in this photo. It's the only photo of me that exists between the ages of 3 and 11.

On the first day of school at our house, there was no fanfare, no nice new clothes, no hearty breakfast, and no fancy packed lunch with a note inside.

My mom usually sent us on our way with a threat "you better get your ass out of this house! If you're late on the first day, there's gonna be hell to pay when you get home!"  Of course she could only threaten us, if she was actually there to say it.  On more than one occasion, she wasn't. First day of school and mom is missing in action.

So I'd leave the house with my county welfare supplied "lunch ticket" safely tucked into my "new" jeans.  They weren't usually exactly new, but they were new to me. They usually came from the thrift store, or from some generous local family.  Of course these jeans, "had better last all year," so my mom sewed double patches into the inside of the knees. 

I know most kids have a lot of questions and what-ifs before the first day. My "what-ifs" were usually a little bit different than most kids. Mine consisted of things like "what if someone makes fun of my clothes?" "What if someone comments on my "welfare lunch?" "What if someone makes fun of how poor my family is?" "What if someone calls me white trash?"

It wasn't really a matter of "what if," it was a matter of who and when.  My quandary was usually related to whether I would try to kick their ass during school, after school, or wait until I saw them away from school?

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The Acrid Taste of Bluing

A bit of elation

A moment of clarity

The serenity of finality

The freedom that can only come

From accepting your own fate

The acrid taste of bluing

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Bluing: Commonly used by gun manufacturers to improve the cosmetic appearance and provide resistance against rust on firearms.
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If you don't already know the story behind this poem please go to the following three links, in order.

Slowly Turning Out the Lights
Follow Up to Yesterday
Cheap Silverware


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Cheap Silverware

The last time I ever made an attempt to speak to my mom about my childhood, she simply swept aside my concerns and feelings. I knew it was going to happen, but I tried anyway. The last words she had to say on the subject were, "Why do people always blame their parents for their problems?" I wasn't blaming her for anything. I just wanted her to tell me she was aware that my childhood was utter hell.

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Cheap Silverware

I agreed to meet

Not for her

But for me

It had been two years

Since we'd last seen each other

And more than one

Since we'd spoken

All for good reason

She showed love 

And affection

Like it hurt her

Her motherly words

Sounded not unlike

The tinny clatter

Of the cheap and pitted

Silverware

Strewn between us

On the scratched formica table

In the greasy spoon cafe

That she selected

Because she liked the pie there

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Follow up to Yesterday

I should have included this with yesterday’s poem.

As you may or may not know (depending on how long you’ve read my blog), my mom was an insane and brutal woman. She hated me because she hated my dad. I hated her because she abused me.

I don’t know why, but I felt some sense of responsibility related to helping her out when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I take it back; I do know why, I did it because I was dysfunctional as all hell.

I checked in on her a couple of times a day. I either brought her food, or cooked it at her house. One day I walked into her place and caught her trying to shoot herself in the head. I knew she carried a pistol in her purse and I had taken it away from her for just this reason. I had no idea she had a spare.

She couldn’t take the safety off and was trying to figure it out when I walked in the door. I took it away from her. I also discovered that she had just cut all of our family photos and her cash into tiny pieces.

Maybe it was the wrong reaction, but I got very angry at her. I was going well out of my way to help a woman I didn’t even like and she was going to have me walk in and discover her dead, with her brains splattered on the wall? She was in no pain at this point, so maybe it was to be her final act of hatred towards me.

I went through her medications (most of which she used recreationally), found the strongest she had, poured a glass of whiskey (she had plenty), set them in front of her, and walked out the door.

Of course, she didn’t use them; it wouldn’t have been dramatic enough of an exit for her…

If you don't already know why I would do this, I ask you to read my family and childhood related blog entries.

1949 Buick Roadmaster as WMD

I've used this photo for something else, but I needed it again

It's been a while since I've posted a family story. I still have a bunch of them, so I better get to steppin'...

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The car in this photo is a 1949 Buick Roadmaster. It was given to us by the county of Los Angeles in an effort to "help" my mom get a "legal" job and to get us off of welfare. Up until that time we hadn't had a car since I was in Kindergarten. That's a period of eight years.  The car was in pretty good shape considering that it was free.  It was as solid as a Sherman tank but she very seldom drove it.

It was rare that we saw our mom at all on weekends.  Usually she took off on Friday and we didn't see her again until late Sunday night, or Monday when we got home from school.  

One Saturday morning, my mom was already home when I woke up. That was rare enough in itself and I was very surprised.  When my mom told me to get in the car, because we were going for a ride, I was flabbergasted.  As we were walking out the door the phone rang. My mom answered it and had a pretty intense conversation with whomever was on the other end.  Just before she slammed the phone down she yelled into the mouth piece, "I told you, I'll take care of it!"  She then nodded me towards the front door.

I had no idea where we were going. Maybe a Saturday morning breakfast? Not a chance, I honestly cannot remember a single time that I ate with my mom in a restaurant before the age of 16. Maybe a little shopping?  Nope! Remember, I was on my own financially as of 7th grade. I was baffled, so I asked her where we were going. She responded with all the motherly nurturing I was accustomed to, "don't fucking worry about it, just get your ass in the car!" I know this is nothing new to many of you, but I've picked up quite a few readers lately.  So to you new folks, say hello to my mother...

We drove down Atlantic Avenue and turned left into a shopping center. Near the rear was a bar called "the back door."  My mom drove around the lot as if she was looking for something. She finally pulled into a parking spot between two other cars. I started to get out, but she told me to sit tight.

She unlatched her door, but didn't open it. Instead, she slowly swiveled her head around, as if she was looking for somebody. Then, much to my surprise, she slammed her door into the car next to us. I wasn't expecting it and jumped in my seat.  She looked around again. Then she REALLY slammed it into the car. She did it again and again. I could see that the door of the car next to us was getting badly dented.  She must have done it 10 times as hard as she could!  I'm sure a lot of you (who've been around for a while) aren't surprised by this. I wasn't either; the lady was violent and crazy.

My mom surveyed the damage as if it was a work of art, put the car into reverse, and with a smile on her face, backed out of the parking spot. We were just about to pull away when she put the car back into neutral.  She took another look around the lot and when she was apparently satisfied nobody was watching, pulled an ice pick out of her purse and got out of the car. She calmly walked around the other vehicle and stuck the ice pick into all four tires.

I'm sure my eyes were as big as saucers when she got back in and closed the door. She put our car in gear and drove away, but not before admiring herself in the rear view mirror...

Encyclopedia Britannica

One of my mom’s "gentlemen friends" gave us a new Encyclopedia Britannica set. I’m pretty sure that I was the only one in my family who ever actually opened one of the books. I think there were 22 volumes in the set. I didn’t read every word, but I read a good portion of them.  We were very poor, lived in a shack, and had little chance of succeeding in life. Those books were my escape.  I loved those things! The maps, the photographs, and all the the information they contained.

One day I came home from school and noticed that the entire set was missing. I asked my mom where they were.

“Are they yours?”
“No.”
“Who do they belong to?”
“They belong to us.”
“No, they belong to me!”
“But, I’m reading them!”
“They’re not yours, they belong to me and I don’t have to explain shit to you!
“But mom!”
"Let it go!"
"I'm reading them!"
“You’d really better let it go!”

You should know my mom by now (if not, you have some reading to do), what she said was clearly a physical threat. There was no need to get my ass kicked over it, so I let it go. But I was very unhappy about it.

One day several months later, while getting something out of my mom’s closet, I noticed a large box pushed in the corner. I opened the top and was totally shocked by what I saw. The encyclopedia set was in it. At least what was left of it was. Every single page had been ripped out of the bindings and torn, or cut into tiny little pieces. The bindings were nowhere to be seen.

Do you still doubt that the woman was insane? It must have taken her many hours to do that. Why did she do it? My brother said he thought she was mad at the guy who gave the set to us in the first place. I knew better. She destroyed that encyclopedia set because she knew I loved it.

Strangely enough, almost 50 years after the fact, I spoke to the guy who gave us the encyclopedias (thanks to FB, of course). I asked him about the set. He said he had no idea that my mom had destroyed them. But he did remember that I loved them. He also said he felt bad because of all the chaos in our house. He was one of the few "friends" of my mom that I really liked.  I loved baseball and so did he. He took us to some Dodger games. Anyway, the reason I don’t think my mom cut them up because of him, is that she was seeing other customers guys when he wasn’t around.  My mom loved no man...

If you are new to this saga and don't know what the heck I'm talking about...start here:
http://patricktillett.blogspot.com/2009/06/my-mom-generally-speaking.html

"Uncle Pat"

I’m posting this as another reminder that the stories of my life, as told in my blog entries are true. I recently received the following message on Facebook, from a lady I don’t know and have never met. I've cut and pasted our back and forth into this post...
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March 25 at 11:17am Report
Hi Patrick,
I am the granddaughter of Ernie XXXXXXXXX (Lowell's daughter). Ernie passed away 6 years ago and may or may not have taken some secrets to the grave with him. My mom tells stories that you might be my grandpa’s son. I hope this isn't too sensitive for you to talk about. My question is what is your version of the story? I was doing a time line and my grandpa was not on your mail route until after he returned from Korea which was after you were born. The only way this could have happened is if your mother and my grandfather met somewhere else. Out of respect for my Grandparents, I never asked about this while they were living. I would like to put this rumor to rest. What are your thoughts? Do you believe this is true? Did my grandpa ever come see you or admit to any of this? Oh the wonders of facebook, so easy to connect with people now days!
Lynell
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Patrick Tillett March 25 at 12:35pm

Hi Lynell,
I won’t keep you in suspense. Your GF was not my dad. When my mom and dad got divorced in 1956, she told him that I wasn’t his son. But I think she was just mad at him. I’ll attach a photo of my dad and me to this message. You will clearly see that we look very much alike. I’ve heard that rumor many times also. It was usually from the “old timers” around the North LB bars. Strangely enough, we ended up being friends. I remember he used to sing a few songs with a local bar band at that time. He was a great guy. I can still remember some of his “tall tales” and jokes. I also knew your grandmother, but for the life of me, I can’t remember her name. Sorry about that.

You are right; your GF wasn’t our mailman when I was born. My mom lived a few blocks away at that time, on 52nd street, between Elm and Atlantic. You are also right that they didn’t know each other because he was a mailman.

They knew each other because my mom was a cash bar maid at the “Drift Inn.” It was a beer bar on the corner of Atlantic and 61st street. She also worked at other NLB bars that he frequented. Whether or not they ever “got together,” would be pure speculation on my part. But knowing, my mother, they certainly might have. If they did, I’m sure they didn’t have an ongoing relationship, because my mom wasn’t that type. I won’t come right out and call her a prostitute, but when she was with men, she always got something out of it. She used them to supplement her welfare payments. I even mentioned this “rumor” in my blog last year. Here is the link to it.

http://patricktillett.blogspot.com/2009/06/my-mom-generally-speaking.html

There are also several other posts relating to NLB and my childhood there if you’re interested.

Patricktillett.blogspot.com

Look for the label “family stories” on the right side. If there is anything else, please feel free to contact me at anytime. Also, please say hello to your dad for me. We were also friends, back in the old days.
Pat
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March 25 at 6:20pm Report

Hi Patrick,
Thank you for that. My grandma's name was Barbara or Barb. After they retired they moved from Long Beach back home to Missouri. Grandpa enjoyed his garden, shooting, fishing, hunting, his golden Lab, VFW, Bingo helper, Shuffle Board, and telling jokes. He was as funny as hell and we sure do miss him. My dad is now retired from the Grocery business and plays golf, bowls and watches my kids for me. He is a pretty great grandpa and we enjoy our family time. He remembers you, and he believed my grandpa when he said that he wasn't your father. But like you said about your mom, you never know. My mom is Debbie XXXXXXXX, they divorced 30 years ago. Thank you again for putting that rumor to rest for us XXXXXXXXX. There will be no more "Uncle Pat" stories for us. Ha Ha!
Lynell
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Patrick Tillett March 25 at 6:33pm

Lynell, It was my pleasure.
Barbara, yes I remember her also! Now I wonder what she must have been thinking whenever she saw me. Or did she not know about the "rumor?" You are right; your grandfather was a classic....

If you need anything else, you know where I am! Oh yeah, did you look at the blog entry about my mom?
Pat
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March 26 at 9:09am Report

Pat
I just read the whole thing about your mom. Wow, did you paint a picture of her. The crazy thing is, I noticed that there was only one positive thing that you wrote in that blog and of course it was my favorite!
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I wonder how many other "families" that I don't know about, call me "Uncle Pat?"

Death's Headache

Take a second and think about where your head was at while in 5th and 6th grade. Your kids also, if you have any. Playing in little league or soccer maybe? Cub scouts or Brownies? Practicing their clarinet or violin? Going to church? Maybe just going to school, playing, having sleepovers, and enjoying life?

I'm sorry to say it, and I'm certainly not proud of it, but I was getting high... At first glance it may seem that I was probably just another bad kid. You know, fell in with the wrong crowd or something like along those lines. I wish that was the case…

I wasn’t doing it to “be cool” or because of “peer pressure,” I was doing it to escape. Obviously, I couldn’t label it at the time, but I was clearly “self medicating,” at an early age. Back then you didn’t need to be 18 to buy glue, spray paint, lacquer, or pretty much anything kids “huff” today.

Do you know that at one time, cough syrup contained codeine? And that you could buy it right off the shelf? To be honest I didn’t buy much of it, I usually stole it. And it wasn’t just me! I had friends (if you want to call them that) who did it also. Isn’t it strange how humans have instinctual onboard radar, that seeks out others like themselves?

I didn't sniff glue because it made me feel high. It did it because it made me feel dead… It was how I coped with the insanity that was my life. I didn’t have to feel what was really going on around me. I paid a price for it though. I used to get the most terrible headaches. Death’s headaches... But that didn’t stop me because it still felt better than my reality.

They say that “sniffing” or “huffing” clearly damages and kills brain cells, I’m sure it’s true. Add to that the alcohol, weed, hash, Thai stick, speed, whites, reds, rainbows, stumblers, horse, opium, angel dust, coke, mescaline, peyote, PCP, LSD, and only God knows what else I used over the next 15 years, and I’m surprised I’m able to sit here and type this, many years after the fact.  Please don't take what I just said out of context. Consider what you've read about me in the past and I'm sure you'll understand that it wasn't really about having "fun,"  it was about escaping and not having "real" feelings.

If you don't recognize a lot of the words in the last paragraph, pat yourself on the back. That's a good thing.

People say you have to really keep your eyes on your kids at all times, because it is so unsafe "out there" today, and because there are so many perverts and weirdos out there now. When I hear those things, I always think that the people saying it are very fortunate that they had a “safe” and “protected” childhood. I’m here to tell you that it’s no different now than it was then.

The only thing that's changed, is that there are more people now and everything is made public on the news, or in newspapers. Back then people kept things quiet. Many things happened, but they stayed within the family. Secrets…

The seedy underbelly of life has always existed. Some of us saw it  and some of us didn’t. If you weren’t exposed to it, thank your lucky stars, gather your kids around you, and make sure they aren’t exposed either.

Hi Dad, Long time no see

Many people reading my stories have asked about my dad. Did I ever have contact with him? What became of him?  Why did he have nothing to do with me?  This post should answer your questions.

As I said earlier, my mom's Last Will and Testament wasn't even close to being the watershed event that determined how I feel about her...


My mom died quite a few years ago. There were some things that she insisted on in her will and in person before she died. One of them was that she was to have no funeral or memorial what-so-ever. She was to be cremated and sent off without any fanfare. My brothers knew she died, my family knew, and I made sure her immediate friends (there were few) knew.


One of her life long friends was a woman named Wanda. I somehow found her phone number in another state and called her. During our conversation she asked me if I'd ever been in touch with my father. I told her what my mom had always said to me. That he had another family and didn't want to ever see me again. She said that was too bad and we got off the phone.


Three days later my phone rang, it was Wanda again. She told me she gotten in touch with my dad and he told her to have me call him. The piece of paper with his phone number on it, sat on my kitchen counter for over 3 weeks before I mustered up the courage to call him. When I called, I was expecting him to say pretty much what my mom said. That he had a new life and didn't want to talk to me. After 35 years of no contact, I still wanted to see him. He did in fact sound a little distant on the phone, but he agreed to see me if I came to Kentucky.


I left LAX on a cold and rainy day. Not sure what I'd find, or even exactly why I was going. My flight was not direct and I had some layover time in Louisville, to further wonder what in the hell I was doing there. At that point it was easier to go on to Lexington than to go back home, so that's what I did. When I got off the plane and walked into the terminal, I spotted a man who looked somewhat familiar. He spotted me, at about the same time. He immediately bent over at the waist and started to cry. It was my Dad...


With him at the airport was his son-in-law, Ricky and his grandson, Jimmy Lee. We had a pretty quiet ride through the cold and rainy Kentucky night into Frankfort, where he lived. When we got there, I was introduced to his wife, "Tootsie" and daughter, "Valerie." There was quite a bit of small talk for a while and my dad was getting visibly more upset with every minute that passed. He sent everyone out of the room and told me something that ripped the heart right out of my chest.


If you remember, my mother told me that my dad had re-enlisted into the military, this time the Army. He now had a new wife, new children, and wanted nothing to do with me. Well, here I was sitting in the same house, with all these people feeling like a total outsider. I guess I should have waited a bit longer to ask the obvious, but I couldn't. Why did he leave? Why didn't he ever talk to me? Why didn't he take me with him? I can barely even type his answer. He said "I didn't contact you because your mother told me you weren't my son! She had cheated on me, while I was in Korea."


He said he fought the monthly allotment that was sent to my mom as child support, but he lost every appeal. He also said that his "new" daughter, was actually his step daughter and that all these years he thought he never actually had any children at all.


At least that's what he thought until he saw me at the airport.  When he saw that I looked just like him, he knew everything my mother said, had been a lie. The 35 years lost, hit him all at once and that is why he broke down at the airport. So it turns out my loving mother hated my father so much, that she ruined my childhood to spite him.


It was getting late and I was shown to a bedroom to sleep in. As I lay in bed I thought about the events of the day and of my life. I thought mostly about my mother...


She lied to both of us and she took the truth with her to the grave. You can not imagine the thoughts and images that raced through my mind, while lying in my father's house. It was dark and stormy, but as dark as it was, it couldn't begin to approach the darkness of the place in my mind, where my entire life played out over and over and over and over. The face of that insane, abusive, miserable excuse of a mother, was imprinted on the ceiling, on the wall, and on the insides of my eyelids. If she had still been alive, there is no telling what I'd have done.


Sometime before dawn, I gave up on sleeping, I quietly got dressed, went out the front door, and started walking. Because we had arrived there pretty late the night before, I had no idea where I was going. It was pouring rain, but I just kept walking. It was as if the sheets of rain were trying to wash the pain and anger off of me, out of me. If you've heard the phrase "shit or go blind," I guess that would be perfect for that place in time. I didn't know whether to shit or go blind, and I really didn't care which way it went.


At some point, an hour or so after I left, an old pickup truck pulled up along side me. The window rolled down and an older guy yelled to me over the sound of the rain. I couldn't really see him, because it was very dark and I couldn't hear him clearly over the rain. I took a few steps to the truck and saw it was my dad. He looked me up and down and said "you look like you could use a ride." He said he would take me wherever I wanted, or needed to go. He hoped I would go back to his house, but he totally understood if I didn't want to. I didn't know what to do really. Hell, I didn't even know where I was at.


All I knew about him was what I remembered from the age of four to five. He was in the Navy and not around much for the early years. But I remember a lot about that one year we were together as a family, everyday. He was very playful and I loved him like any young boy loves his dad. Then he was gone.


My dad had no clue at all about my life. He felt screwed by the system because he was forced to pay money every month, for the support of a child that he thought wasn't even his. He didn't really know what kind of a woman my mom was. He didn't know what she was capable of doing and saying to us, I didn't tell him either. He seemed to be a happy man and I couldn't bring myself to poison it, with the rage that was running through my veins. So I went back to his house with him.


While I changed my clothes he started making breakfast. I don't know where his wife was at that moment, I think he must have told her to give us some time. The image is still vivid. I was sitting at the small table in his kitchen, drinking coffee, while he fried eggs, bacon, and made a stack of toast. Whenever I think about that moment, the first image that comes to mind, is that there was not only one can of Crisco sitting by the stove, there was also a can of butter flavored Crisco as well. A different world...


You know, My dad did look familiar to me at the airport, but not because he looked like somebody I'd seen.  It was because he looked like the person I saw in the mirror, everyday.


 I stayed in my dad's house with him and his family for several days. The longer I stayed there, the more love and respect I had for the man, and the more hatred I had for my dead mother (if that was even possible). My "new" step mom and "new" step sister absolutely adored my dad. I can't leave out his step daughter's son Jimmy Lee. He and my dad were clearly  best buddies. All Jimmy Lee did was talk about how his "bampa" took him fishing, played ball with him, and how they just talked about stuff.  My dad was loyal, friendly, and strong. Although he was now a Kentucky State Trooper and fit the mold exactly, he was a dedicated, strong, and gentle family man.. My life in hell, with my mother, was the exact opposite.


I would have loved to have my dad in my life, I would have loved it even more if I had grown up with him. As fate would have it, my dad died about a year after we got back together. I only saw him a couple more times and talked to him only several other times, but I got a good feeling as to the cut of the man.


As I may have said earlier, I lived in Kentucky (Peak's Mill) also when I was very young. My trip back to my dad's was the first time I'd been back there since we moved. I took my family there for a family reunion shortly afterwards. It was pretty interesting. My interaction with my family was also interesting. In a nutshell, it was like going back in a time machine. Small town Kentucky isn't all that different now from what it was a hundred years ago...

I didn't really know the man, but I still miss him today...

New Bikes for Christmas

I had a friend down the street who lived with his married sister. His household was also crazy. He was a total outsider in their house and wasn't included in any Christmas activities there. The weekend after Christmas he and I were doing god knows what over in Houghton Park and saw these two kids riding around on their brand new Schwinn Sting Ray type bicycles. I'm sure they got them for Christmas. We were totally jealous and asked if we could ride them. They said no, and when we couldn't convince them otherwise, we just took them. They didn't want to give them up, but they truly had no choice in the matter.

You know, although I feel terrible about this now. I didn't feel a thing at the time. Well, that's not entirely true. I felt very angry at those kids and would have gladly beaten the crap out of them. They had new bikes, and I had a new pair of pajamas. Oh yeah, and a broken Stadium Checkers game. I didn't even really want the bike. I wanted one of my own. I hated those kids for getting something nice for Christmas.

We knew we couldn't just ride these bikes around openly because people would be looking for them, and us, maybe even the police. So we hid them in a shed across the alley from my friend's house. We then shoplifted some spray paint, stripped the bikes down, and changed their colors. We didn't even get to really enjoy them because somebody stole them out of the shed after we'd only ridden them a few times.

For the next few decades, the holiday season mostly depressed me, or I just tried to ignore it all together. I usually had to administer some self prescribed medication (if you know what I mean), and lots of it, to make it through that time of the year.

It took having kids (and lot's of therapy) for me to understand what it was all about. I know my appreciation of the holiday season isn't what it should be, even today. But I love seeing young ones eat it all up. I understand that it's a happy time. And that you don't need a lot of money for it to be good, you just need to be around those you love. Then it all falls into place.

Stadium Checkers

Christmas was not really something to look forward to.  I guess it could be, if you were really anxious to get those brand new pajamas! Because that was about all there was in my house. My fondest Christmas memory as a kid was when I was five. We were living in Pico-Rivera, my dad was home from the Navy, working as a "Culligan Man," and we lived in a brand new house on Shade Lane. I remember waking up Christmas morning to the sound of a train whistle. When I went into the living room my dad and older brother were sitting on the couch watching a Lionel train moving around the tree.  It was for me! I kept that train for many years. Certainly the best gift I ever received as a child. As you might already know that was the first and last Christmas in that house, and the only Christmas I experienced with a dad, with a "semi-normal" mom, and being anything other than dirt poor.

From that point forward Christmas was something to dread. Now I'm not saying that Pico-Rivera was anything like Beverly Hills, but we were on the bottom end of the economic scale in North Long Beach at that time. Christmas only served as a reminder of what we didn't have. A reminder of how we didn't exactly fit in. Did we have a tree? We did. We even decorated it. We usually made the decorations. We would string cranberries and popcorn on string or thread and decorate the tree. By no means however, did this instill the "yule tide" spirit in me. We even managed to have a Christmas dinner, courtesy of a local church group, boy scout troop, or a generous extended family member. We appreciated the food and it usually arrived somewhat anonymously. This was very important to me because I knew we were very poor, but I tried to not let other people know it. I went to great pains to make sure nobody knew where I lived, or how I lived. Unfortunately though, sometimes the facts got run right up the flag pole for all to see.

Sixth Grade.

It's Christmas Eve and there's a knock at the door. Not suspecting anything unusual, I opened the door to see who it was. "Merry Christmas" was what I heard.  A few adults, and several kids holding gifts was what I saw. Total dread is what I felt.  Most of them were smiling, but a couple of the kids weren't smiling at all, in fact they were smirking. They were smirking because I knew them, and I knew them to be total jerks from school. If I could have melted into nothingness at that exact moment I would have gladly done so.

My mother, who had apparently arranged it all, barged in front of me and invited them in. God take me. Take me now...

Welcome to our humble home, and I do mean friggin humble. Except for the two kids I knew, the rest of them seemed nice and happy to give. The two I knew however, just looked around and shook their heads, still smirking. I knew this was going to get worse before it got better. I walked out of the living room and didn't come back until they left.

When they finally did leave, my mom wasn't very happy with me. I think I ate a back hand or two because of my "rudeness." I finally got to explain to her that I knew two of the kids who were there, and that they were two of the biggest jerks in my entire school. And come the end of Christmas break, I was going to have to fight at least one of them, and probably both. Of course this meant nothing to her. I didn't mind being poor, I just didn't like looking like it, I really didn't like having my face rubbed in it.

Christmas Morning.
It's cold as hell, but we are insulated from the cold by our brand new pajamas! Whoo whoo! We always got to open one gift on Christmas eve, and my mom always picked it out for us. Pajamas again!  Better to give me a straight razor! So with the "prize" gift already out of the way, we got to open the gifts brought over by the boy scouts. I appreciate the heck out of the idea now, but my reality was not the same back then.

My mom passed out the "gifts." The one I opened was a game called "stadium checkers." Don't get me wrong it was a good game and popular at the time. The game "board" was a plastic stadium. It was made up of rings that you had to turn to allow a marble to make it from the top row down to the field. It came in the original box, and all the pieces appeared to be there. So I started to play it. The darn thing was totally broken and just "placed" in the box so it looked right. It was a piece of trash. Merry Christmas!

I told my mom about it and she said I was being an "ingrate" and should appreciate the thought. Yeah right! I told her that she didn't understand. I was going to be made fun of when school started again. My mom tried to console me with some encouraging and uplifting words...I think she said "shut the fuck up!"

• Christmas vacation over
• First day back at school
• First recess

Who do I see walking my way? That's right! It was the smirkers! And they weren't alone.

Smirker #1 said "Merry Christmas" in a very sarcastic voice
Smirker #2 said "how'd you like my broken stadium checkers game?"

Well the apple didn't fall too far from the tree, so I retorted with something witty;

"Shut the fuck up" I said.

Then they started talking loudly about what a shack I lived in and that we were so poor we didn't even get presents. I'm not sure now if it was smirker #1 or #2 that was closest to me, but which ever one it was got both a punch in the mouth and a kick in the nuts in quick order. I'm sure I got in trouble for this because I seem to remember doing some "extra" kicking. To be sure, he was the one on the ground and I was the one doing the kicking. Can't be sure at this point exactly what all happened. Let's just chalk it up to suppressed rage..

White Trash Cafe

(owner of photo unknown)

Regardless of what type of home life a kid has, for a while at least they think that everybody lives the same way they do. If you are poor, or from the “other side of the tracks,” at some point there will be a watershed event that clears it all up for you and puts you directly in your place. It’s not a pleasant thing to find out you are "less-than" other kids. Being poor is a real eye opener. Everybody is signing up for little league and you have to lie and say you don’t like baseball, or the cub scouts, or a million other things. It’s not a fun thing to discover that other kids wear clothes that are much nicer and obviously cost more than yours do. It was a real surprise for me, to find out that all moms weren’t like mine…

I had many of these "watershed" events in my childhood and what follows is three of them. As you might have noticed (or read) by now. Kids in our family would fight outsiders for no reason at all. And none of us were the type to say “no, you hit me first!” Forget that, look at us sideways and we were throwing punches before the other kid even thought about swinging. My older brother Mike was short, but tough. I was a little taller than normal, wiry and tough. My younger brother Tim was wiry and just happy to oblige anyone that wanted to go at it. In other words, most kids knew better than to make fun of us for being poor.

One day after school I walked home with another kid. We weren’t good friends, but got along pretty well. He lived around the corner from me and asked if I wanted to stop over at his house and play for a while. His mom wasn’t home from work and he was supposed to wait, or play in the back yard until she got there.

We were just farting around, doing nothing really, when his mom got home. She opened the back door and told him to come in the house for a minute. I stayed outside, but I could clearly hear his mom yelling at him about not ever bringing that “white trash” to their house again. He was not to play with me in the neighborhood and he was not to play with me at school. I may have only been in the third or fourth grade, but I knew what white trash was. I didn’t wait for him to come back out, I left on my own. The next day at school I saw the kid and acted like nothing had happened. I knew what I was. I wanted to tell my mom, but knew better. She would give me absolutely no sympathy whatsoever and then she’d probably go kick the living hell out of that woman. Yeah, I knew….

I knew what I was. I knew it well enough to never have other kid's parents drop me off at home. It was too embarrassing. I had a pretty nice house picked out a few blocks away to be dropped off at. Sometimes I’d actually have to walk up to the front door before they’d leave. They just wouldn’t make it easy on me. One time I left something in a friend's car. They turned right around, went to that house and knocked on the door.

What a surprise for everyone. “I just dropped him off here!” “He doesn’t live here and never has!” I seem to remember some turmoil being raised at school over that one. Our house was a shack. My brother would get on one side of it and start pushing, after a very short time, he would have the entire house rocking on its foundation.

Most elementary school kids go to camp in the sixth grade (at least they did back then). The Long Beach school district has been doing it forever. Everybody goes. Well not quite everybody. They gave us several documents to take home for our parents to see and sign. One of them is a list of items that you have to take with you to camp. We didn’t have crap and my mom sure wasn’t about to buy anything for me to go to camp. I'm very sure my grandmother would have paid for it. Or one of my mom's "gentleman" friends would have. But she couldn't care less if I went to camp or not. So while all the other kids prepared to go, I didn’t. While all the other kids talked about it, I didn’t. While all the kids boarded the buses, I didn’t. I had to go sit in a class of fifth graders for the week. I was the only sixth grader in the entire school who didn’t go to camp. I knew what I was...

That year I had a funky white windbreaker for my only jacket. It had no lining at all, but I had to wear it every time it was cold. It wasn’t very efficient and was impossible to keep clean.

It’s Thursday and it’s been cold all week. The classroom is quiet and we’re supposed to be reading. The teacher asks me a question. “Mr. Tillett, why do you wear that old dirty jacket to school every day?” “Don’t you have anything else to wear?” She asked me loud enough for every single GD fifth grader in that class to hear what she said. I replied that I had others (a lie) but I didn’t want them to get ruined on the playground (another lie). There is no way that my face didn't turn bright red. I felt it get hot. I felt every kid in that room judging me. I may have only been in sixth grade, but I knew when somebody was being an asshole. And a mean asshole at that. I didn’t come back to school the next day and even though I had no other jackets, sweaters, or sweatshirts, I never wore that white piece of shit again. No matter how cold it got.

I damn sure knew what I was...

Goodbye Dad?

My Dad was finally discharged from the Navy. We could move out of my grandmother's place and be together as a family again, in a new house. The new place was in Rivera (now Pico-Rivera), across the street from a farm, (now Rivera Park). I started Kindergarten at Alice M. Birney School and fell in love with the girl next door (a hot five year old named Mona Lisa Gonzalez).

My dad got a job as a “Culligan” water man and we attended a church that was just down the street. With my dad on the scene, life seemed almost normal, I had some toys and even a bedroom to myself, with no friggin geese in it. Looking back, it seemed like we were a happy little family. Then one day, out of the blue, everything went to hell.

I walked into the living room, just in time to see my mom slap my dad across the face. He just stood there for a few seconds, staring at my mom, then turned and walked out the door. The next time I saw him, he and his “new” girlfriend took me and my older brother to the newly opened Disneyland. I remember a lot of that day, even though I was only five years old. I remember it ending with the four of us stopping at a cocktail lounge in Bellflower. I had a "Shirley Temple," because as the bar tender said, "they don't serve alcohol to anybody under eight." I didn’t find out until much later, that my dad’s new girl friend worked as a bartender there also. In fact, the reason I saw my mom slap him earlier, was because she had caught them together there (her story).

My mom, my older brother, and I ended up moving out of the new house and into a shack in Bellflower. The next year, while I was in first grade I remember my Dad coming over and talking to my mom. He said hello to me, but that was it. He left without saying good bye. I didn't understand and was crushed.

I didn’t see, or talk to him again for over 35 years….

I asked my mom many times, why he moved away without saying anything to me about it. My mom always said that it was because he didn’t care about me anymore. I loved my Dad and still remember the hurt I felt by what she said. I continued to ask about him from time to time, she always told me the same thing. "He doesn’t care about you, just forget about him."

I remember that my mom used to get a government check every month. I’m not talking about the one we got from welfare, this one was different. It was from the Army. My mom told me that my dad had gone back into the military. This time it was the Army and the check was my child support. Even at my young age, I knew that was a joke, because there wasn’t a lot of support coming my way from my mom, or from anybody else.

I continued to ask her from time to time if she heard from my dad, what he was doing, and why he didn’t want to see me. One time after asking her, she told me that after going in the Army, he got remarried, had two new children with his new wife, and wanted nothing to do with me, ever.

Ouch… I already knew my mom was screwed up and now thought the same of my dad. Although I didn’t know it at the time, my older brother had a different father than I did, I guess that's why none of this seemed to bother him.

About thirty five years later my mom died. First she had breast cancer. Then she had lung cancer. Then she had brain cancer. The doctors said it was related to her constant smoking, and she had no more than a year to live, depending on how fast the tumor grew.

I know what follows is redundant, but I need to set the stage for the next entry...

To my younger brother she left a chair. She stated in her will that she had spent enough on him while alive and didn't want to give him anything else. To me she left $1.00. She stated in her will, that she wanted it to be clear, that she did in fact consider me and only wanted to leave me a dollar. To my older brother, she left everything. Now she didn't have a lot, but she did have some profit sharing money and some life insurance, but that wasn't even the point. I was there, I was the only one helping her. I was even too stupid (or too honest), to take advantage of having power of attorney and have her change the will before she died. My older brother, to his credit, did in fact give me a fair portion of the money for what I had done. If I had been in his shoes and he in mine, I'd have given it all to him. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated what he did, I just would have handled it differently.

I'm sure most people think that the will is my main lingering beef, with my long dead mother. They would be wrong, so very wrong. It did however, hammer home the fact, that I was right about thinking that she hated me.

My Mom's Brain Tumor

From the age of 23 to 40, when she died, I had very little to do with my mother. Hopefully you’ve already read enough of my stuff to know why. Even though most of the pain and suffering I had in my life was caused by her, I still felt the need to help her when she needed it.

As you know she was a heavy drinker, smoker, and sometimes drug user. She first contracted lung cancer, and several years later it spread to her brain. My mom couldn’t do much on her own anymore and needed a ride to see her doctor, because of bad headaches. I agreed to take her. They eventually did a scan of her brain and concluded that she had an inoperable malignant brain tumor. Despite what she had put me through in my childhood, I still felt bad for her.

She was living in a senior’s only apartment complex at the time. There were no services available, so I had to spend quite a bit of time with her. Her condition caused her thinking process to deteriorate and didn’t allow her to do a lot of what she was used to. So I did her grocery shopping and bought her items that were simple to prepare. She got worse to the point where I had to deliver her meals, or prepare them for her at her apartment.

One day I went to check in on her and arrived just in time to see her finish cutting up all our family pictures and documents. Another time she cut up some cash she had hidden. The last straw was the time I walked in on her trying to load a pistol to kill herself. I knew that my mom carried a pistol in her purse for much of her life, but I thought she had gotten rid of it. Maybe she was just doing it for effect. It was always almost impossible to read her intent.

One day I tried to call several times without success. I hopped in the car and went to her place. I found her in the bathroom lying on the floor. Apparently she fell down a couple of hours earlier and couldn’t get up or move. I called the paramedics and they took her to the hospital. The emergency room doctor consulted with a surgeon and then told us that cortisone would make the tumor shrink for a while and then she would improve for short periods. They gave her an injection and sure enough her ability to think and move freely improved dramatically. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last for more than a day. She was admitted to the hospital and I spoke to the social services unit there for some advice. She told me that my mom shouldn’t live by herself, and she most certainly shouldn’t live unassisted. The cortisone would work some, but not for long. They said that the headaches would stop soon as the tumor started to “turn out the lights.” So she wouldn’t suffer.

I searched all around Orange County for a nursing home for her. I must have visited 20 of them. This may sound strange, but I could tell by the way the place smelled if I was going to like it or not. A lot of them smelled terrible. Before my mom could get any help from Medi-Cal to pay for the nursing home I had to come up with a bunch of documents relating to her financial situation and many other things. A month or so earlier my mom had an attorney draw up a “Power of Attorney” document so I could make her decisions for her.

I went to her last job, I talked to social security, and I went through her stuff. I found everything I needed. And something I wish I hadn’t. My mom had a will. I’ve said in my other entries that my mom hated me for some reason; it became very clear that she still felt that way. My mother left me one dollar!

She left every penny and everything she owned to my older brother. My older brother who was in Arizona and didn’t come to help me, or to visit mom until the day she actually died.

I had power of attorney, I could have done something about her will, but I didn’t. If that was the way she felt there wasn’t much I could do about it. I called her current attorney and asked if she had a newer will. He told me that he hadn’t drawn one up for her. The attorney who did draw up her will had died a couple of years earlier and his business was closed. I couldn’t have simply thrown the will away and acted like I never knew it existed. Great time for some payback, but I couldn’t do it.

I got my mom into a nursing home and that is where she died. She was still smoking! She embraced the thing that killed her up until the end.

I thought long and hard about the entire ordeal. What the heck was I doing? I owed her nothing! Was I still waiting for her to pat me on the head and tell me that I was a good boy? I tell myself I did it because it was the right thing to do. But I’m not so sure.

Based on her insistence, she had no funeral, no memorial service, and was cremated. I purchased a niche for her ashes in Westminster Memorial Park. She was placed in her niche in February of 1991. I made sure it was done and that it was where it was supposed to be.  I haven’t been back since…

My Mom (generally speaking)

don't let looks fool you

Many new readers have signed up for my blog. Based on recent comments, most haven't seen earlier posts relating to her. So, I'm going to rapidly run them.  To those of you have already seen them, I apologize!
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No way I can put everything noteworthy about my mom in one post. What follows is a thumbnail sketch of the woman...

My mother was an extremely harsh woman. She was smart, funny, attractive, and could handle herself quite well in a bar fight. She could be on top of the world one moment and totally miserable the next. Either way we, as her children got nothing positive from her. These things made her hard to love and even harder to like. If clinically examined today, I'm sure she would be diagnosed with Bi-Polar and Border Line Personality Disorder at a minimum.

I've been told that she had some good traits, but I assure you, none of them were used in her mothering. If she had any compassion at all, I never saw it. She was an alcoholic and "pioneer" drug user who would disappear, without leaving any money or food in the house at all.  We pretty much grew up on welfare.

In her later years, when there was no men to "support" her (wink wink), she did in fact have a job. Before that she was a bar maid. When not working in that capacity, she was still usually in a bar. Actually, she was in many bars. She was known in all the bars in North Long Beach as a regular, if not a current or former employee.

Although there was a constant stream of men in and out of my moms life after she split up with my Dad, none of them stuck. None of them became a father figure. I can't even begin to recall how many phone calls we had to make (when we had a phone), to the local bars, trying to find her. There was one very important part of motherhood she seemed to forget. That part involved FOOD...

Sometimes people at the bars would try to find her for us. It got to the point where we were neither traumatized, or worried at all, when we couldn't find her. We just made due with what we could dig up. I recall that my older brother became pretty good at macaroni and cheese.  Many times it was just cheese.  There was always plenty of cheese around.  It came in five pound boxes from the county.

My mom had four children, all of us boys. As I said before, she was an extremely hard woman. To make it worse, she hated men. Although she always had men in her life, she clearly didn't like them. Four boys, four different fathers and all of us males...

My mom has been dead for over eighteen years, and we still don't all agree on who was fathered by whom. My older brother's father was a sailor. My father was another sailor. One of my younger brothers was fathered by a truck driver. My other younger brother thinks his father and mine were the same, but that's impossible. The person who my older brother and I think may be his father, was another sailor, but we're not sure if the time frame lines up. There was also a long standing rumor around the bars of North Long Beach that my father was actually a local mailman. That wouldn't have bothered me at all, because I knew the guy many years later. He was one of the funniest and nicest people I ever met.

There is one thing that we are pretty sure about though, my mom may have been a prostitute.  She had a steady stream of men in and out of her life. And they provided things, including money. I know at least a small amount of these things went to us. So although we know that she did in fact give sex in exchange for things, I don't condemn her for it.

I do however condemn her for other things.
Two things, above all others...
Those were the lies she kept alive for 35 years, to keep my father and I apart.