style="font-size:15px;"> One night we heard him come in the door and my mother was still awake. He must have had a bottle of beer in his hand because she said, "You have the guts to come home with beer, and your kids went to bed with just apple butter sandwiches for dinner?" His response was, "I had a hard day at work. I don’t want to hear you running your mouth as soon as I walk in the door. Shut your mouth!”
My mother told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, going out to bars, night after night when your kids are going to bed hungry. “I told you to shut your mouth, didn’t I?” He picked up an ashtray and threw it towards her; breaking a glass on the table. My older brother, Mark, jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs to see if he was hitting mom. My father liked this. In his inebriated, sick way, dad liked it when Mark would confront him. He knew Mom could not stand to see him hit one of the children.
On this particular night, Mark confronted dad. He told him he just wanted to see if mom was all right – that he heard glass breaking. Dad’s response was, “Does she look alright to you? Now get your ass back in bed before I break your face.” With that, mom went right to Mark’s side. Her response was, "You are not breaking anyone’s face – not as long as I am here. " His response was, “We can change that." He grabbed mom by the hair, and started to push her towards the door.
Mark ran across the room and jumped on my father's back. My father went crazy, twisting and turning, trying to get Mark off his back. My mom was chasing after both of them, trying to make sure Mark did not get hurt. Dad could not get Mark’s hands from around his neck. Mark was holding on for dear life. Unfortunately, he thought of another way to pry him loose. He slammed Mark so hard against the wall, a big chunk of plaster fell out. Mark slid down the wall into a little heap on the floor.
By this time, all seven of us kids were down the stairs, scared to death but willing to fight for mom and Mark. There was no need to intervene though because as usual, mom never had any fear when it came to protecting us. She grabbed the first thing she saw, which was a broom, and with one big swoop, hit my father across his back as he was leaning over to rough Mark up a little more. We were all screaming and crying, terrified of what he would do.
Suddenly, the door flew open, and our neighbor came through. It was as if Hercules walked through the door. Our neighbor, Bob, was 6 feet 3 inches tall, and had to hunch over to get in the doorway. He grabbed dad by his shirt and said, "If you touch one hair on that kid, I will knock you three weeks into next Sunday.” Dad looked up at the guy, and he knew he was serious. Dad told Bob he did not hit him, but if he did not wise up, there would be no stopping him next time.
Than dad told us to get our “Asses to bed. Now.” We all took the hint and ran up the steps behind Mark. We could hear our father say to Bob, “I do not appreciate you coming into my home and telling me what to do with my family.”
Bob’s response was, “Well, I don’t appreciate a grown man throwing around a young kid, and terrorizing his family, night after night. So anytime you want to come home and fight, just knock on my door.
I looked around our bedroom and my brothers and sisters were all laughing with their hands covering their mouth. Dad said maybe he would. But we all knew, he would not. He only terrorized us, not anyone who could fight back. We all knew we would be safe for the rest of the night. I lay in bed that night and wished that our neighbor, Bob, was our father. It was so nice to fantasize, which I did it a lot, actually. Unfortunately, reality always came back. And it was usually with a vengeance. The next day reality returned fast. Breakfast was a piece of bread, with lard, that we would put in our big, black iron frying pan and cook on the potbelly stove till it was brown on each side.
I remember having a friend who lived down the street. When I would go to her house in the morning, I would have to wait for her to finish her breakfast. Her mom would give her oatmeal, and tell her it would keep her tummy warm outside in the cold. She was an only child, and her father did not live with them, but her mother was able to feed her well and dress her beautifully. I sat across from her and would be mesmerized by both of them. They always looked so pretty and happy.
The love and kindness they expressed to each other was foreign to me. Yes, my mother loved my siblings, and me, but the kind of easy love they shared was something I longed for. I wanted the same thing that little girl was receiving; not just for me, but for my family as well.
My friend and her mother would ask if l had breakfast and I would say yes, even though my stomach would be churning from hunger. My pride was strong, and I always wanted people to think that my family was the best. That scene, of her sitting at her table, stayed with me the rest of my life. I realized that day that my family was different. We did not have the same things that my friend had. We had to fend for ourselves. Our mother loved us, but we had nothing like that little girl had. Our house was not a home. It was a place; filled with fear and anger. Our father worked, but he drank his wages away. It’s funny how certain things in your life stick with you.
My brothers and sisters ranged in age from four to fifteen years old. Helen was the oldest at 15. Mark was 13, Lyda 11, Charlie 9, Betty 8, Margie 6, then Joey, 5 and I was the youngest at 4. Mark would go to the bars with my father most weekends. Mark had a great singing voice, he and my father would put on a show, going from bar to bar, singing for whatever they could get, which was mostly drinks for my father, since he would always come home drunk. Mark would have to hold him up on the way home, and quite a few times he would mess his pants on the way. Helen, Mark and Lydia would have to take care of him, which meant taking his pants off and scrubbing them on the scrubbing board.
One night, while we were all in bed, we heard him coming down the court singing. Soon, he came in and called for Helen. It was her nightly duty to put up with him. He wanted her to get him something to eat. Of course, there was nothing. That is when the fireworks began. She told him that there was nothing to eat. He said, There was potato soup whenI left for work, where is it?” Helen’s response was,“Dad, I gave it to the kids for dinner. There was only enough to give the little ones, Mary, Joey and Margie. The rest of us had apple butter bread.” His response was, “I am getting sick and tired of people taking things that don’t belong to them! They are little glutens.” “Dad, I gave it to them. I figured you would want them to have it since there was nothing else to eat.” She tried to make him feel like this would have been his idea, but of course it did not work.
“Don’t you tell me what I would do. They are little pigs! They have to have every scrap of food.” Then, he began to throw everything in the room. Lyda started screaming, down the steps to him. “Why don’t you buy food instead of beer.” He looked like the veins in his head were going to pop while Helen was in the corner, crying and shaking. He ran up the steps, two at a time. Helen was right behind him. He even looked like he sobered up a little. Betty, Margie and I hid under the bed. I think the springs were even shaking.
I don’t know where the boys were because I did not wait around to see. Lyda was fearless. She was not afraid of anyone, or anything. I think she said that to him to get him away from Helen. She knew he was about to beat her. When he reached the top of the steps, Lyda was right there to meet him. She was only 11 years old at the time, and maybe 4 feet tall and 50 lbs, but God gave her the courage of a giant. I stayed under the bed, praying our neighbor would save her.
Lyda could not ignore the things he did, and said, to other people. Most of us would run away from him, but not her, she always stood tall. Lyda knew what was about to come. The hate and disgust was planted across her little face. He hit her so hard across her face, you could see the imprint of his hand in the darkened room, forming a welt on her face. She held her hand to her face, but did not cry. She looked up at him with those big, black, beautiful eyes and they told the story. I don’t think he was fond of any of us, but he actually hated Lyda because he knew he could not scare or humiliate her. Lyda was a stallion; my dad could not break her. As much as he hated her, we loved her. She let us see first hand what dignity
