Farewell Fayette County & Environs

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

I’m helping my mother move from my ancestral demesne this week. I feel little sorrow regarding the move from this particular home, the third of three I lived in when I lived in Fayette County; but a much deeper sense of loss regarding certain other places that have sentimental value to me. Of course, me being I, they almost all revolve around food.

For lunch today, Abraham and I stopped at J’s Dairy Inn, located in Liberty, IN. Since the prevailing wind is from the west, if you’re in Connersville and you spit, it’ll land in Union County. In addition to being the location of J’s, it is also home to Whitewater Memorial State Park (the only lake I’ve ever swum across), and the prettiest girls per capita of anywhere I’ve ever been. I used to stop in at J’s semi-regularly during my high school days, and quite regularly when I worked as summer help doing warehousing/teamster work for E.W. Brockman Company. When they’d place an order I’d basically deliver any and every paper good they’d use. The most delicious greasy-spoon burgers, crispest crinkle-cut fries, and most gigantic milkshakes around. You could drive from Connersville to Liberty, eat at J’s and get back to work in just barely under an hour.

Dinner was from Lee’s Famous Recipe Chicken. Just a regular fast food joint. Can’t hold a candle to the St. Gabriel’s Fried Chicken  dinner at the Fayette County Free Fair, but it was the best fried chicken in town otherwise, and to my taste-memory, no other fast food fried chicken will ever be the same. We ate our chicken dinner at Robert’s Park, home to the aforementioned fair, demolition derbies, harness racing (and illegal gambling), classic car shows, and frequent cross-country practice destination. In the pre-season, we’d run past the dirt track, into the woods and go swimming in the Whitewater River.

Tomorrow will be Kunkel’s Drive-in for lunch. Tenderloin basket with heavy mustard and a vanilla coke. The cute girls always worked at Dairy Queen, K-mart, or Kunkel’s in high school. I remember sitting in the back of my dad’s van as a little kid and unwrapping the smell of deep fried pork, the later taste of mustard crusted in the corner of my mouth. Pizza King for dinner. Holiest of holies. St. Louis-style pie. Do you prefer westside or southside? It matters. I’m a southside feller, the oversized gooey chocolate chip cookies and tabletop arcade games as a boy, and its liquor license as an adult. I spent more time at westside though, where the teens hung out in my day. Dairy Twist for dessert, even if Abraham doesn’t eat his dinner. I went there every evening one summer for a large cherry milkshake, trying to put on some weight, and never had the confidence to ask out the girl who handed them to me night after night. Didn’t put on any weight either. Fencing in college finally did that. Now, the fight is to keep it off. Just not this week.

I’ll still have the memories of being perched on the hill at 514 Franklin Street, overlooking the whole city and feeling like a trip-step would send me sprawling onto St. Gabriel’s steeple. But I won’t be driving past that house anymore. I’ll still have memories of the house on Stoneybrook Lane, the entire days spent in William’s Creek, swinging on grape vines, socks covered in burdocks, being forced to strip outside and be cold-hosed off before even being allowed near the house. But I won’t be near that creek again. I’ll still have memories of rolling up toward Richmond with the boys, 45 minutes to the nearest movie theater, the backroad route, Pennville to Pottershop, late night truck stop stop for the Night Owl Special: a platter of biscuits and gravy for $2.00. Now just a 10 minute stretch on I-70 as I barrel toward Indianapolis.

I’ve hated on Connersville in my day. Even wrote a letter to the editor once upon a time. But it’s a great place to raise a kid, and the growing-up-to-hate-it-and-leaving is kind of necessary; if we didn’t drift away like dandelion fluff, Connersville wouldn’t be Connersville. Water flows away from the spring to nourish other areas.

My Dad Died

Saturday, 19 February 2011

My dad died awhile back, on Wednesday, 19 January 2011. He was diagnosed with lung cancer in the latter half of 2010, had a lung removed, and then developed an untreatable infection.

Don’t smoke, people.

The Past

Here’s the thing: shame though it may be, for me, my dad died one summer afternoon about 17 years ago. As a 13 year-old, I jumped out of the 1970 Pontiac GTO (that I helped him restore) on Western Avenue & 18th Street in Connersville, Indiana. He was yelling about how he was going to beat the hell out of me when we got to his home. My father died during the terror of those minutes in the car, while I feverishly weighed the options on how best to protect myself. I never drive past the ramshackle house halfway down that block without remembering.

At first it wasn’t like he’d died, but grew into death as the years rolled by. Throughout high school and tapering off in college there were awkward instances at cross-country meets, cards wishing me Happy Birthday & the like. I was unable to reconcile the man he appeared to be in public (which seemed an act to me) with the man who once spent an entire day of visitation driving me around in his van and yelling at me & my mom for making his other children bastards in the eyes of the Catholic Church. I was unable to reconcile the man who said he wanted to be a part of my life with the man who fought tooth & nail to avoid contributing to my upbringing & education.

He was easier to forget as those attempts at interaction came fewer and farther between. Once I started my blog, I knew he read it, he left strange, stilted comments from time to time, but by then it was easy to just see these as coming from one more stranger among the bunch. The awkward attempts to communicate with me via the occasional card, email forwards, blog comments & proxies were the my father could do. I think he had a permanent victim mentality. This allowed him to twist the wrongs he did to others into wrongs done unto him. There is no need to admit mistakes or ask for forgiveness (two things I never heard or saw him do) when one is the chronic victim. Repeat the spin enough and others will believe it, repeat it long enough and you’ll start to believe it yourself.

In high school, one of my teachers (and a onetime friend of my father) had a talk with me about his aborted relationship with his father . He confided in me that his one regret in life was that he didn’t make peace with his father when he had the chance. I wasn’t anywhere near a place where I could have done that when I was given that advice, but it has always stuck with me. I frequently thought about contacting my father, but continually put it off, sometimes through my own reluctance, but sometimes that decision was reinforced through the actions of people close to him. I’ve received hate-filled emails through the years, most long-since deleted, but here’s a recent sample, from a complete stranger:

Hey, can I be any clearer now? Do I have your attention? I know Don has kept in touch with you and let you know what is going on, but I dont know if you seem to understand the severity of this situation. Are you really that shallow that you are going to allow your own father, who gave you life, to go through this surgery, that he may or may NOT live through, and never let him meet his grandson? You are a sick, pathetic excuse for a person and you have no feelings. My kids are so hurt by this. He is their grandpa and they love him and he treats them wonderful and they dont judge him by mistakes he has made in the past. I am crying on a nightly basis and praying to God that he makes it through and you cant even reach out to him in his time of need. He is not even my father, but he has treated me like a daugther since the day we met……You should be ASHAMED of yourself. Every year that man has bought Christmas presents for you and they have just piled up in a closet in his and my moms house because you never had the guts to show up. BE A MAN ADAM and let your boy meet his grandfather. Stop running. You are going to regret this decision for the rest of your life if he dosnt make it through the surgery. Please make peace. Your dad wants to be a father to you and ALWAYS has. Sorry your mom ruined that for you but your old enough to make your own decisions now. Be the adult and face him and let him know you give a damn. He loves you with all of his heart and it makes me sick the way he aches to meet his grandson and wants to see you. You make me SICK. You so deserve an ass beatin!!!! I wish we could have been friends or family but you refused to let that happen and I tried to give you the benifit of the doubt over the years and keep my opinion of you to myself but seriously, how do you look at yourself in the mirror everyday? ????

Do the right thing for your son Adam. Stop being selfish and thinking about yourself. The world dosnt revolved around you. Are you old enough to understand that yet???


Whenever I thought that reconciliation was a possibility I would receive a reminder of the unhealthy environment I’d been deliberately avoiding. I’ve never felt the need to accept that negativity into my life.

Things could have been much different these past 17 years if at any point in that time I had gotten the sense from him that he had changed in any way, but that never happened. In some ways, I’m still that scared 13 year-old boy when thinking of my father, and I think my father was never able to see me as more than the scared 13 year-old boy he didn’t understand. Not only did I never get an indication from him that he had changed, but bits and dribbles of rumor made their way to me through a variety of sources that confirmed my suspicions. Once my son was born, I started hearing from people that he would show folks a picture of Abraham and tell them “That’s as close as I’m ever going to get to meeting him.” I think the only way he knew to get attention from others was to manipulate them into giving him what he wanted.

For 17 years there have been things that I’ve needed to discuss with my father; now I will no longer have a chance to do so. It might be cowardice on my part for never having attempted to make those tough conversations happen, and I think I bear a small amount of responsibility (the same responsibility any person has for resolving unfinished business with another) for not having contacted him once I was mature enough to know my own mind, but a greater responsibility lay upon him to seek amends with me. Not once in the 17 years of our estrangement did he approach me forthrightly, contritely or non-manipulatively. The approaches were always oblique, condescending, retarded, as if he could not notice the giant red flag of his abuse. I don’t know, maybe he couldn’t see it. Nothing could be easier than to spread blame around; the fact remains that the situation will always remain a sad one. It’s a shame; especially since I forgave my father years ago. However, forgiveness is only productive when it is shared with someone who seeks it; and forgiving someone for an abusive relationship does not require maintenance of that relationship. I made my peace with him, but he never gave himself the chance to find out.

For 17 years I didn’t want the growing pile of Christmas presents in his closet, I wanted my father to respect himself, our relationship, and me enough to say that he was sorry.

A lot of buried bitterness percolated to the top in this section. I’ve known about it and recognized it for years, and since I’ve done that, along with knowing and recognizing other dangerous emotions and probabilities that are my inheritance from my dad, I’ve been able to channel them into productive energy, towards myself, my son, my kith & kin. And bitterness is a passive emotion; I bore and bear my father no ill will; I was saddened to hear of his cancer and decline in the same way I would be saddened by hearing that news about any person that I know.

The Future

Because I’ve lived over half my life without a father, I’ve had to learn most of what it means to be a man on my own. That’s both a hindrance and a help; a hindrance because I’ve had no consistent presence to set an example or offer guidance, a help because that very lack of presence has forced me to work hard at defining manhood for myself, and I feel that I’ve reached an understanding that I would have been incapable of if I hadn’t had to do the work myself. The learning process began with simple things, like teaching myself to shave, but has expanded and morphed throughout the years into something as complex as a philosophy for my actions & decisions as a father. There will always be holes in the foundation, but that just means I need to change the metaphor for manhood from a structural one into a progressive one; it’s a journey, not a house. A journey changes, a house settles.

Because of my father’s disappointment that I wasn’t the boy he wanted me to be, I’ve learned the opposite of his example: to accept that what I want has nothing to do with what is. I’ve learned that the imposition of will is less powerful than running water. Instead of beating on a wall and getting nowhere, flow around it and move beyond. The difference between being stubborn & being implacable.

I’ve been blessed to have surrogate father figures throughout the years, not the least of which have been my uncles. They have always been there with the right advice – right when I need it. I haven’t gone through this alone, and though I’ve done my best in this post to stick to the core and key (my father, forgiveness, myself) of this many-tentacled interpersonal conflict, there is much more that could be said. For my part, I think I’ve shared what has been most important to me. It is nice to finally lay the burden down.

The whole paradigm I’ve been talking about and working through is a sad and complex situation. This story could have been about repentence, forgiveness and healing; so what I mourn most is what the last 17 years could have been if things had been different. One thing I do know, my future will be different; I’ve got my reasons and I’ve got the motivation.

514 Snapshot

Tuesday, 20 April 2010

Rosie & Adam circa 1986

This image has been on my About page for years. Before that, as evidenced by the crinkly, thumbtack-bestabbed border of the photograph, it was on my bulletin board for years. It was taken at my first home, 514 Franklin Street, in Connersville, Indiana.

There’s a special place in my heart for this photo, despite the completely incorrect white-balance. Rosie, my beagle, was my boon companion for 10 years. I still remember the moment this was taken, the concrete on this side porch was always cold and slightly damp, I could feel it through my sock-feet, and the sandstony grit under my hands. I’ve got my arm locked around Rosie so she would be forced to look at the camera for the photo.

There were always slugs on the sidewalk.


Wednesday, 6 January 2010

When I was very small, the worst word I knew was “hate.” I could get smacked for using it too freely or inappropriately. Later, I was taught the typical truism “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything.” Once I’d processed that by being required to sit in a chair and think about manners a few times, I then became confused about the difference between a comment and a compliment. I understood perfectly well what a compliment was, but a comment was a conundrum. Apparently a comment didn’t have to be complimentary. So to my tiny binary mind, this certainly meant that comments were not something that was good.

It’s toddler logic, like the time I asked Mom to name everything that began with the letter m. Hey, Mom begins with m doesn’t it? She must know everything else that begins with m then.

Refection Reflection

Tuesday, 29 August 2006

Since my library books and Amazon order haven’t arrived yet I started rereading David Cooper’s Existentialism last night. I picked this up at a table in the faculty building at Notre Dame many years ago. This was a very cool table. Profs would drop whatever books they no longer had a use for there for other profs [and piratical students like myself] to snatch. Unfortunately I didn’t find out about this table until my junior year, thereby missing two years of potentially awesome library building.

In any case, apart from a few copies of The New Yorker whose covers I coveted until I threw them out, this volume is the only one I can actually be certain came from the holy table. Coming as it did, post- my existentialist philosophy course, this book has served as a refresher since that day. Last night, the same section that always catches my eye caught my eye last night in the same section. If you use Amazon’s Search Inside This Book feature and go to page three you can read it for yourself and a bit more. I’ll still excerpt the critical point.

…to quote Kierkegaard again, ‘an existing individual is always in the process of becoming.’ …no complete account can be given of a human being without reference to what he is in the process of becoming. … “As Heidegger puts it, the human being is always ‘ahead of himself’, always unterwegs (“on the way”). …Unlike the stone, whose essence or nature is ‘given’, a person’s existence, writes Ortega y Gasset ‘consists not in what it is already, but what it is not yet…Existence…is the process of realizing…the aspiration we are.’

This is always a good reminder for me when I get frustrated about the difficulty in realizing my aspirations. As long as I exist, I’ll be in the process of becoming something new. Satisfaction and must arise from the journey while motivation must arise from the destination, even if never reached. That’s almost exactly the point of Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus.

My application and understanding of this idea doesn’t bind fully to a pure existentialism [which probably doesn’t exist], but it works well enough for me.

Ice Cream When You’re Sick

Monday, 15 May 2006

When I used to get sick and mom would take off a bit of work to care for me, I wouldn’t have much of an appetite. Often, I’d request ice cream, and, not getting it, would be told that I’m obviously not that sick if I want to eat ice cream. A compromise was usually reached with strawberry gelatin, which I only want when I’m sick.

Mother’s day this year was kind of a bust. I went home, but halfway through Saturday mom came down with a fever so we left the auction we were at and I hauled her home and attempted to care for her. Now I know where my crotchety nature when I’m ill comes from. I finally convinced her to get in bed and later in the evening she wanted something to eat. What did she want to eat? Ice Cream. I gave her some.


Thursday, 16 February 2006

After my run yesterday I went to Dave’s and made myself a salad and grabbed a Braeburn apple. It was what my body was craving, so apparently I needed some iron [the majority of the leafy greens were spinach] and sundry other ruffage. It disappeared in no time. When I was working over the summer at Notre Dame, I used to take my lunch break and drive over to the Martin’s in Mishawaka with one of the guys on the ND cross country team who lived next door to me in the athlete dorm. There was a very limited and somewhat costly DH option, but the Martin’s salad bar was a nearly neverending source of relatively cheap and filling healthiness. Especially when I didn’t want to make tuna mac in the community kitchen.

Last night I also purchased some chocolate morsels, because I realized I didn’t have anything to bake with. So I anticipate cookie baking in the near future.