I wrote yesterday of receiving a piece of home. The story was met with a good response. It was a sentimental thing for me and I enjoyed sharing that story. Sentiment is best when shared with others. In fact, without others sentiment can turn melancholy. Fortunately we now enjoy this social media, a way to communicate with literally thousands of people almost instantaneously. That wasn't true when I was growing up. I think the closest thing I had was a call in to a radio show. My call did get taken, I stated my opinion on the subject, and was subsequently politely dismissed. My opinion wasn't in line with the narrative the radio host was promoting at that time. But anyway, that was in the early 70's. Today we have numerous avenues open to share our thoughts, feelings and observations.
Yesterdays story was a retelling of one of those family stories. You know the kind I mean. It is about an event that took place, the tale has been repeated over and over again. The story gets told so many times in the family only the punch line needs to be said. Every family has them, those inside jokes as they are sometimes called. Anecdotes is what the readers digest called them. I enjoyed reading them in that periodical. I wonder do the kids today know what a periodical is? Is that term still in use? I'm getting distracted here, excuse me. I never submitted a story to that magazine but read where they paid money for them. Anyway, I do enjoy sharing anecdotes. It's always a good way to make someone else look silly or foolish, sparing yourself from that. And you gain a bit of popularity by doing so! Isn't that amazing? The expense is borne by someone else. In the case of my story, Mom. Mom had stories of her own though, turn about is fair play. She extracted revenge when the time was right. Humor can be a weapon as readily as an amusement. It all depends upon who is being amused.
I was thinking about that anecdote this morning and how amusing it was to me. I believe it is far more amusing if you hear the story told. A lot is lost using just the written word. Presentation is everything. I was pleased that others remarked they " got it. " I'll take that as a success in writing. So using that as encouragement I thought I would share another family anecdote. This one is about me, it's only fair.
As I eluded to in yesterdays story my Dad was constantly building, modifying or in some way making improvements to our home. He had paneled the living room with tongue and groove knotty pine. It was all the rage in the late fifties and early sixties. Now when he got to the staircase, a later addition when he added the second floor to the house, tongue and groove knotty pine had fallen from style. So drywall was used. Not content with just painting that drywall Dad decided to paper it. So a paper was chosen and the work begun. It was quite a challenge to hang that paper in the stairwell for the obvious reason, the height of the ceiling. You can't just put a ladder there. Scaffolding had to be built. Dad didn't go out and buy that stuff, he made his own, even when it would have been cheaper to just buy or rent some but that's another story. Anyway, the work was done and Dad was justifiably proud of the job he had done. I'll admit it did look great. It was a light grey color with an abstract pattern of some type.
The staircase took a ninety degree turn to the left. At that point there was an inside corner. Now right on that inside corner one day there appeared a stick figure man, in ink! Dad spotted that and went a bit ballistic! It is the only way I can describe his reaction. An intensive interrogation and investigation was launched immediately. Whoever had done that was going to answer for it. Dad was determined to find out just who that was! Interrogation, no more like an inquisition!
Now at that time I was drawing stick figures on all my school book covers. Those book covers were made out of brown paper bags. It wasn't cool to use the glossy ones the school provided. No, you had to make your own and decorate them in your style. Not being very artistic stick figures was about the best I could manage. Dad uncovered that evidence in his investigation and I was immediately accused. I vehemently denied it! Now whether or not I actually was the culprit is lost to time and memory. I honestly don't know as it happened more than fifty years ago. I denied it then, I denied it for another forty years! The man on the wallpaper became an aphorism in our house. If ever someone denied anything it would be said, like the man on the wallpaper. I was found guilty, punished and constantly reminded of that. If I was asked something and claimed I didn't know, it was answered with, like the man on the wallpaper?
Years went by and the story was told and retold. I was always assumed guilty of drawing the man on the wallpaper. There were times when I even questioned myself. Had I convinced myself just as Dad suggested? You have told that lie so many times you believe it. Maybe I had. There came a day sometime in the late 80's when Dad was in the hospital, gravely ill. In fact it was expected he wouldn't make it. The mood was of course somber. My brother and I were there along with Mom. Dad was trying his best to lighten the mood. Even in this situation he remained Dad, strong, a mans man. In the conversation the stick man came up somehow. It seemed to do that a lot. This time though my brother speaks up and says, I did it. That's correct brother Dan confesses to the crime of the century! He said he was mad at me and did it to get me in trouble. Dad smiled at that and said something in return, I don't remember what.
Dad did make it for a while. He passed away in 1990. I visited with him several times after that hospital visit. He still remained convinced I was the culprit and the stick man lived on. The stick man lives on in my memories too. I did go back to that childhood home of mine some years back. At that time the stick man was still there, on the inside corner of the staircase, very faint but still present. I imagine him being there still until the house is torn down. I wonder though, just who did it? Did brother Dan really do that and remain silent all those years? Did I do it and lie all those years? Maybe Dan was just trying to give peace to Dad, trying to lie to rest an old story. It's an enduring mystery, I just don't know. Like the stick man. Yes Dad, like the stick man.
Yesterdays story was a retelling of one of those family stories. You know the kind I mean. It is about an event that took place, the tale has been repeated over and over again. The story gets told so many times in the family only the punch line needs to be said. Every family has them, those inside jokes as they are sometimes called. Anecdotes is what the readers digest called them. I enjoyed reading them in that periodical. I wonder do the kids today know what a periodical is? Is that term still in use? I'm getting distracted here, excuse me. I never submitted a story to that magazine but read where they paid money for them. Anyway, I do enjoy sharing anecdotes. It's always a good way to make someone else look silly or foolish, sparing yourself from that. And you gain a bit of popularity by doing so! Isn't that amazing? The expense is borne by someone else. In the case of my story, Mom. Mom had stories of her own though, turn about is fair play. She extracted revenge when the time was right. Humor can be a weapon as readily as an amusement. It all depends upon who is being amused.
I was thinking about that anecdote this morning and how amusing it was to me. I believe it is far more amusing if you hear the story told. A lot is lost using just the written word. Presentation is everything. I was pleased that others remarked they " got it. " I'll take that as a success in writing. So using that as encouragement I thought I would share another family anecdote. This one is about me, it's only fair.
As I eluded to in yesterdays story my Dad was constantly building, modifying or in some way making improvements to our home. He had paneled the living room with tongue and groove knotty pine. It was all the rage in the late fifties and early sixties. Now when he got to the staircase, a later addition when he added the second floor to the house, tongue and groove knotty pine had fallen from style. So drywall was used. Not content with just painting that drywall Dad decided to paper it. So a paper was chosen and the work begun. It was quite a challenge to hang that paper in the stairwell for the obvious reason, the height of the ceiling. You can't just put a ladder there. Scaffolding had to be built. Dad didn't go out and buy that stuff, he made his own, even when it would have been cheaper to just buy or rent some but that's another story. Anyway, the work was done and Dad was justifiably proud of the job he had done. I'll admit it did look great. It was a light grey color with an abstract pattern of some type.
The staircase took a ninety degree turn to the left. At that point there was an inside corner. Now right on that inside corner one day there appeared a stick figure man, in ink! Dad spotted that and went a bit ballistic! It is the only way I can describe his reaction. An intensive interrogation and investigation was launched immediately. Whoever had done that was going to answer for it. Dad was determined to find out just who that was! Interrogation, no more like an inquisition!
Now at that time I was drawing stick figures on all my school book covers. Those book covers were made out of brown paper bags. It wasn't cool to use the glossy ones the school provided. No, you had to make your own and decorate them in your style. Not being very artistic stick figures was about the best I could manage. Dad uncovered that evidence in his investigation and I was immediately accused. I vehemently denied it! Now whether or not I actually was the culprit is lost to time and memory. I honestly don't know as it happened more than fifty years ago. I denied it then, I denied it for another forty years! The man on the wallpaper became an aphorism in our house. If ever someone denied anything it would be said, like the man on the wallpaper. I was found guilty, punished and constantly reminded of that. If I was asked something and claimed I didn't know, it was answered with, like the man on the wallpaper?
Years went by and the story was told and retold. I was always assumed guilty of drawing the man on the wallpaper. There were times when I even questioned myself. Had I convinced myself just as Dad suggested? You have told that lie so many times you believe it. Maybe I had. There came a day sometime in the late 80's when Dad was in the hospital, gravely ill. In fact it was expected he wouldn't make it. The mood was of course somber. My brother and I were there along with Mom. Dad was trying his best to lighten the mood. Even in this situation he remained Dad, strong, a mans man. In the conversation the stick man came up somehow. It seemed to do that a lot. This time though my brother speaks up and says, I did it. That's correct brother Dan confesses to the crime of the century! He said he was mad at me and did it to get me in trouble. Dad smiled at that and said something in return, I don't remember what.
Dad did make it for a while. He passed away in 1990. I visited with him several times after that hospital visit. He still remained convinced I was the culprit and the stick man lived on. The stick man lives on in my memories too. I did go back to that childhood home of mine some years back. At that time the stick man was still there, on the inside corner of the staircase, very faint but still present. I imagine him being there still until the house is torn down. I wonder though, just who did it? Did brother Dan really do that and remain silent all those years? Did I do it and lie all those years? Maybe Dan was just trying to give peace to Dad, trying to lie to rest an old story. It's an enduring mystery, I just don't know. Like the stick man. Yes Dad, like the stick man.
I know the story of the stick man. I also know the story of the bricks from the well and about how the kids dug out a basement with buckets. Mom also said many of Grandpas projects when unfinished. I also the bedrooms upstairs where had splatter painted floors. I'm a little sad I've never once seen the house but I feel like I know it.
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