Those who have known me long enough to see how I deal with what I perceive as stress know that I can have a short fuse. I am short on patience. A boss I once had observed that I take no prisoners. In the war with life, there are winners and losers, and some who stand on the sideline.
Apparently I come from hot-tempered blood. Our Daddy had a quick temper, and my mother observed more than once after his death in 1981—when he exploded, it was with both barrels. Just as quickly, he wanted to get on, I guess hoping that his melt-down had cleared the air—at least for the time being. Mother wasn’t cheated in the temper department either. I remember her being on the warpath regularly while we were growing up. My sisters and I were expected to help clean the house, which Mother referred to as a “sow’s nest” when things were too messy, in her opinion. I don’t remember who the intended victim was the time she hurled her house shoe at someone, but I think it was my middle sister, Sue, who had popped off at Mother while she was raising hell about the condition of the house.
In marital struggles there are always two sides to any story. The same applies to all struggles, at whatever level they occur. Mother and Daddy were kind-hearted, well-intentioned, hard-working people. They taught us early to be responsible. We had chores, including housework, cooking and doing the dishes, cleaning a large yard, taking care of a few animals, and for Sue and me, working in the family-owned meat market. By my junior high years, our oldest sister Joan was in college. The daily grind of work and financial obligations placed a lot of stress on our family, as it always does on families. I can’t say that Mother and Daddy were living the American dream, although owning a home and property was certainly important, probably Mother’s insistent dream. Her family had never rented. Daddy’s East Texas family had known nothing but renting and moving.
While I never felt that we lacked in material things, I was fully aware that we were a laboring family that worked sometimes seven days a week. We usually drove a used car. Joan was a horsewoman from an early age, and when she followed in a modest way the high school rodeo circuit, we had a used truck and a couple of used trailers, the first a stock trailer and then a real double-horse trailer. I showed an early interest in music, so Mother and Daddy made monthly payments to H&H Music Company in Houston to buy me first a trumpet, then a clarinet after I got braces on my teeth to correct an underbite. Sue apparently never expressed an interest in hobbies, aside from homemaking type activities. She became a wonderful cook and seamstress, carrying on our daddy’s artistic ways.
Mother was clearly the driving force in our family. From nose-to-the-grindstone German stock, her formative years were about work. “Hard work never killed anyone” is a common mantra among those who know the value of a dollar. Daddy was no slouch, and he wasn’t afraid of work, but Mother was the driving force. I remember, in my senior year of high school—my bedroom shared a wall with the kitchen, the dining table butted up against the wall. “Godammit! woman”, Daddy’s fist hit the table, and he was out the door to the market across the road. I really don’t know what they argued about, but it generally had to do with her perceived need to get more done in the market.
I know that Mother and Daddy loved each other, although a family friend and former employee observed to Sue after Daddy’s death that he was surprised Mother took it so hard. They had argued so much in front of an audience at work. Both had borne the pain of previous failed marriages. We weren’t privileged to that history, however, at least not until I, the youngest, was out of college and certain circumstances forced a partial confession. There were secrets that both Daddy and Mother took to their graves, in spite of attempts on my part to know more of the truth. I honestly can’t speak to the efforts either of my sisters made to gain more information about our parents’ past. Again, Mother was the driving force.
More than once after Daddy’s death in 1981, Mother observed to me, “You’re just like your daddy. You want things now.” I know my own impatience. Instant gratification, quick solutions, low tolerance for people who in my eyes either impede progress or don’t sense the urgency I feel. Yes, I am guilty of all charges. Yet, I know that I am a problem solver. I hadn’t even thought about labeling myself until a couple of colleagues described me late in my professional life. To me life and work are about making things better, feeling a sense of accomplishment, teamwork, and yes, growth. I can be easily frustrated over people who put hurdles in my path or won’t sign on to the program, those who just don’t seem to care, and the worst, the gatekeeper, hungry for power.
There is indeed a better way. We can define this however we choose. I’m no inventor, but I certainly know we wouldn’t live in a world of great accomplishment if our history weren’t filled with people who envision a better way and work toward accomplishing that end. Doing so is more than nose-to-the-grindstone doggedness. Yes, perseverance counts in spades. So do dreams, so does longing for a better, kinder journey. I don’t know my percentages. Do I take most things to 70-80%? Do I too often give up before reaching even that level? Do I lack in nose-to-the-grindstone doggedness? Has my impatience cost me both dollars and sense? Does it cause me to give up too easily on people and situations?
The jury is still out on me. Fortunately, I sense that I still have some time to solve a few more problems. On this journey I have to continue grasping—“Ah, but a man’s grasp should exceed his reach, or what’s a heaven for?” said Robert Browning. And apparently, Mr. Browning gave us, “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!'” Well, I wish I had said that. I didn’t, though. But I can keep the dream alive, honoring both Daddy, and Mother, who sadly never told us her dreams. Daddy’s dream ended early just before reaching three score and ten, Mother’s just short of her 90th birthday. What a legacy they gave us—one a dreamer, the other both feet planted firmly on the ground, and both honest, decent, hard-working products of what Tom Brokaw has labeled, “the greatest generation”.
Apparently I come from hot-tempered blood. Our Daddy had a quick temper, and my mother observed more than once after his death in 1981—when he exploded, it was with both barrels. Just as quickly, he wanted to get on, I guess hoping that his melt-down had cleared the air—at least for the time being. Mother wasn’t cheated in the temper department either. I remember her being on the warpath regularly while we were growing up. My sisters and I were expected to help clean the house, which Mother referred to as a “sow’s nest” when things were too messy, in her opinion. I don’t remember who the intended victim was the time she hurled her house shoe at someone, but I think it was my middle sister, Sue, who had popped off at Mother while she was raising hell about the condition of the house.
In marital struggles there are always two sides to any story. The same applies to all struggles, at whatever level they occur. Mother and Daddy were kind-hearted, well-intentioned, hard-working people. They taught us early to be responsible. We had chores, including housework, cooking and doing the dishes, cleaning a large yard, taking care of a few animals, and for Sue and me, working in the family-owned meat market. By my junior high years, our oldest sister Joan was in college. The daily grind of work and financial obligations placed a lot of stress on our family, as it always does on families. I can’t say that Mother and Daddy were living the American dream, although owning a home and property was certainly important, probably Mother’s insistent dream. Her family had never rented. Daddy’s East Texas family had known nothing but renting and moving.
While I never felt that we lacked in material things, I was fully aware that we were a laboring family that worked sometimes seven days a week. We usually drove a used car. Joan was a horsewoman from an early age, and when she followed in a modest way the high school rodeo circuit, we had a used truck and a couple of used trailers, the first a stock trailer and then a real double-horse trailer. I showed an early interest in music, so Mother and Daddy made monthly payments to H&H Music Company in Houston to buy me first a trumpet, then a clarinet after I got braces on my teeth to correct an underbite. Sue apparently never expressed an interest in hobbies, aside from homemaking type activities. She became a wonderful cook and seamstress, carrying on our daddy’s artistic ways.
Mother was clearly the driving force in our family. From nose-to-the-grindstone German stock, her formative years were about work. “Hard work never killed anyone” is a common mantra among those who know the value of a dollar. Daddy was no slouch, and he wasn’t afraid of work, but Mother was the driving force. I remember, in my senior year of high school—my bedroom shared a wall with the kitchen, the dining table butted up against the wall. “Godammit! woman”, Daddy’s fist hit the table, and he was out the door to the market across the road. I really don’t know what they argued about, but it generally had to do with her perceived need to get more done in the market.
I know that Mother and Daddy loved each other, although a family friend and former employee observed to Sue after Daddy’s death that he was surprised Mother took it so hard. They had argued so much in front of an audience at work. Both had borne the pain of previous failed marriages. We weren’t privileged to that history, however, at least not until I, the youngest, was out of college and certain circumstances forced a partial confession. There were secrets that both Daddy and Mother took to their graves, in spite of attempts on my part to know more of the truth. I honestly can’t speak to the efforts either of my sisters made to gain more information about our parents’ past. Again, Mother was the driving force.
More than once after Daddy’s death in 1981, Mother observed to me, “You’re just like your daddy. You want things now.” I know my own impatience. Instant gratification, quick solutions, low tolerance for people who in my eyes either impede progress or don’t sense the urgency I feel. Yes, I am guilty of all charges. Yet, I know that I am a problem solver. I hadn’t even thought about labeling myself until a couple of colleagues described me late in my professional life. To me life and work are about making things better, feeling a sense of accomplishment, teamwork, and yes, growth. I can be easily frustrated over people who put hurdles in my path or won’t sign on to the program, those who just don’t seem to care, and the worst, the gatekeeper, hungry for power.
There is indeed a better way. We can define this however we choose. I’m no inventor, but I certainly know we wouldn’t live in a world of great accomplishment if our history weren’t filled with people who envision a better way and work toward accomplishing that end. Doing so is more than nose-to-the-grindstone doggedness. Yes, perseverance counts in spades. So do dreams, so does longing for a better, kinder journey. I don’t know my percentages. Do I take most things to 70-80%? Do I too often give up before reaching even that level? Do I lack in nose-to-the-grindstone doggedness? Has my impatience cost me both dollars and sense? Does it cause me to give up too easily on people and situations?
The jury is still out on me. Fortunately, I sense that I still have some time to solve a few more problems. On this journey I have to continue grasping—“Ah, but a man’s grasp should exceed his reach, or what’s a heaven for?” said Robert Browning. And apparently, Mr. Browning gave us, “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!'” Well, I wish I had said that. I didn’t, though. But I can keep the dream alive, honoring both Daddy, and Mother, who sadly never told us her dreams. Daddy’s dream ended early just before reaching three score and ten, Mother’s just short of her 90th birthday. What a legacy they gave us—one a dreamer, the other both feet planted firmly on the ground, and both honest, decent, hard-working products of what Tom Brokaw has labeled, “the greatest generation”.
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