“Home folks think I’m big in Detroit City. From the letters that I write they think I’m fine. But by day I make the cars, by night I make the bars, if only they could read between the lines. I wanna go home.” - Bobby Bare, “Detroit City” There are images that never leave a boy’s consciousness. They inform the man he becomes but a certain mystery never recedes. I cannot ever forget seeing my father on the floor of our little house, lying on his back in the living room, kicking and screaming, “I want my mama. I want my mama.” His older brother, Tom, was leaning over Daddy hoping to calm his great angst but was having no success. I was eight years old and was trying to see around my mother’s seersucker waitress dress, fearful and withdrawn. In the driveway, there was a van and two men with white coats who came to the door. My father was a giant but I think they gave him a shot to ease his histrionics because he was stronger than any four men but he was easily handled. They then slipped a kind of jacket over his head and down his arms. The sleeves had ropes and snaps at the end and they were tied and buckled around behind his back. Daddy was sobbing as they helped him out the door.
James, thank you. So much of the writing around the 80th anniversary of D-Day has been soft-focused and patriotic — my own included. Your reporting chops (even with your Daddy) and storytelling ability have delivered a powerful and somber glimpse into the pain and suffering felt by the victors. There are no winners in war.
Nope, and yet we keep doing it. Remember this quote from "Blood Meridian?" "War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner." – Blood Meridian, 1985.
My regard for your writing continues to grow. I realize you're writing about some very personal topics and it may be painful (or maybe cathartic) to do so, but you're opening a window into another world for me and, I'm guessing, other readers. It's a world I care about. And it leads me to consider, more, my own dad.
It's both painful and cathartic, Mick. I've been messing with a book idea surrounding my parents lives and writing on it for years. I've got one more project to complete before I devote myself to that full time.
This is so real it is raw. The pain.. endured, absorbed, inflicted, denied….unresolved. Grateful for your resilience and your amazing ability to tell the real story. ♥️
I'm not sure, were I you, and I'm not, that I could have stood to hear the answers to my questions. In the words of Marlon Brando "The horror, the horror."
Yeah, I knew the answers would not be anything I wanted to hear but I didn't think I could live my entire life without asking. The main thing I wanted to learn was how he arrived at his unmistakable dislike of his oldest son. I guess we take the parents we get and make the most out of them, eh?
As a kid going through the cigar box with some of Dad’s WWII medals and embroidered patches, the nicest was an elegant long thin silver rifle on about a 3” blue background. Always assumed it must have been his sniper’s medal. How do I now know I must have been wrong? Because it was very similar to the Afghanistan “stolen valor” Combat Infantryman Badge that Texas Congressman Troy Nehls has been taking crap about from his fellow Republicans about all week for wearing every day, even though it had been revoked because he was a civil affairs officer and never served in either combat or the infantry. (The George Santos squadron?)
Fireflies, your candor, and attention to detail about what Charles Whiting had correctly identified as the “other” Battle of the Bulge was, as usual the difference between just a very good memory and, yes, literature. I remember the first time you recounted the sniper incident here, and it’s still powerful stuff worth experiencing again on this D Day anniversary.
This story crawled into my gut and pulled out buried memories. Your father was a victim of the times and the life of the silent generation. I know from your past revelations that your father would not have liked someone who looks like me, but I see my father and others of their generation in him. Their pain had no where to go. Jesus. As long as I've known you, I had no idea all you endured. I understand now why you write and why your writing makes us, like your dad, think about things we don't want to think about.
There really aren't therapies for some of the things that happen to us. Both our fathers had to internalize what hurt. Your dad was probably slighted and treated poorly his entire life because of the amount of melanin in his skin. My father had been taught from the time he could talk that people who looked like your dad are lesser humans than ones with less melanin in their skin. How do we unteach such evil to people who never had an education? My dad never had a release for his anger, which I assume grew out of being poor in a land of plenty, and probably his war experiences. My only therapy is to write about it, and hope others read and understand we are all imperfect and can only improve our lives with honesty and understanding. The good news is that people like you and I get this and a lot of crap is ending with our generation, and especially with our children.
You captured it! Yes. Daddy was threatened with lynching after returning from the fox holes of WWII. And you can't unteach or medicate those situations away, although mine used scotch to try. Hopefully, there are more of us than those who perpetuate anger, pain, and evil.
So difficult. Thank you for telling the story, Jim. My goodness. It reminds me of a book about war called Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes. I suspect you have read it, but if not I highly recommend it.
Your story reminds me of my Daddy, a WWII Navy combat veteran. He was a kind man, but he did have a problem with the bottle. He was forthcoming in telling me his war stories, each of which invariably ended with him telling me that war is hell on earth and we should hope we never get involved in another one. I think I became a hippie peacenik because I internalized his message.
I'm also reminded of a quotation from another WWII veteran:
"I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity."—Dwight D. Eisenhower
Omigosh, Jim, this piece is just exquisite. Powerful and tender; a two-man play that should be staged. Have you ever thought about doing that with any of your essays? This was the essence for me: “But I been seein’ that boy just about every day of my life ever since.”
Thanks, Dave. No, never have thought about a two-man play, but it does lend itself to that, doesn't it. Be kind of a depressing set piece, though, I think. Guess the writer could save it with something upbeat like forgiveness and redemption, eh? Thanks for reading it, though.
One person’s “depressing set piece” is another person’s catharsis. Regardless, a good writer like you could easily make it a bit more upbeat with a couple of gratuitous references to Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable!🤣
James, thank you. So much of the writing around the 80th anniversary of D-Day has been soft-focused and patriotic — my own included. Your reporting chops (even with your Daddy) and storytelling ability have delivered a powerful and somber glimpse into the pain and suffering felt by the victors. There are no winners in war.
Nope, and yet we keep doing it. Remember this quote from "Blood Meridian?" "War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner." – Blood Meridian, 1985.
My regard for your writing continues to grow. I realize you're writing about some very personal topics and it may be painful (or maybe cathartic) to do so, but you're opening a window into another world for me and, I'm guessing, other readers. It's a world I care about. And it leads me to consider, more, my own dad.
It's both painful and cathartic, Mick. I've been messing with a book idea surrounding my parents lives and writing on it for years. I've got one more project to complete before I devote myself to that full time.
This is so real it is raw. The pain.. endured, absorbed, inflicted, denied….unresolved. Grateful for your resilience and your amazing ability to tell the real story. ♥️
Sure appreciate your kind words, Linda. Always great to know when a writer has thoughtful readers like you.
Thanks JB.
I'm not sure, were I you, and I'm not, that I could have stood to hear the answers to my questions. In the words of Marlon Brando "The horror, the horror."
Yeah, I knew the answers would not be anything I wanted to hear but I didn't think I could live my entire life without asking. The main thing I wanted to learn was how he arrived at his unmistakable dislike of his oldest son. I guess we take the parents we get and make the most out of them, eh?
Jim Bob, a very sobering albeit devastating story! Thank you for sharing. Joe Tex
As a kid going through the cigar box with some of Dad’s WWII medals and embroidered patches, the nicest was an elegant long thin silver rifle on about a 3” blue background. Always assumed it must have been his sniper’s medal. How do I now know I must have been wrong? Because it was very similar to the Afghanistan “stolen valor” Combat Infantryman Badge that Texas Congressman Troy Nehls has been taking crap about from his fellow Republicans about all week for wearing every day, even though it had been revoked because he was a civil affairs officer and never served in either combat or the infantry. (The George Santos squadron?)
Fireflies, your candor, and attention to detail about what Charles Whiting had correctly identified as the “other” Battle of the Bulge was, as usual the difference between just a very good memory and, yes, literature. I remember the first time you recounted the sniper incident here, and it’s still powerful stuff worth experiencing again on this D Day anniversary.
This story crawled into my gut and pulled out buried memories. Your father was a victim of the times and the life of the silent generation. I know from your past revelations that your father would not have liked someone who looks like me, but I see my father and others of their generation in him. Their pain had no where to go. Jesus. As long as I've known you, I had no idea all you endured. I understand now why you write and why your writing makes us, like your dad, think about things we don't want to think about.
There really aren't therapies for some of the things that happen to us. Both our fathers had to internalize what hurt. Your dad was probably slighted and treated poorly his entire life because of the amount of melanin in his skin. My father had been taught from the time he could talk that people who looked like your dad are lesser humans than ones with less melanin in their skin. How do we unteach such evil to people who never had an education? My dad never had a release for his anger, which I assume grew out of being poor in a land of plenty, and probably his war experiences. My only therapy is to write about it, and hope others read and understand we are all imperfect and can only improve our lives with honesty and understanding. The good news is that people like you and I get this and a lot of crap is ending with our generation, and especially with our children.
You captured it! Yes. Daddy was threatened with lynching after returning from the fox holes of WWII. And you can't unteach or medicate those situations away, although mine used scotch to try. Hopefully, there are more of us than those who perpetuate anger, pain, and evil.
So difficult. Thank you for telling the story, Jim. My goodness. It reminds me of a book about war called Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes. I suspect you have read it, but if not I highly recommend it.
Yeah, Mark. I went to Barnes and Noble the day Matterhorn came out. Quite magnificent book. I think it took him 7 years to write.
Your story reminds me of my Daddy, a WWII Navy combat veteran. He was a kind man, but he did have a problem with the bottle. He was forthcoming in telling me his war stories, each of which invariably ended with him telling me that war is hell on earth and we should hope we never get involved in another one. I think I became a hippie peacenik because I internalized his message.
I'm also reminded of a quotation from another WWII veteran:
"I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity."—Dwight D. Eisenhower
I can relate Jim Bob. Here are a couple of interviews of and for my Dad in WWII: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrbTjYyi2Ic and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjY8XhU5Ix4&t=391s
Omigosh, Jim, this piece is just exquisite. Powerful and tender; a two-man play that should be staged. Have you ever thought about doing that with any of your essays? This was the essence for me: “But I been seein’ that boy just about every day of my life ever since.”
Thanks for this and so many others.
Thanks, Dave. No, never have thought about a two-man play, but it does lend itself to that, doesn't it. Be kind of a depressing set piece, though, I think. Guess the writer could save it with something upbeat like forgiveness and redemption, eh? Thanks for reading it, though.
Hey Jim,
One person’s “depressing set piece” is another person’s catharsis. Regardless, a good writer like you could easily make it a bit more upbeat with a couple of gratuitous references to Rita Hayworth and Betty Grable!🤣