Since Ben decided to bring us back to the days on Mitchell Avenue, I'll share with you a few cultural lessons I learned from Amir's family.
As Ben mentioned in the previous post, Amir was a friend of ours from the block, who happened to be Indian (as in Bombay, not Cherokee). He was the oldest of 3 children in their house. He had a brother named Kabir, who was wheelchair bound due to MD, and a sister named Meinase (pronounced Men-Ahs), who was Ben's age.
Amir was one of my best friends in those days. We did just about everything together, from riding bikes, to those stupid wagon races (really stupid); even working on a number of foreign cars with his dad. His Dad owned a mechanic shop down on Vandeventer, somewhere, and would always drive home one of the cars he'd been working on from the shop, and tinker with it at home. Strange cars. All little foreign jobs. All a little obscure. I can remember Fiats, Opels, Triumph Spitfires and TR3's, and a few Volkswagens (Which Amir pronounced "Wolksvagon"). Not very common cars. I even worked on a '75 Porsche 911, once. That is, if you count holding a flashlight or crawling under the car to retrieve dropped bolts, "working on it". Good times nonetheless. Amir's father did not ever speak English in my presence, so I really have no idea whether he could speak it, or just chose not to. But when he spoke, it didn't matter what language he was speaking. If he had something to say, it was loud; and apparently urgent. Everything had to be done in a hurry. His mother, on the other hand, could speak English very well, but was not permitted to do so in her husband's presence.
I never really gave much thought to the cultural differences that we had, though. I mean, Amir was just Amir. He wasn't Indian to me. He wasn't Hindu to me. He was just my friend. I was about 8 or 9 years old at the time, and didn't give such matters any thought. I suppose the innocence of my youth prevailed in regards to such things, but I just didn't ever think about it. That is, not until much later.
As a kid, back then, I never gave much thought to the different colorful saris that Amir's mother wore, or the jewel on her forehead. I paid even less attention to the various statues of Hindu gods and cows that seemed to be in every room of the house. I do remember the cows, though, and thinking to myself, "Wow, they sure like cows!". But, to me, it was no different than my mom's collection of porcelain angels, or so I thought.
Something that did strike me as a little different was the obsession they all seemed to have over the now infamous Filet-O-Fish at McDonald's. His mother would often take us to McDonald's after an afternoon of playing at the park, or whatever, as a treat. And they would all order the same thing everytime; Filet-O-Fish sandwiches. I remember thinking that they must just really love those things. After many years, though, it dawned on me. That was the only thing on the menu that, because of their Hindu beliefs, wasn't offensive for them to eat!!!
The point is, that as a child, you didn't give much thought to the color of someone's skin, or what religious beliefs they had. There's an innocence, there, that transcends cultural bias, prejudice and bigotry. A blindness that actually allows you to see. To see someone for who they are, not what they look like or what they believe. Sometimes, the greatest lessons can be learned from childhood. To me, Amir was just simply Amir. Oh, to be able to keep that kind of innocence!!
When we moved away in 1982, I never saw or spoke to Amir again. Since I never knew his last name, I'd probably never be able to find him, anyway. But I can still remember, fondly, the fun we had in the old neighborhood.
It wasn't until was much older, that I learned a bit about Indian culture and Hinduism, and how the sari is a ceremonial garment. The jewel on the forehead (or bindi), depending on the color and shape, represents a woman's marital status, and/or what sect she belongs to. And, that a cow is a sacred animal in their culture. Interesting stuff!
I mean, I'm no scholar of Eastern philosophies, but at least I know enough now, to know why they weren't very fond of the Quarter Pounder with cheese!!!!
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Mitchell-McCausland 500
I suppose that all children have some sort of daredevil blood in them, something that drives them to do obviously stupid things, in order to secure glory, as well as accolades and admiration from their equally unintelligent friends. Richmond Heights , Missouri St. Louis
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Chef Boyardee - Now that's good eatin'!!!
I'm fairly sure that practically anyone born and raised in this country during the seventies and eighties can recall the quintessential dining experience known as Chef Boyardee. Whether it be Spaghettio's, Ravioli, or Beefaroni, I would bet that most of you, at one time or another, has experienced the exotic flavors and sheer imaginative cuisine of one of our country's greatest culinary heroes. A quick Saturday afternoon lunch? An after school snack, perhaps? However, I have good money that says it probably wasn't a major staple of your diet, week in and week out, was it? Maybe. But, for us Bitters, it most certainly was!
Saturday night was steak night.........for Mom and Dad, that is. The kids were, of course relegated to an evening of a chilled, yet perfectly aged Kool Aid, and a can of the finest canned pasta they could find. For a family of seven, to have a steak dinner would've cost more than they made in a week! However, why should THEY be punished? They worked hard all week.....sort of. Why shouldn't they enjoy a steak dinner to celebrate the end of a treacherous work week?
So, while Mom and Dad had their overcooked steak, under-baked potato and something that somewhat resembled a dinner salad, the kids were feasting on Chef Boyardee with a side of something like applesauce, canned cling peaches, or fruit cocktail. You know, the kind with the really thick sugary syrup and only one or two cherry halves in the whole can? Yeah, that's right...the good stuff! Every Saturday night, the same story.
Sound sad? Feel like calling the abuse hotline? Can't wait to see your own parents, so you can give them a hug? Well, before you get hasty, please allow me to put this into perspective.
It wasn't as though they were feasting upon a medium rare filet mignon, a juicy slice of prime rib or even a deliciously well trimmed porterhouse. They could only afford the cheapest steak in the case, usually a chuck steak or round steak of some kind. At some point during the meal, you would always hear Dad ask Mom, "Is yours tough? Mine's a little tough." Now that we're all grown up and can truly appreciate a GOOD steak, that question is pretty funny when you think about it. Of course it's tough, Dad! It's a CHUCK steak for crying out loud!
As I look back on those days, I don't remember feeling the least bit slighted on those Saturday nights, though. I actually kind of enjoyed a nice steaming bowl of pseudo-ravioli back then. After all, the overcooked, toughest steak in the case probably wasn't all that tasty, anyway. The fruit cocktail, of course was not nearly as appetizing as the canned pasta, but it did make for some interesting brother-on-brother brawls over who would get the one cherry half!
As I said, I don't feel like I was missing out on anything on those steak nights, but just in case, I've made a vow never to feed my kids Chef Boyardee against their will.......and certainly never on "Steak Night"!
Come to think of it, a thick cut, nicely marbled Delmonico ribeye sounds pretty good right about now. Don't worry, kids, I'll buy four!! Spoiled brats!!!!!
Thanks for reading.
Saturday night was steak night.........for Mom and Dad, that is. The kids were, of course relegated to an evening of a chilled, yet perfectly aged Kool Aid, and a can of the finest canned pasta they could find. For a family of seven, to have a steak dinner would've cost more than they made in a week! However, why should THEY be punished? They worked hard all week.....sort of. Why shouldn't they enjoy a steak dinner to celebrate the end of a treacherous work week?
So, while Mom and Dad had their overcooked steak, under-baked potato and something that somewhat resembled a dinner salad, the kids were feasting on Chef Boyardee with a side of something like applesauce, canned cling peaches, or fruit cocktail. You know, the kind with the really thick sugary syrup and only one or two cherry halves in the whole can? Yeah, that's right...the good stuff! Every Saturday night, the same story.
Sound sad? Feel like calling the abuse hotline? Can't wait to see your own parents, so you can give them a hug? Well, before you get hasty, please allow me to put this into perspective.
It wasn't as though they were feasting upon a medium rare filet mignon, a juicy slice of prime rib or even a deliciously well trimmed porterhouse. They could only afford the cheapest steak in the case, usually a chuck steak or round steak of some kind. At some point during the meal, you would always hear Dad ask Mom, "Is yours tough? Mine's a little tough." Now that we're all grown up and can truly appreciate a GOOD steak, that question is pretty funny when you think about it. Of course it's tough, Dad! It's a CHUCK steak for crying out loud!
As I look back on those days, I don't remember feeling the least bit slighted on those Saturday nights, though. I actually kind of enjoyed a nice steaming bowl of pseudo-ravioli back then. After all, the overcooked, toughest steak in the case probably wasn't all that tasty, anyway. The fruit cocktail, of course was not nearly as appetizing as the canned pasta, but it did make for some interesting brother-on-brother brawls over who would get the one cherry half!
As I said, I don't feel like I was missing out on anything on those steak nights, but just in case, I've made a vow never to feed my kids Chef Boyardee against their will.......and certainly never on "Steak Night"!
Come to think of it, a thick cut, nicely marbled Delmonico ribeye sounds pretty good right about now. Don't worry, kids, I'll buy four!! Spoiled brats!!!!!
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Mary-isms
O.K., let the hilarity continue; at least for the moment.
I've already given you a taste of Dad's favorite utterances, now we'll delve into the comedic stylings of Mary B. Bitter. Here are a few of my favorite "Mary-isms".
"Well, I'll be dipped in s%#t!" - I'm not sure I even want to venture a guess on the origins of this quaint little phrase, but it still gets a chuckle on occasion. Mom would utter this instead of the more commonly known "Well, isn't that something!" or "How about that!"
"If I'm looking at ya, I'm talking to ya!" - "Come here, Bruce, Um Paul, Uh Andy, what is your name?" Not unlike the old woman who lived in a shoe, Mom had so many children, she couldn't ever remember which one she was talking to. Eventually, she'd give up guessing and say "If I'm looking at ya, I'm talkin' to ya!"
"What's the matter with you?" - Just like Dad, she always assumed that common, everday mischief was a clear indication of a need for psychological intervention. As in, "You got pulled out of class for talking? What's wrong with you?" Which of course led us all to believe we were somehow different from every other kid who got punished for talking in class. They were just chatty, but WE were one spit wad away from an extended stay at Arsenal Street Mental Hospital!
"Children will be beat daily!" - Although I was too young to remember, or perhaps wasn't even born, yet, this one has reached total legendary status. The older kids can help me out, here, If I'm missing any details.
As a parent, do you ever find yourself absolutely at the end of your rope? Mom sure did! At one point, she and Dad had decided that the house rules were going to change, and would be posted on the refrigerator for all to see. "Beds will be made daily." Rooms will be cleaned daily." "Dishes will be done after dinner each night." These were a few of the rules on the list. But so was.... "Children will be beat daily!" I'm pretty sure this was only on the list to get the kids' attention, but I wouldn't bet the farm on that! After all, someone usually was catching a beating every day!
And last, but certainly not least, the always popular..............
"If you don't knock it off, I'm gonna put this cigarette out in your eye!" - O.K. Before you start dialing DFS, remember, this was a long time ago!! She only said it once, give her a break! And we're all at least forty percent sure she didn't mean it. I believe this one even made Dad take notice, as he responded with a "Jesus, Mary!" She never actually DID it. But then again, Bruce does have one eye that looks a little different than the other. Hmmm.....................
Feel free to comment on this, if you can remember any others. This should be fun!
Thanks for reading.
I've already given you a taste of Dad's favorite utterances, now we'll delve into the comedic stylings of Mary B. Bitter. Here are a few of my favorite "Mary-isms".
"Well, I'll be dipped in s%#t!" - I'm not sure I even want to venture a guess on the origins of this quaint little phrase, but it still gets a chuckle on occasion. Mom would utter this instead of the more commonly known "Well, isn't that something!" or "How about that!"
"If I'm looking at ya, I'm talking to ya!" - "Come here, Bruce, Um Paul, Uh Andy, what is your name?" Not unlike the old woman who lived in a shoe, Mom had so many children, she couldn't ever remember which one she was talking to. Eventually, she'd give up guessing and say "If I'm looking at ya, I'm talkin' to ya!"
"What's the matter with you?" - Just like Dad, she always assumed that common, everday mischief was a clear indication of a need for psychological intervention. As in, "You got pulled out of class for talking? What's wrong with you?" Which of course led us all to believe we were somehow different from every other kid who got punished for talking in class. They were just chatty, but WE were one spit wad away from an extended stay at Arsenal Street Mental Hospital!
"Children will be beat daily!" - Although I was too young to remember, or perhaps wasn't even born, yet, this one has reached total legendary status. The older kids can help me out, here, If I'm missing any details.
As a parent, do you ever find yourself absolutely at the end of your rope? Mom sure did! At one point, she and Dad had decided that the house rules were going to change, and would be posted on the refrigerator for all to see. "Beds will be made daily." Rooms will be cleaned daily." "Dishes will be done after dinner each night." These were a few of the rules on the list. But so was.... "Children will be beat daily!" I'm pretty sure this was only on the list to get the kids' attention, but I wouldn't bet the farm on that! After all, someone usually was catching a beating every day!
And last, but certainly not least, the always popular..............
"If you don't knock it off, I'm gonna put this cigarette out in your eye!" - O.K. Before you start dialing DFS, remember, this was a long time ago!! She only said it once, give her a break! And we're all at least forty percent sure she didn't mean it. I believe this one even made Dad take notice, as he responded with a "Jesus, Mary!" She never actually DID it. But then again, Bruce does have one eye that looks a little different than the other. Hmmm.....................
Feel free to comment on this, if you can remember any others. This should be fun!
Thanks for reading.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Morning Coffee
Dare I take another stab at a more serious topic? I think I will.
Today's entry is a tribute to the matriarch of the Bitter clan, Mary Barbara Bitter (Clark).
She, herself had a few "isms", but I think I'll save those for another day. Today I'd like to share with you all, the legacy that she left behind.
Each morning at around 5:30, the smell of freshly brewed coffee would permeate the air throughout the house. And, although this is a very common occurrence in many an American household, it now holds a very special meaning, at least to me. Mom's morning coffee ritual was not the typical, run of the mill morning coffee. It was HER time. We all knew, without question, that between the hours of 5:30 and 7:00 a.m., the kitchen table area was off limits to noise, questions, or distractions of any kind. But, it was about more than just coffee. This was the time that Mom spent each day to pray. She prayed in a slightly different manner than most folks do. That is to say she wrote down all of her prayers. She kept a journal of her prayers. Nothing fancy, just her, her Bible, a 10 cent spiral notebook and a pot of coffee. I often wondered what she could possibly spend an hour and a half praying about. And it wasn't until she passed on, that we all found out.
Growing up in the Bitter household was a lesson in patience for all involved. Finances were usually tight. The chaos of raising 7 children, is enough to test the nerves of the strongest willed people alive. Granted, the most children under the roof at any given time was 5, but still. The older kids had to do without for most of their childhood. Times were tough. There were a lot of times when Dad was out of work, or in between jobs. There were times when Mom was working more than one job to help out. There were even times when the older kids had to give up their own earnings from their part time jobs, just to make ends meet. My only sister, Barbara, one of the eldest children, spent most of her formidable years playing "mom" to the rest of us. Given all of this information, you'd think it would be easy to surmise what was in all of those journals. But, you would be wrong. Well, at least partially wrong. Sure, there were many entries asking God to deliver the family from their financial woes, pleas to her Lord to help Dad beat his addictions, and countless prayers for her children's health and safety. But there were more prayers of praise and blind faith than anything else. I'll go ahead and share one of my favorite Mary - isms. "Let go and let God". This wasn't just lip service, either. This was a code she lived by. As bad as things got, (and they got pretty harsh at times), she would always manage to let everyone know that God was in control. She knew the Lord. Sure, she would lose it on occasions, she was human, after all. We all do. But, more times than not, she would eventually take a look at the problem, and give it up to God to fix.
When she passed away, amongst her belongings, we found stacks upon stacks of spiral notebooks. Each one containing some insight into Mom's ability to trust God. Each one chronicling a different time with different circumstances and trials, but also the faith she put in her Lord and Savior to take care of it all. And although I haven't gotten around to reading through all of them, the few I have read, painted a portrait of faith more beautiful than any Rembrandt I've ever laid eyes on. What does all of this have to do with leaving a legacy? I'll tell you.
Given the circumstances in which we were all raised, it would be easy to assume that not all of the kids would turn out very well. There is a history of alcoholism and mental illness that spans generations on both sides of the family. Dysfunction is a term we are all very familiar with. So, it would be safe to assume that a couple of apples would have fallen off the tree at some point, right? That is where Mom's legacy comes in. Despite all that the Bitters have been through in our lives, and all of the opportunity to travel down the road to utter and complete ruin, we survived. Not only did we survive physically, but much more importantly, we survived spiritually. All of Mom's children know the Lord, today. All have a relationship with Him that transcends any problem life can throw at us. Granted, some have a deeper relationship with Him than others, But we all know and trust Jesus Christ in our daily lives, to some extent. Each of us has had our own tragedies, trials and tribulations to deal with. Everyone does. But what's important, is Who we look to for help. Eventually, we all, at one time or another, dropped to our knees and cried out to God for His Divine wisdom, providence and intervention. And considering all of the ways things could have turned out, I'd say that is an awesome testimony to Mom's faith in the Lord to look out for us and protect us all.
Later on, after Dad passed had passed away, Mom had to learn how to be independent, to stand on her own two feet. There were so many basic things that she had to learn to do for herself. The changes we witnessed in Mom's peace and strength over that period of time were monumental. She became a much stronger, self reliant person. Most importantly, she not only still prayed each day, but she learned to WALK with the Lord, each day. This transformation was an amazing and beautiful thing to watch.
While holding the hands of two of her seven children, Mom left this world to be with Jesus, while singing "Amazing Grace" as she drew her last breath. If that doesn't show you the power of a life transformed by Christ, I don't know what would.
I, for one, can testify that remembering Mom's morning prayer time has had a big impact on my walk with God. Whenever I feel like there's not enough time in the day to read the Word or just to pray, I can't help but remember Mom at that old kitchen table, scribbling away in her journal for over an hour each morning. If we all spent that kind of time and dedication to prayer and reading the Word of God, how much better would this world be to live in?
Coffee, anyone?
Thanks for reading.
Today's entry is a tribute to the matriarch of the Bitter clan, Mary Barbara Bitter (Clark).
She, herself had a few "isms", but I think I'll save those for another day. Today I'd like to share with you all, the legacy that she left behind.
Each morning at around 5:30, the smell of freshly brewed coffee would permeate the air throughout the house. And, although this is a very common occurrence in many an American household, it now holds a very special meaning, at least to me. Mom's morning coffee ritual was not the typical, run of the mill morning coffee. It was HER time. We all knew, without question, that between the hours of 5:30 and 7:00 a.m., the kitchen table area was off limits to noise, questions, or distractions of any kind. But, it was about more than just coffee. This was the time that Mom spent each day to pray. She prayed in a slightly different manner than most folks do. That is to say she wrote down all of her prayers. She kept a journal of her prayers. Nothing fancy, just her, her Bible, a 10 cent spiral notebook and a pot of coffee. I often wondered what she could possibly spend an hour and a half praying about. And it wasn't until she passed on, that we all found out.
Growing up in the Bitter household was a lesson in patience for all involved. Finances were usually tight. The chaos of raising 7 children, is enough to test the nerves of the strongest willed people alive. Granted, the most children under the roof at any given time was 5, but still. The older kids had to do without for most of their childhood. Times were tough. There were a lot of times when Dad was out of work, or in between jobs. There were times when Mom was working more than one job to help out. There were even times when the older kids had to give up their own earnings from their part time jobs, just to make ends meet. My only sister, Barbara, one of the eldest children, spent most of her formidable years playing "mom" to the rest of us. Given all of this information, you'd think it would be easy to surmise what was in all of those journals. But, you would be wrong. Well, at least partially wrong. Sure, there were many entries asking God to deliver the family from their financial woes, pleas to her Lord to help Dad beat his addictions, and countless prayers for her children's health and safety. But there were more prayers of praise and blind faith than anything else. I'll go ahead and share one of my favorite Mary - isms. "Let go and let God". This wasn't just lip service, either. This was a code she lived by. As bad as things got, (and they got pretty harsh at times), she would always manage to let everyone know that God was in control. She knew the Lord. Sure, she would lose it on occasions, she was human, after all. We all do. But, more times than not, she would eventually take a look at the problem, and give it up to God to fix.
When she passed away, amongst her belongings, we found stacks upon stacks of spiral notebooks. Each one containing some insight into Mom's ability to trust God. Each one chronicling a different time with different circumstances and trials, but also the faith she put in her Lord and Savior to take care of it all. And although I haven't gotten around to reading through all of them, the few I have read, painted a portrait of faith more beautiful than any Rembrandt I've ever laid eyes on. What does all of this have to do with leaving a legacy? I'll tell you.
Given the circumstances in which we were all raised, it would be easy to assume that not all of the kids would turn out very well. There is a history of alcoholism and mental illness that spans generations on both sides of the family. Dysfunction is a term we are all very familiar with. So, it would be safe to assume that a couple of apples would have fallen off the tree at some point, right? That is where Mom's legacy comes in. Despite all that the Bitters have been through in our lives, and all of the opportunity to travel down the road to utter and complete ruin, we survived. Not only did we survive physically, but much more importantly, we survived spiritually. All of Mom's children know the Lord, today. All have a relationship with Him that transcends any problem life can throw at us. Granted, some have a deeper relationship with Him than others, But we all know and trust Jesus Christ in our daily lives, to some extent. Each of us has had our own tragedies, trials and tribulations to deal with. Everyone does. But what's important, is Who we look to for help. Eventually, we all, at one time or another, dropped to our knees and cried out to God for His Divine wisdom, providence and intervention. And considering all of the ways things could have turned out, I'd say that is an awesome testimony to Mom's faith in the Lord to look out for us and protect us all.
Later on, after Dad passed had passed away, Mom had to learn how to be independent, to stand on her own two feet. There were so many basic things that she had to learn to do for herself. The changes we witnessed in Mom's peace and strength over that period of time were monumental. She became a much stronger, self reliant person. Most importantly, she not only still prayed each day, but she learned to WALK with the Lord, each day. This transformation was an amazing and beautiful thing to watch.
While holding the hands of two of her seven children, Mom left this world to be with Jesus, while singing "Amazing Grace" as she drew her last breath. If that doesn't show you the power of a life transformed by Christ, I don't know what would.
I, for one, can testify that remembering Mom's morning prayer time has had a big impact on my walk with God. Whenever I feel like there's not enough time in the day to read the Word or just to pray, I can't help but remember Mom at that old kitchen table, scribbling away in her journal for over an hour each morning. If we all spent that kind of time and dedication to prayer and reading the Word of God, how much better would this world be to live in?
Coffee, anyone?
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
In The Navy
I apologize in advance for the departure from the normally humorous nature of this blog. But, I really felt like this story needed telling. So, just a warning.....
Looking back, as a teenager, I didn't give my parents much to be proud of. I suppose I was an o.k. kid throughout my elementary school days. I made good grades and mostly stayed out of trouble. The High School years, however, were my most challenging....so to speak.
Freshman and Sophomore years at St. Mary's were academically challenging, as I was immediately thrust into advanced courses due to my outstanding entrance exam scores and my GPA throughout parochial school. I believe they overestimated my abilities, since this was the last time I saw an "A" grade the rest of my High School career. As a Freshman, I was taking Latin, Classic English Literature, Algebra 2, etc. I was most certainly not up to the task, as I barely escaped these classes with passing grades, let alone the A's I'd become so accustomed to. Sophomore year was more of the same, as the educators clearly couldn't take a hint from my earlier performance. Latin 2, Advanced Trig, you get the point. Although I had great difficulty in these advanced classes, I managed, once again, to eke out passing (barely) grades in all subjects. Then the bomb went off.
After a failed attempt at running their own business, my parents informed us that we would be moving......again. Contrary to the childhood of my older siblings, mine was decidedly more stable at the time. We had lived in the same house for 5 whole years!; a nice little bungalow in the St. Louis Hills area. The older siblings had all lived in at least 5 different homes, and the number of different schools they attended was in the double digits. But I digress, I wasn't used to being uprooted. So, off we went to House Springs MO, where I was set to attend Northwest High School for Junior and Senior years. Coming from a strictly private/parochial school environment, a large public high school in Jefferson County was quite a shock. And I didn't handle it well. I was like a kid in a candy store. I couldn't believe what you could get away with in a public school, and believe me, I tried to get away with all of it. I had just been attending an all boys Catholic high school, and now this!! Do the math! This place even had a student smoking area, for crying out loud! In order to avoid further incriminating myself, I'll leave the details up to your imaginations. Let's just say, if there was a way to get in trouble in high school, chances are pretty good that I managed it at some point.
The reason for the lengthy set up above, was to clue you all in to the fact that I was not always the upwardly mobile, clean living, example of modern male Christianity, you all know and love today. O.k., that was a joke. It's o.k., you can laugh! The point is, at the end of high school I could easily count more times I had disappointed my parents, than anything else. Part of it was the fact that I was set up to fail at St. Mary's, but Northwest was all on me. So, looking for anything I could find to make them proud, I stumbled across the U.S. Navy, and enlisted before the recruiter even knew my name.
I'll never forget the look of terror on my Mother's face and the sheer joy on my Dad's when I broke the news. Mom was scared to death, and Dad looked as though I had just hit a grand slam in the World Series! Several months went by before I left for boot camp, most of which my Dad spent trying to learn all he could about the modern Navy, and Mom spent praying that I would get a safe assignment. Come on, Mom! What Navy assignment is NOT safe, these days? I had chosen the safest branch of them all.
The day finally arrived for my indoctrination and my recruiter arrived at the homestead to drive me to the Processing Center downtown. As we were pulling out of the drive, I heard my Dad yelling my name. I turned around to peer through the rear window of the recruiter's car to see him clapping and waving a small dime store American Flag. This was the last time I saw him truly alive.
I still have the first letter he sent me in boot camp. He went on and on about how proud he and Mom were, and how honored he was that he had a son serving in the Armed Forces. He said he was praying for me every day, and that he knew that now, I was going to be okay. (He had is doubts the last few years, and rightly so!)
Boot camp was certainly a change of pace for a 19 year old punk, who was used to getting away with everything, but all in all, wasn't as tough as I thought it would be. At least not until I was pulled out of a drill by the chaplain. He was there to give me the news that Dad had suffered a heart attack and stroke and wasn't expected to survive. Within a couple of hours, I was on a plane for St. Louis, unsure about my future in the military, unsure about my family, unsure about practically everything.
When I arrived at the hospital, the mood was grim. My older siblings had told me that the doctors had declared Dad "brain dead", and it was now just a matter of time. I couldn't go in to see him. I couldn't bear it. The image embedded in my mind of him waving that little flag was the only image I wanted to see. However, at the urging of my Mom, I mustered up the strength to go in and say goodbye. I was surprised to see his eyes open, although the doctors had said he was not responding to basic commands. As I neared his bedside in my dress blue uniform, I was overcome with grief. I was barely able to speak, but managed to get out an "I did it, Dad", and an "I love you". At that moment, this supposedly brain dead man reached up with his left hand, smiled and gave me a "thumbs up". I knew at that moment that I had made him proud of me, and that whatever else happened, he and I would always have that moment. Dad passed away several days later, and was at peace. So was I. I knew that I had accomplished what I had spent all of my teenage years trying to do, make him proud. I eventually returned to boot camp, and went on to serve in Operation Desert Shield, and five more years in the Navy. And, even though I may have enlisted for the wrong reasons, I still look back at that decision as one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. I grew up a lot during that time. I still made some stupid mistakes, and I learned a lot of valuable lessons. But none were greater than the one I learned the day my dad passed away.
Those last few moments I got to spend with Dad, were precious. They let me know that despite all the doctors had said, they were not in control. I truly feel that God gave my Dad just a few more minutes of conciousness that day, so we could have that last moment. It was a hard way to learn a lesson, but Dad taught me one last one from that hospital bed. It's a lesson we all need to get a hold of. With God, ALL things are possible.
Thanks for reading.
Looking back, as a teenager, I didn't give my parents much to be proud of. I suppose I was an o.k. kid throughout my elementary school days. I made good grades and mostly stayed out of trouble. The High School years, however, were my most challenging....so to speak.
Freshman and Sophomore years at St. Mary's were academically challenging, as I was immediately thrust into advanced courses due to my outstanding entrance exam scores and my GPA throughout parochial school. I believe they overestimated my abilities, since this was the last time I saw an "A" grade the rest of my High School career. As a Freshman, I was taking Latin, Classic English Literature, Algebra 2, etc. I was most certainly not up to the task, as I barely escaped these classes with passing grades, let alone the A's I'd become so accustomed to. Sophomore year was more of the same, as the educators clearly couldn't take a hint from my earlier performance. Latin 2, Advanced Trig, you get the point. Although I had great difficulty in these advanced classes, I managed, once again, to eke out passing (barely) grades in all subjects. Then the bomb went off.
After a failed attempt at running their own business, my parents informed us that we would be moving......again. Contrary to the childhood of my older siblings, mine was decidedly more stable at the time. We had lived in the same house for 5 whole years!; a nice little bungalow in the St. Louis Hills area. The older siblings had all lived in at least 5 different homes, and the number of different schools they attended was in the double digits. But I digress, I wasn't used to being uprooted. So, off we went to House Springs MO, where I was set to attend Northwest High School for Junior and Senior years. Coming from a strictly private/parochial school environment, a large public high school in Jefferson County was quite a shock. And I didn't handle it well. I was like a kid in a candy store. I couldn't believe what you could get away with in a public school, and believe me, I tried to get away with all of it. I had just been attending an all boys Catholic high school, and now this!! Do the math! This place even had a student smoking area, for crying out loud! In order to avoid further incriminating myself, I'll leave the details up to your imaginations. Let's just say, if there was a way to get in trouble in high school, chances are pretty good that I managed it at some point.
The reason for the lengthy set up above, was to clue you all in to the fact that I was not always the upwardly mobile, clean living, example of modern male Christianity, you all know and love today. O.k., that was a joke. It's o.k., you can laugh! The point is, at the end of high school I could easily count more times I had disappointed my parents, than anything else. Part of it was the fact that I was set up to fail at St. Mary's, but Northwest was all on me. So, looking for anything I could find to make them proud, I stumbled across the U.S. Navy, and enlisted before the recruiter even knew my name.
I'll never forget the look of terror on my Mother's face and the sheer joy on my Dad's when I broke the news. Mom was scared to death, and Dad looked as though I had just hit a grand slam in the World Series! Several months went by before I left for boot camp, most of which my Dad spent trying to learn all he could about the modern Navy, and Mom spent praying that I would get a safe assignment. Come on, Mom! What Navy assignment is NOT safe, these days? I had chosen the safest branch of them all.
The day finally arrived for my indoctrination and my recruiter arrived at the homestead to drive me to the Processing Center downtown. As we were pulling out of the drive, I heard my Dad yelling my name. I turned around to peer through the rear window of the recruiter's car to see him clapping and waving a small dime store American Flag. This was the last time I saw him truly alive.
I still have the first letter he sent me in boot camp. He went on and on about how proud he and Mom were, and how honored he was that he had a son serving in the Armed Forces. He said he was praying for me every day, and that he knew that now, I was going to be okay. (He had is doubts the last few years, and rightly so!)
Boot camp was certainly a change of pace for a 19 year old punk, who was used to getting away with everything, but all in all, wasn't as tough as I thought it would be. At least not until I was pulled out of a drill by the chaplain. He was there to give me the news that Dad had suffered a heart attack and stroke and wasn't expected to survive. Within a couple of hours, I was on a plane for St. Louis, unsure about my future in the military, unsure about my family, unsure about practically everything.
When I arrived at the hospital, the mood was grim. My older siblings had told me that the doctors had declared Dad "brain dead", and it was now just a matter of time. I couldn't go in to see him. I couldn't bear it. The image embedded in my mind of him waving that little flag was the only image I wanted to see. However, at the urging of my Mom, I mustered up the strength to go in and say goodbye. I was surprised to see his eyes open, although the doctors had said he was not responding to basic commands. As I neared his bedside in my dress blue uniform, I was overcome with grief. I was barely able to speak, but managed to get out an "I did it, Dad", and an "I love you". At that moment, this supposedly brain dead man reached up with his left hand, smiled and gave me a "thumbs up". I knew at that moment that I had made him proud of me, and that whatever else happened, he and I would always have that moment. Dad passed away several days later, and was at peace. So was I. I knew that I had accomplished what I had spent all of my teenage years trying to do, make him proud. I eventually returned to boot camp, and went on to serve in Operation Desert Shield, and five more years in the Navy. And, even though I may have enlisted for the wrong reasons, I still look back at that decision as one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. I grew up a lot during that time. I still made some stupid mistakes, and I learned a lot of valuable lessons. But none were greater than the one I learned the day my dad passed away.
Those last few moments I got to spend with Dad, were precious. They let me know that despite all the doctors had said, they were not in control. I truly feel that God gave my Dad just a few more minutes of conciousness that day, so we could have that last moment. It was a hard way to learn a lesson, but Dad taught me one last one from that hospital bed. It's a lesson we all need to get a hold of. With God, ALL things are possible.
Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Dave - isms
As we enter the twentieth anniversary year of Dad's passing, I felt compelled to write about his legacy. So, here goes.
Everyone has some amusing quote from their childhood. Something their uncle or parents used to say that keeps itself wedged in the forefront of their childhood memories. But I'd venture a guess that, at least to us Bitters, none are as funny as those commonly recited by one David G. Bitter.
At the time, Dad had no knowledge of his literary prowess or comedic genius. In fact, most of the time he was quite serious when he'd rattle off one of his famous quotes. Years later, the Bitter tribe still laughs and quotes him almost daily. How can we not? Here are just a few examples.
"Jesus H. Christ!!!!" - to this day, none of us know what the "H" stood for. Was it Harold? Herbert? Horace? One theory floating around, is that Dad used to insert the "H", because that way, he wasn't actually taking the name of the Lord in vain, since he was obviously talking about a different Jesus Christ.
"Shhhhht" - this one may not appear so funny at first, unless you put it into context. This was commonly used when watching TV, and the kids would be too noisy for him to hear. Notice it's not SHHH, which is commonly used by most Americans. Dad had to add the "t" at the end, just to be different.
"Are you insane?" - or sometimes - "Are you nuts?" - it doesn't really matter what you were actually in trouble for. If you were in trouble in the Bitter house, you were immediately accused of being unstable. Whether you talked back, didn't clean your room, or knocked off a liquor store, all were equal crimes in the old man's eyes, and were obvious indications of some sort of mental illness. Kids just don't do stupid things and get themselves in trouble!! That's insane!!
" " - that's right, silence was sometimes the best quote of all! Well, it wasn't really silence, though. It was more of an exaggerated heavy breathing through the nose accompanied by a cross look and eyes that cut through you like daggers. That's when you knew you were really in trouble, when you left him speechless!!!
"Wouldja....." - (pronounced WOOD-ja) - this one was proclaimed when he couldn't seem to find the words to get you to stop fidgeting.....or talking......or breathing......He didn't have much tolerence for everyday noise, especially if he was watching Hill Street Blues or second guessing Whitey Herzog. It often followed a failed "SHHHT" attempt. And it wasn't "Wouldja stop it" or "Wouldja quit", it was just simply "Wouldja".
Finally, a couple of family favorites.....
"How'd you get Bar-B-Q sauce on your back, Ben?" - I'd go into more detail, but do I really need to? It's kind of self-explanatory, don't you think? The truth is, as I remember it, it wasn't BBQ sauce at all, but a paint stain on his shirt......which he had on backwards. The thing you have to get, here, is that Dad immediately equated a red stain with BBQ sauce. It couldn't have been anything else? Does anyone else find that odd? But, at the time, as Ben will undoubtedly attest to, it wasn't really beyond the realm of possibility for him to have somehow gotten BBQ sauce on his back!!!
"Are you painting a picture?" - we'd hear this one every year at Thanksgiving. We had to do Thanksgiving buffet style, since we were so large in number, and Dad would ask you this if you were in front of him in line and dared to put a second scoop of gravy on your mashed potatoes. It wasn't that he thought we'd run out of gravy, he was just in a hurry to eat. As I have already stated, patience was not a virtue he ever mastered.
People often contort the definition of the words legend, legendary, or legacy in a way that equates them with something epic. This, in my opinion, is a falicy. Although Dave never fought and conquered a giant, spent his life chasing a great whale, nor did he discover a cure for cancer, I argue that the Dave-isms we still use today ARE legendary. And the laughs we are left with, as we remember him, IS a legacy that we will be able to share for generations to come.
In loving Memory, David G. Bitter, 1935-1991.
Thanks for reading.
Everyone has some amusing quote from their childhood. Something their uncle or parents used to say that keeps itself wedged in the forefront of their childhood memories. But I'd venture a guess that, at least to us Bitters, none are as funny as those commonly recited by one David G. Bitter.
At the time, Dad had no knowledge of his literary prowess or comedic genius. In fact, most of the time he was quite serious when he'd rattle off one of his famous quotes. Years later, the Bitter tribe still laughs and quotes him almost daily. How can we not? Here are just a few examples.
"Jesus H. Christ!!!!" - to this day, none of us know what the "H" stood for. Was it Harold? Herbert? Horace? One theory floating around, is that Dad used to insert the "H", because that way, he wasn't actually taking the name of the Lord in vain, since he was obviously talking about a different Jesus Christ.
"Shhhhht" - this one may not appear so funny at first, unless you put it into context. This was commonly used when watching TV, and the kids would be too noisy for him to hear. Notice it's not SHHH, which is commonly used by most Americans. Dad had to add the "t" at the end, just to be different.
"Are you insane?" - or sometimes - "Are you nuts?" - it doesn't really matter what you were actually in trouble for. If you were in trouble in the Bitter house, you were immediately accused of being unstable. Whether you talked back, didn't clean your room, or knocked off a liquor store, all were equal crimes in the old man's eyes, and were obvious indications of some sort of mental illness. Kids just don't do stupid things and get themselves in trouble!! That's insane!!
" " - that's right, silence was sometimes the best quote of all! Well, it wasn't really silence, though. It was more of an exaggerated heavy breathing through the nose accompanied by a cross look and eyes that cut through you like daggers. That's when you knew you were really in trouble, when you left him speechless!!!
"Wouldja....." - (pronounced WOOD-ja) - this one was proclaimed when he couldn't seem to find the words to get you to stop fidgeting.....or talking......or breathing......He didn't have much tolerence for everyday noise, especially if he was watching Hill Street Blues or second guessing Whitey Herzog. It often followed a failed "SHHHT" attempt. And it wasn't "Wouldja stop it" or "Wouldja quit", it was just simply "Wouldja".
Finally, a couple of family favorites.....
"How'd you get Bar-B-Q sauce on your back, Ben?" - I'd go into more detail, but do I really need to? It's kind of self-explanatory, don't you think? The truth is, as I remember it, it wasn't BBQ sauce at all, but a paint stain on his shirt......which he had on backwards. The thing you have to get, here, is that Dad immediately equated a red stain with BBQ sauce. It couldn't have been anything else? Does anyone else find that odd? But, at the time, as Ben will undoubtedly attest to, it wasn't really beyond the realm of possibility for him to have somehow gotten BBQ sauce on his back!!!
"Are you painting a picture?" - we'd hear this one every year at Thanksgiving. We had to do Thanksgiving buffet style, since we were so large in number, and Dad would ask you this if you were in front of him in line and dared to put a second scoop of gravy on your mashed potatoes. It wasn't that he thought we'd run out of gravy, he was just in a hurry to eat. As I have already stated, patience was not a virtue he ever mastered.
People often contort the definition of the words legend, legendary, or legacy in a way that equates them with something epic. This, in my opinion, is a falicy. Although Dave never fought and conquered a giant, spent his life chasing a great whale, nor did he discover a cure for cancer, I argue that the Dave-isms we still use today ARE legendary. And the laughs we are left with, as we remember him, IS a legacy that we will be able to share for generations to come.
In loving Memory, David G. Bitter, 1935-1991.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
License Plates, Horses, and YooHoo!!
For my first post, I thought I'd harken back to a simpler time. A time before cars had DVD players and video game consoles. A time before cell phones, facebook, myspace and twitter, when a kid had to use his/her imagination to entertain themselves on those long car rides to visit relatives. See if this takes you back....
If you were a Bitter kid in the Seventies, chances are, you spent many a summer in a little town called Washington Indiana. The oldest of the siblings were fortunate (or maybe not so fortunate), to spend their entire summers there, with Bea and Sis (our great aunts). Those of us who came around on the back end, only got to spend a few weeks there. But, oh the memories, even still. Fried chicken at the Knights of Columbus, watching a little league game at Allen Field, fetching some milk (and sometimes cigarettes) from Jimmy's or Arnold's groceries....the list goes on and on.
Being one of the two youngest siblings, I don't have the benefit of some of the memories my older brothers and sister have, but one sticks out in particular.
You see, this drive to Washington was about 3 1/2 hours, give or take. In order to keep our minds off the time, Ben (the youngest of the brood) and I would play the License plate game, slug bug, etc.... Dad was not what you would call a pillar of patience, and he would almost instantly grow tired of the blood curdling shouts of "SLUG BUG" from the back seat. So, in an ingenious attempt to keep us quiet, he devised a new game, which he called "the cemetary game" The object was simple. We would have to count as many horses as we could (quietly to ourselves, of course) as we passed the many small farms along the roadside. For each horse we counted, he would give us a nickel when we arrived at our destination. The caveat, though, was that we would lose all of our nickels each time we passed a cemetary. By the time we hit our first gas station stop, we'd usually have earned enough nickels to get a soda pop for the rest of the ride. However, for some strange reason, Ben and I always went with Yoohoo as our drink of choice. Back on the road. With frosty Yoohoos in hand, we began, once again to count horses along the way, losing nickels as fast as we won them. After building up what seemed like a fortune in small silver coins, we were less than five minutes from our destination, when.............Oh No, another cemetary!!!! Man, were we bummed! All those shiny nickels right down the drain!!! This happens every ti.......Hey, wait a minute!!!!!
I don't recall how many trips we took to Indiana while playing this silly game, but I do know there were several before we caught on and realized that we would pass the same cemetary right at the end of our trip every year!!!! Fathers have an uncanny way of getting what they want. This was a brilliantly devised scheme to keep the kids quiet for the long trip, and it didn't cost him a nickel!!!!
I tried this one on my own kids several years ago, but they caught on much faster than we did. I guess I'll take comfort in the fact that they were obviously smarter than I was at that age. Oh well, thank God for DVD players and video games!!!!
If you were a Bitter kid in the Seventies, chances are, you spent many a summer in a little town called Washington Indiana. The oldest of the siblings were fortunate (or maybe not so fortunate), to spend their entire summers there, with Bea and Sis (our great aunts). Those of us who came around on the back end, only got to spend a few weeks there. But, oh the memories, even still. Fried chicken at the Knights of Columbus, watching a little league game at Allen Field, fetching some milk (and sometimes cigarettes) from Jimmy's or Arnold's groceries....the list goes on and on.
Being one of the two youngest siblings, I don't have the benefit of some of the memories my older brothers and sister have, but one sticks out in particular.
You see, this drive to Washington was about 3 1/2 hours, give or take. In order to keep our minds off the time, Ben (the youngest of the brood) and I would play the License plate game, slug bug, etc.... Dad was not what you would call a pillar of patience, and he would almost instantly grow tired of the blood curdling shouts of "SLUG BUG" from the back seat. So, in an ingenious attempt to keep us quiet, he devised a new game, which he called "the cemetary game" The object was simple. We would have to count as many horses as we could (quietly to ourselves, of course) as we passed the many small farms along the roadside. For each horse we counted, he would give us a nickel when we arrived at our destination. The caveat, though, was that we would lose all of our nickels each time we passed a cemetary. By the time we hit our first gas station stop, we'd usually have earned enough nickels to get a soda pop for the rest of the ride. However, for some strange reason, Ben and I always went with Yoohoo as our drink of choice. Back on the road. With frosty Yoohoos in hand, we began, once again to count horses along the way, losing nickels as fast as we won them. After building up what seemed like a fortune in small silver coins, we were less than five minutes from our destination, when.............Oh No, another cemetary!!!! Man, were we bummed! All those shiny nickels right down the drain!!! This happens every ti.......Hey, wait a minute!!!!!
I don't recall how many trips we took to Indiana while playing this silly game, but I do know there were several before we caught on and realized that we would pass the same cemetary right at the end of our trip every year!!!! Fathers have an uncanny way of getting what they want. This was a brilliantly devised scheme to keep the kids quiet for the long trip, and it didn't cost him a nickel!!!!
I tried this one on my own kids several years ago, but they caught on much faster than we did. I guess I'll take comfort in the fact that they were obviously smarter than I was at that age. Oh well, thank God for DVD players and video games!!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)