“Don’t worry about it” was my father’s favorite phrase.
We would get that phrase whether it was my mother wondering where the next rent payment would come from or one of us boys asking when we were going to be able to have our own rooms again. In our family, money was never a problem and yet was always a problem.
Having a con man/gambler for a father taught you two things. One, the fact that possessions are temporary and two, always look over your shoulder when walking down a dark street. One day we would be “flush”, meaning pops had won that night or his latest “investment” venture was doing well, and the next day we would be penniless again.
I still remember the day my dad had experienced a good night at the tables and brought home a dark green Dodge Dart and gave it to me. To a 16 year old boy it was beyond my wildest dreams to own such a vehicle. My present wheels at that moment consisted of an old Honda 90 step through motorcycle which provided me with the needed transportation but also provided me with endless ridicule from the local kids for riding a “girly” motorcycle.
Being the more sensible of the “son’s of Leo G. Young”, I told dad to sell it and give the money to mom for rent and food. Dad did as requested but gambled the proceeds away before mom saw any of it. Later, my oldest brother, David, pulled me aside and told me:
“The next time dad gives you something, take it and hide it so he doesn’t get it back the next time he needs a “poke” for the next game.”
Not to say that my father didn’t provide for his family. Many times we were considered the wealthiest kids in the neighborhood. Mom would have a new convertible; we boys would have mini bikes or other assorted toys. We lived in many beautiful homes furnished with the latest modern technology. We were the first ones to have color television in our neighborhood. To a young boy, this financial rollercoaster was not something viewed as a handicap, we just learned to live for the moment. My long-suffering mother was very good at keeping any anxiety or emotions in check around us.
Now, as I look back, I can see why one of my “chores” for the day was to make mom a “Manhattan” when she got home. Being British, she always kept a “stiff upper lip” and never complained. Of course that “stiff” upper lip was aided by liquid fortification. She did the best she could with what she had and always looked at any situation , no matter how bad, with a sense of humor.
Once a well meaning friend suggested that she leave my father and her reply consisted of a shocked look with the statement:
“How could I? He’s my husband!”
My parents were the perfect opposites. The “ugly American” and the “polite, well mannered Brit”. Not that my mother was the perfect Mary Poppins, but to me she was close enough.
She would not do anything uncivilized like her husband and band of rowdy boys. “Personal gas”, the favorite hobby of the male species in this family, was not allowed in her presence. One had to maintain your explosions until they could be done outside or in the privacy of your room. This rule somehow bypassed my father who would occasionally emphasis every step he made with a cross between a base tuba and rapidly deflating balloon. My mother would throw him a look of exasperation which was perfectly ignored by her own personal one man band.
One was not allowed to raise one’s voice in anger and she kept control of us with perfect child psychology. When one of us misbehaved we were banished to our rooms to await the end of our pitiful lives which would happen when father got home. You would hear his truck pull up and the knot in your stomach would tighten up. Mother would greet him with a drink at the door and they would sit and discuss the latest criminal activity of their offspring. After an eternity of anxiety and anguish the executioner would come into the prisoner’s room and sit on the bed to go over the charges against the accused. The punishment, which was always fair and just, would follow.
One time, when I was the offending party, I thought I would lessen the affect of the standard punishment by inserting several comic books in the rear of my pants to soften the attitude correction. When my father bent me over his knee he discovered that his youngest son’s buttocks were not usual size but slightly larger and perfectly rectangular. He started chuckling and called mom in to see the new development on her son. After that father suggested that it would be better if perhaps we should remove all the obstructions so we could get to the seat of the problem. I soon discovered that a regular spanking was much to be preferred over the now infamous “bare bottom spanking”.
Today, society frowns on corporal punishment. I believe the result of this attitude is readily evident by the lack of respect and honor children have for their parents or any authority today.
On one occasion, when I was attempting to raise my own children so that they would not turn out to be serial killers or the next Unabomber (although at this point in time the jury was still out on my youngest , Tristan) Marisa and Ben were involved in a mutual screaming match over some unknown offence on the part of one against the other. I entered the room to settle the matter, and after listening to the dramatic testimony of both parties, I asked Marisa first:
“What do you think I should do to Ben?”
“Spank him!” was the emphatic reply.
“And Benjamin, what should I do with Marisa?” I asked.
“Spank her!” he exclaimed.
“OK” I replied “Ben, bend over the bed”.
As Ben reluctantly assumed the position Marisa looked on with glee until I turned to her and said:
“Ok Marisa, go ahead and spank your brother”
. A look of shock came over both their faces.
“What!?” said my daughter.
“I said go ahead and spank him, you said he deserved it”
“I don’t want to spank him!” she tearfully replied.
“Why not?” I asked, “you said he deserved it”
“But, I can’t spank him, he’s my brother!”
“Ok then,” I replied, “Ben, get up, Marisa, over the bed please. Ben, go ahead and spank your sister.”
“No!” was his shocked reply, “I can’t do that!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because she’s my sister, I don’t want to hurt her!”
Of course, this was totally contrary to his previous statement about wanting to assume the position of the oldest surviving sibling in this family.
Needless to say, their attitudes change dramatically when they were confronted with the reality of possibly causing pain or suffering on the part of their formally “hated” brother or sister.
I learned this little piece of child psychology from that quiet, well mannered, woman who granted life to me. She may appear on the surface as “sweet and nearly perfect in every way” as her Mary Poppins demeanor suggested. In reality she was shrewd and cunning, truly a force to be reckoned with.
I have always explained to my children the reason spanking takes place in our family. I would point out that it was a God given requirement for the training and upbringing. I would quote “Spare the rod, spoil the child!” and that we, as their parents, desired that they develop into somewhat worthwhile humans with a firm set of standards and decency. I would point out that the very word “discipline” is a derivative of the word “disciple”.
Of course, my common-sense reasoning with these fruits of my loins was met with skeptical silence so I would explain it in a manner they could grasp:
“You’ve heard of gravity, haven’t you?” I would ask.
“What’s gravity got to do with it?” would be the exasperated reply.
“Well,” I’d say “what happens if you hold a ball up over your head and let go of it?”
“It falls to the ground” they would answer while obviously thinking that their old man is having an early bout with Alzheimer’s.
“Right!” I replied, “Well your brains are in your head and after time gravity has an affect on it and causes it to slide down your spinal cord until it finally comes to rest in your butt. When you do something stupid it tells me that your brains are not in their proper place so all I do is smack you on the butt to knock the brains back up into your head.”
You can’t argue with simple, common, sense.