THE GAMEMAKER’S FATHER
Free Kindle App for PC, Mac, Tablet or Smartphone
ON THIS PAGE:
ROYA FETOVA – Be a part of the online crowd sourced novel.
Scroll down for the latest chapter
© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved
REAL LIFE
In a previous post, I told about flying a small plane on instruments through a series of thunderstorms and the shock and delight of making it back alive. I made the case that, whether we write about it in fiction or experience it in real life, there’s something wonderful about the thrill of imminent death—a feeling for which I have no words. Then the death of a loved one brought home a forgotten lesson. In the article that followed, I presented stark images—sights the bulk of us avoid. I made the case that, in real life, common events move us—events too mundane for fiction. Is that strictly true? I now have yet another side of the question to explore. Let me tell you a story about a loving mother who did her best.
My mom grew up poor and rough in the Great Depression under the thumb of a perfectionist mother and an alcoholic, abusive father, who threatened the family with death on a number of occasions and at one point had to be subdued with a tire iron. Mom moved around between relatives. To complete high school, she worked as a nanny, a house cleaner, later at an office in the city.
Skip to the end of her life. She nursed her sick husband for seven years. He died, and so did her mother, her sister, other relatives, and friends—all in a short span of time. Her own health failed and she spent eight grueling years in ever-increasing pain. Three weeks ago, she was diagnosed with Leukemia, just as my father had been. She died three days later at age 78, just as my father did. This all sounds grim and you might get the picture of a woman who suffered all her life. She did suffer, but looking through her photo albums, I am reminded of a vibrant, powerful and loving mother who graced our family with joy and the profound and wonderful life she lived between those hard times.
As a child, she grew up on a farm—a “Tom Boy,” winning marbles from the other kids, tipping over outhouses and sometimes getting a backside of buckshot. She lived with enthusiasm and created all sorts of mischief.
Dad dated her on his birthday and soon proposed on her birthday, then married her shortly after that on Veteran’s Day so they’d always have their anniversaries free together. Mom married him when she was only 19—a love affair lasting over 50 years. Only death separated them. True Love—just like the movie, The Princess Bride. Two people who faced life and conquered. Imagine the joy of a passionate love like that. It makes me re-think my statement about the mundane nature of life as compared to fiction.
At first, they struggled, but I think those proved the most joyful years of all. She repaired and renovated that first house—a wreck that she turned into a home. She re-plastered walls, re-finished and re-built furniture. Painted inside and out. Made our clothing and did all sorts of sewing and needlework. Picked and canned cherries and apples from our own trees. Fed us vegetables from her own garden in the vacant lot out back. Baked bread. Hand made Christmas cards. Frugal—nothing wasted.
She gave us wonderful meals—everything from scratch. Nothing too good for her family. When she cooked spaghetti, she created sculpture out of mushrooms. She had to teach herself to cook. When I was young, she made a coffee cake and put in way too much yeast. (Some of you may recall an I Love Lucy television episode along those lines.) Mom just cut it in half. Now she had two coffee cakes–both good!
Later, Dad started his own business. Mom risked the house to get that company going and it came back as a wonderful blessing. When they built a new home, Mom designed it, right down to the scale drawings.
She always found pride in her family and loved us deeply. She kept photos—lots of them—the newest babies always in front. A closet full of scrapbooks. Pictures stained with tears. She loved being a great grandmother. Mom boasted 3 children, 9 grandchildren, 6 great grandchildren. With spouses, that’s 24 immediate family. Often, she’d say, “Look what Bob and I started.”
All my life, Mom’s home served as the base for festivities and celebrations that included the entire extended family and friends. I’m talking huge family gatherings. Mom cleaned. Cooked elaborate meals. Entertained. Took care of aging relatives who’d often stay several nights. She and Dad organized game tournaments that kept the party alive. Later, when they could afford it, they loved to treat us out to dinner. When Mom and Dad threw a party for friends, 300 people might show up.
Mom never believed it, but she possessed an amazing intelligence. She made paintings, sculpture, played piano and sang in the church choir. She loved family games, especially strategy games and she usually won. In recent years, she’d often fall asleep between turns but she’d win anyway. That’s right—she beat us in her sleep.
Back when she was poor and some dear family members found themselves caught between jobs without a home, Mom took them in. Those were good times for me. Three more kids in the house. It lasted only a few months, but seems like the bulk of my childhood. Mom cleaned her church, worked tirelessly for Right to Life and with mentally disabled adults. Just the other day, my nephew told me of a time when a stranger rushed up to Mom and Dad and thanked them for paying for their child’s operation. Imagine that. They never told anybody.
During her last day on earth, she enjoyed two joyous visits with grandchildren and gave marital advice. She always gave advice. (Nobody could stop her.) She also shared her faith that day. That night, in terrible pain, she phoned me to pray for the help of the Holy Spirit. You see, my mother accepted Christ’s free gift of salvation and lived in His grace. She accepted it by faith. She lived a vibrant life and also labored and suffered, but she knew her final destination. I have complete certainty that she’s with the Lord. Every pain and sorrow gone. Every tear wiped away.
REAL DEATH
We don’t write about such things. The events that move us in the real world are too mundane for that. I step away from the norm to give my account.
I’ve sent the four limos away and stand in my best blue suit and black wool coat, flanked by two strong nephews who asked permission to remain with me at a time when polite society withdraws. It’s January 29th, yet hundreds of stale, wind-blown Christmas wreaths remain staked to the ground in long, precise rows. The wind gusts against our fresh displays of pink and lavender roses. How they cut such a clean rectangle into the ground, I don’t know.
Calloused hands guide rolls of green nylon strap as the cherry wood casket recedes into the ground. No one speaks. Not one of the yellow roses perched on that burnished lid move and I recall they remained on my father’s coffin eight years back when he died at age 78. My mother is 78 and now she’s dead. Leukemia. Both of them. My dress shoes kick at wet, dirty snow, then I step onto plywood, worn through and ragged, covering the ground at the edge of the grave. I lean forward and stare into the hole, fixing the image in my mind. Permanently.
A concrete lid is winched onto the vault and I see my mother’s name in gold. The funeral director watches till it’s properly seated, then nods and walks off. The hearse pulls away. A truck backs onto the plywood and pours crushed limestone into the hole. We stare for I don’t know how long till it returns to dump wet clods of earth, filling the hole in less than a minute. A ragged worker. A small bladed shovel smoothing the heap. I scoop loose dirt from the truck bed and deposit it on the pile. This is real dirt—both clay and black soil that sticks to my fingers and palm. He finishes his task. I thank him. I don’t know his name.
Why am I here while a crowd of loved ones wait at a restaurant three miles down the road? I am numb. I need release. I want closure. I am forcing it on myself. While others turn away from their loss, I face it at the cost of sudden pain. Of all the images of death, the crown of dirt that seals that hole is the most potent—more than kissing her brow before they removed the corpse. My mother’s body lies hidden—hidden as if she had never been. Nothing left but the wind.
“If that were really all there was to life, what would be the point?” I say. My nephews both agree. The Truth is stark and obvious as we stand there, numb and humble. She no longer has use of her husk or for human pain. She’s in the presence of the Lord.
As the car approaches, I’m thankful the driver stayed so long. We leave almost a thousand dollars of flowers at that gravesite and step around an icy puddle, into the black interior and my tears finally come as we glide to the place of good company, food and comfort.
NEW YEAR
A couple articles back, I pointed out that drama encompasses human change and I cited Scrooge. Little did I know that real change would be visited upon me so soon after writing those words. New Years is upon us—a time to celebrate the year and dedicate ourselves to personal transformation that makes for a good life, not just good drama.
It was three days ago, Christmas night—Christmas night, mind you—a time when love and gratitude settle on us and we reflect upon good family times. Not me. I returned home stewing in anger over the outrageous attitudes, words, and actions of another family member.
It’s difficult to confront a person like me, but my son wouldn’t leave me in that state. Instead, he drew me into conversation with my wife and daughter in what might be termed an “intervention.” They gave up their happy Christmas night to do it. How do you respond when people tell you the Truth? Do you recognize it when you hear it? If so, can you face it? If so, can you act on it?
They laid out the situation in irrefutable logic. They made their case and made it well. They put in the time needed to convince me. Their conclusions weren’t the ones I’d been harboring in my heart, yet I had to agree with their verdict. How could I deny it? Guilty. Guilty as charged.
Intervention is an invasive, painful process. The incisions and sutures still hurt as I write these words, three days later. But because of the strength of those three dear ones, I made it right with a beloved family member. Our relationship is healed. Years of anger look like foolishness to me. Understanding has replaced outrage.
God bless my wife and kids. God bless them for this Christmas gift and this New Year.
FATHER
This Christmas I want to talk about the concept of “Father.” I don’t know how to do that without getting intensely personal, so that’s what I’m about to do. Some people relate to the word Father with tender feelings of love and warmth. Others find the thought chilling. I hope these few words will have meaning to both groups.
My father grew up poor and tough in the depression, then survived WWII. As a toddler, I watched him swear at other drivers and spit out the window of his old Plymouth. He taught me to sing “The Lady in Red,” and perform it for company, much to my mother’s shame—I didn’t know any better. His passions flared and extinguished rapidly. I later learned that he’d often get drunk. As a child, I couldn’t understand why, one night, Mom locked him out of the house to sleep on the porch. My father seemed perfect to me.
I later learned that my father was a man of integrity who feared nothing. He never responded to an ultimatum. He’d risk his business on a single job, again and again—and win. He hotly negotiated with union leaders and came out the victor. He beat the Mafia when they tried to impose price fixing in his industry.
As I grew, so did my father. He loved life and he loved people, putting them—all of them—ahead of himself. Year-by-year he became more tolerant, more patient, more compassionate, more generous, more loving. He grew into an intensely happy man, beloved by hundreds of friends and the central figure of his extended family. I’ve known him to throw a party and have 300 people show up. I recall one big tough Swede once say, “I love him. I just love him.”
When his business had no work, he’d keep everybody on the payroll anyway. When a foreman was injured, Dad kept him at full salary. I recall running the night shift on a field job when an old boilermaker told me how my father took him and his entire crew to dinner and that he’d never forget it. Without deserving it personally, I was a special person in that man’s eyes, just because I was my father’s son. A lot of people treated me that way because of who Dad was.
The Lord gave us the analogy of Father, Son and Spirit so that we’d understand His complex nature on our own terms. I’m His son. Without deserving it, that makes me a special person. Unfortunately, those who grew up with abusive fathers, absent fathers, those from broken homes and those who have suffered all sorts of humiliation and hurt at the hands of a father have a hard time with the Lord’s beautiful picture. In my novel, I try to address that issue. I hope that my simple story can mend some of that hurt. Merry Christmas!
THE NEGATIVE CHARACTER
Drama encompasses human change. The main character is transformed. As a reader, I’d be disappointed if that change turned out for the worse. By definition, that means the main character must start out seriously flawed. Is this logical, so far? If so, then stay with me:
I’m talking about real character flaws here, not just some guy who needs to take a bath more often. I want to wear his skin for a few days and see what it’s like. He’s not the villain. No, he’s the main guy, the one we’re going to root for at the end. Yes, I’m one of those who always has to do things the hard way. I’ve written a novel through the point of view of a negative character.
In my life, I have yet to meet Mary Poppins—“Practically perfect in every way.” I have met George Banks and I’ve also met Scrooge.
I’ve been privileged to experience all sorts of work with all types of ordinary people. That includes time I treasure with boilermakers, pipe fitters, millwrights, electricians, ironworkers and machinists. We worked in heavy industry—power boilers 200 feet high, everything big and loud and dirty. These guys carried knives and guns on the job. They opened steel gang boxes at night with blow torches and made off with tools for their own garages. They spent their nights in bars. Two offered to do a hit for me—and at a bargain price.
My main character, Zachary, is a machinist foreman. He deals with guys like that every day and commands their respect. He’d naturally advise his son, “Don’t take nothin’ from nobody.”
In a novel, such characters come off as gruff at the beginning. Fortunately for me, most of my readers identify Zachary with somebody in their own lives. Some may recall a hard father or uncle—one they never understood, maybe feared. They want to get into that guy’s head and rummage around. It’s interesting. It’s satisfying to fix something that’s already hopelessly broken.
I like Mary Poppins as much as the next person. It’s a masterpiece and it cheers me. I’m delighted when George Banks flies a kite. But once in a while I want to read about some rough-edged individualist who needs to figure out what human love really means. That’s uplifting to me. It’s all very well for Dick Van Dyke to sweep chimneys and treat everybody with good cheer, dignity and respect, but a lot of people grew up under the thumb of a guy who could knock you out of your chair with the back of a hand and think nothing of it.
Now, admit it. Don’t you want him hit the wall? Don’t you want to see it happen through his own eyes? Don’t you want to feel his struggle when he’s forced to change? Or do you just want a nice sweet story?
“Bah! Humbug!”
PARENTAL INFLUENCES
How does a mother influence her husband’s negative message to their son?
This situation is poison for a family. The father may be abusive or alcoholic. On the other hand, he may be well-meaning, wanting to teach his son—but he teaches all the wrong things. The consequences can be devastating to a boy and last his entire life.
The problem becomes more thorny when the husband has his own strongly-held world view and spends a considerable amount of time alone with the boy.
I’m exploring this issue in my novel. Zachary views life as a constant battle and intends to teach Nate to survive it. He wants to make him into a man, but his definition of manhood is limited. Zachary hides his emotions and can’t express human love. He bulls through life, oblivious to joy. Big and powerful, Zachary has made it through by fighting many battles. Nate, on the other hand, is small for his age and brilliant.
Rebecca sees her husband’s world view as hateful and wrong. It’s clear to her that Nate doesn’t need that kind of teaching. She detests the fact that Zachary is using his time with Nate to teach his world view.
What should she do?
