I’ve thought for some time, decades probably, on how to begin writing something like this. How to begin sharing my life, my experiences, my joy and pain. Ultimately I decided how to begin matters very little. Every story begins somewhere. Just pick a spot and begin.

Mine begins with my earliest memory.

I don’t remember what it was that I said or did that sparked my mothers ire that day. Maybe it was something I didn’t do. Whatever it was, my mother was quite upset and she assured me that when my father came home that evening I would receive and epic ass beating. I couldn’t have been older than three or four years old at the time, but I understood every word she said and I was afraid.

Very afraid.

How much time elapsed I’m uncertain. Kids have a very warped sense of time at that age and the timeline only gets foggier floating around in the deepest recesses of my mind for all these years. I think the only reason I really remember it, why it’s etched so deeply in my mind is because I was terrified. Terrified of what was going to happen when my dad came home.

He was a giant of a man. I suppose every father seems that way to their son, particularly when you’re only a few years old. He was every bit of 6’2″ and muscular. A fiery red beard and dark brown hair with eyes that could convey mortal doom with just a glance. I was scared shitless of my father, although at this point in my life I don’t remember why. I just remember that I was deathly afraid of my father and my mother almost seemed to relish the fact that he would be home soon. She kept reminding me.

When my father came home that evening my mother shared with him my transgressions of the day before he could barely get in the front door. I remember very distinctly I was in the kitchen standing by the refrigerator just out of their line of sight but I could still hear every word.

“What do you want me to do about it?”, my father asked sounding frustrated.

“I want you to spank him!”, my mother said angrily.

“I’m not going to come home and spank him! He’s not going to have any idea what he’s getting spanked for!” my father replied and then plopped down in a chair in the living room and turned on the T.V.

I knew exactly what they were saying. I distinctly remember wanting to barge into the living room and tell them, “I know exactly what you’re saying!” but I couldn’t. I should have been relieved that I’d avoided what was sure to be an absolute ass blistering but instead what I felt was frustration.

Maybe that’s why I’ve had such a difficult time keeping quiet ever since. Particularly when it’s in my best interest to shut the fuck up.

My memories from that point until about the time I started kindergarten are in a sort of wadded up ball. Just little flashes. I remember my mother having a black and white photo they took of the TV during the first moon landing. There were photos of a trailer we lived in when I was first born (that had since been repossessed) that my mother would look through periodically. A whole photo album that she’d flip through and share stories with me that I thought I’d have all the time in the world to remember. I didn’t need to remember these things anyway. Mothers will always be around, right? I remember sitting on my dads shoulders combing his hair. “Playing barber” he called it, although fortunately for him no scissors were involved.

We lived in my paternal grandmothers house which was quite literally a tin roof shack. My grandma had a host of medical issues and spent most of her time living with my Aunt Ann. My parents often said the reason my aunt was so eager to care for my grandmother was because of some “government money”. It seemed perfectly plausible to a young child, but then so does Santa, the Tooth Fairy and pretty much anything else a parent tells their children besides candy will rot their teeth. Probably because you rarely see a small child with rotten teeth.

I loved my grandma and she adored me. She was truly my entire world. All that was good and light and right with the world and the only time in my life I have ever felt truly, unconditionally loved. She had a little chihuahua dog who’s name I have long forgotten, but he was a mean son of a bitch and highly protective of my grandmother. Anyone who got anywhere near her would get bit. By dads brother, my “Uncle Smoky” used to blow cigarette smoke in the dogs face hoping it would have a heart attack and die. Every time he would visit her he’d bend over as she sat in her favorite rocking chair to give her a kiss goodbye and that dog would take a bite out of him. She loved that dog, so I learned to give it a wide berth. One day it was gone. I don’t remember if it died of old age or if my uncle Smoky had finally succeeded in dispatching it with prejudice. I was just happy it wasn’t around to bite me anymore. The only danger I had to look out for then was grandmas big “spit cup”.

Grandma chewed “snuff” and would keep a large fountain drink cup on the floor by her chair as a makeshift spittoon. Housekeeping wasn’t my grandmothers strong suit as evidenced by the eternal mound of dishes in the kitchen sink and the matted carpeting in the living room that was a heady blend of cat and dog waste mixed with more than a few “spit cup” spills and whatever else people would track into the house. At night if you were to wander to the bathroom to answer natures call and flip on a light you would be instantly greeted by a flurry of palmetto bugs; large flying cockroaches who have an aversion to light.

To say we lived in squalor is probably an understatement but I don’t remember ever going to bed hungry and my earliest years in that house are definitely my happiest. My cousin Angie would come to visit and for a brief time the school bus would drop her off at our house. She would play school with me and teach me whatever it was she learned that day.

My grandma and my cousin Angie were my favorite people in the world. When my grandmother moved in with my aunt Ann for good, that pretty much marked the end of my golden era. They were my protectors. They were the buffer between me and the storm that was my parents.

My fathers presence in the household was pretty sporadic during this time. He’d vanish for weeks, sometimes months at a time. I recall he had returned after a prolonged absence with a woman and her two children in tow who he informed us would now be living with us. My dad had joined some sort of hippy Jesus church commune thing that decided to make their base of operations a campground nearby the the now defunct PTL club and that’s where he met Janet and her two daughters. My mother was visibly upset by this arrangement but reluctantly agreed when my father reminded her that we were living in his mothers house and, in her absence, what he said was the law.

Just a few days into their stay I remember my mother was making dinner, I was laying in the floor watching The Muppet Show and my dad and Janet went into the bedroom to “pray” as they were both very spiritual. My mother came into the living room from the kitchen and asked where my dad was, “He’s praying with Jan” I told her and went back to watching my show. I hadn’t paid much attention to what happened immediately afterward but shortly afterward my mother had a butter knife and was trying to jimmy the door open to the bedroom. I was standing beside her when the door finally swung open and there, on the bed, was my dad and Janet. Both buck naked. My dad was on top of Janet and her legs were over his shoulders. I’ll never forget Janet looking me right in the eyes as my father kept pounding away, oblivious to his wife and 5 year old son in the doorway watching his neon white ass bobbing rhythmically.

There was a lot of screaming that cumulated with Janet, her two daughters, and my father leaving the house for good.