Slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, I could hardly breathe as the weight of my body pushed against my belly. Every bounce heaving against my diaphragm, sharp with pain, I tried to wiggle free.
It was the winter ‘81 or ’82 and I was four or five years old.
Just moments before, I was standing wide-eyed between two thundering forces. The cold linoleum floor, my personal play area, filled with wooden blocks and primary colors.
As I was yanked one way and lifted off the ground, I saw my mom fall backwards in the opposite direction, mouth open and eyes-wide. I had been sucked into the fury of the tornado and with so much force I could only reach out as we separated fast. I couldn’t reach her and she couldn’t reach me. The smack of flesh and the thud of her body scattered letters and colors across the floor like dozens of square pin balls bouncing in all directions.
I’m paralyzed, hovering near the ceiling as I watch my mother like a wounded queen screaming out to me in a crumpled heap on the floor. That look of pain, then fear, then rage flipping across her face like a kaleidoscope. I can’t make sense of the primal sounds she is making.
Held tight and moving fast, I watch my mom get smaller and further away as I bounce hard on his shoulder. In a flash we move from the bedroom, through the living room and out the front door. Down the few steps I grunt as his shoulder pushes out the little air I still have left in my lungs.
I hear keys jangling as the door slams shut and then the muted cries of my mom deep inside. “Juuuussstiiinnnnnn, nooooooo… Justin! Come back with my son!”
Then I hear the familiar sound of the heavy metal door squeaking open. He pulls me back fast and whips me around in front of him where I see his eyes-wide as they lock with mine for a moment just before he scuttles me into the back seat. The door slams hard as I feel the cold seat on my back and legs.
Through the window I see his shadow sprint around the car and land in the front seat. The car rocks as the door crashes shut. The engine cranks easily and we immediately back away. All I can hear is the gravel rock and the thundering of my heart in my ears. His hands fight against the wheel chasing the red glow of the taillights as we hurry backward. I look past him through the windshield.
For the first time, I feel the tears falling down my face as I see mom come out of the front door with that single, small, porch light on. So small in the distance, my mom seems to be sinking into the ground.
So far away. So confused. I didn’t even get to pick a side.
(posted 4/17/2016)
With a boisterous rolling chuckle you could hear from another room, he was loud and red-faced. Distinguished by a Tom Selleck mustache that hurt when it pressed in on you. He had a peacock tattoo between his thumb and index over his left hand and a hard firm grip. His lean 165 pound frame didn’t impose.
Dad was an alcoholic.
Dad was an alcoholic.
In a short while, he got right. Maybe he found Jesus, or buried some hatchet, or just through determination and will he fought for what he wanted – a good life. They remarried in ’83 and he took on the family business under his father, the ex-merchant marine. He worked hard and grew the business to four offices; one in Texas, one in Louisiana and two in California. He became the sole owner of the company. Like a phoenix, he had risen from ashes.
He brought us on vacations where he stared off in the distance or left us staring in disgust as he drank away the reality around him. He was a mean drunk, he hurt us, easily. He knew it. But it didn’t stop him from keeping a stocked fridge of beer and empties that filled the garbage can daily.
He watched me grow into a man, a good man. During the ages he had run away and gone to jail and recovery, I had instead gone to college, married, and bought my own home. He promised my mom a better life for her and for me. And, in an odd twist, he gave it. It wasn’t easy for any of us, but I was not following his rebellious footsteps.
He came to the hospital when Mason, my first child was born in 2005. He was friendly and loving and very happy. A proud grandparent. He wanted to connect, but we wouldn’t let him. My walls were still up, but I knew I needed to give way. I wanted Mason to have a relationship with his granddad that I never had with mine.
Sixty-four days later, he was found dead in his bed on January 3, 2007.
Much of this story, I pieced together over years of questions, not knowing the real truth of his young life until I, I myself, was an adult. The thing is, now that he’s gone, I don’t think of the bad times.
I think about the building projects we did, the days on vacation when those few good times would happen on each trip. I remember the way he looked at me and my wife on our wedding day and the way he looked when my son was born. I remember the drawing of my hand inside his hand from when I was just a kid. I remember the sound of his voice, his laugh, and his goofy phrases. I remember how he always called me junior and Leroy Brown. He was always calling me Leroy.
Champs don’t take punches they can block or avoid. With good form, discipline, and training, Champs elevate their game at all levels.
What if you could intentionally rewire yourself to be a better person.
