When the summer winds blow they bring with them, sometimes, those hot dry memories of days gone by. Memories and feelings of events so long ago that they seem almost surrealistic. But, as much as we try to forget them, as much as we try to ignore them... they come. The affections of our heart. The winds.
The things of this world so often distract our minds and carry our affections away. And since the things of this world have no conscience of their own, no sense, no thought, no feeling, our affections are frequently wasted in them. For our affections pour out from within us to the things that possess our thoughts and desires. So that the thing which a man most longs for in his life becomes the master of his affections. The summer winds.
If a man longs most of all for wealth then most of his thoughts and actions are directed to the pursuit of wealth. But, when once the object of his affections has been cut off and the treasures of his mind taken away, the man finds himself in a state of utmost grief and despair. For when all that which has meaning to the functions of his mind and heart have vanished nothing remains. The summer winds blow...
My childhood was most unhappy. This is not to say that I was denied moments of great joy. But, there was the ever present sense of fear. This affection, for fear is an affect of the heart, found its source in the forms of my father, my mother, and all of the ghosts and goblins associated with childhood. And as the product of a dysfunctional family, I experienced all of the horrors associated with having a violent alcoholic father and an unhappy abusive mother.
I remember one night in particular, I shall never forget it. The Honey Mooners was on our television that evening and Jacky Gleason was proceeding to get smashed, right along with my Father. This was a frequent event back in those days. Nevertheless, while the program was airing in black and white I watched in living color as the performance was virtually re-enacted right before my very eyes.
We had all just sat down to eat dinner. It was very late, and all six of us kids were very hungry. No one was allowed to eat dinner at our home until after our Father had been seated. On this night my Father had come home late from work... again. I remember him sitting down to his hot steak and baked potatoes, while us children ate cold hot dogs and beans.
"Where were you, Tom?" my Mother asked.
"Working'" my Dad answered, opening his beer with a church-key.
"Again?"
"Yeah" he answered, devouring his steak.
"You've been working an awful lot lately, Tom."
"Overtime" he mumbled.
"Overtime?"
"Yeah..."
"I called your work, Tom."
"Yeah?"
"You left work two hours ago. Where have you been, Tom?"
"I stopped for a drink."
"You stopped for a drink?"
"Yeah."
""For two hours?"
"Yeah."
"I called the tavern, Tom."
"Yeah?"
"You weren't at the tavern, Tom."
"So!"
"So, where were you, Tom?"
With this question my Father beat both of his fists down on the dinner table with thunder, pushed his plate away and yelled, "None of your goddamn business!"
"Look at you, Tom!" my Mother argued. "You're drunk again. You come home late from work while I slave in the kitchen all day to make you this wonderful meal. The kids have been waiting for hours. I don't know where you've been... Just who do you think you are?"
"I am the Master of the house!" he shouted. "I'll do any goddamn thing I want."
My Mother started shaking. "Do you know what day this is, Tom?" she asked.
"What?"
"It's our anniversary."
"So!"
With this my Mother told us children to go to bed. As I was proceeding to my bedroom I remember looking at the television and watching Jacky Gleason proclaim he was "The King" in all his drunken glory while he argued with his wife.
From my bedroom I listened as my mother and father argued.
"I am The King!" my father kept on proclaiming. "I am The King" He was echoing the words of Jacky Gleason.
"Yeah... You're the king, alright, Tom" my mother would reply.
Suddenly, everything grew quiet, except for the voice of Jacky Gleason arguing with his wife on the t.v.. Sometime later, I saw my mother outside my bedroom door, walking through the hallway. She had changed her clothes and was wearing the most beautiful metallic gold dress.
"Where do you think you're going?" My Dad demanded.
"I'm going out."
"You're what?"
"It's my anniversary and I'm going out."
"Bullshit! Whose gonna take you?"
"You are, your Royal Majesty!"
"No frickin way!"
"Why not, Tom?"
"Because I am the King and I said no frickin way!"
The argument raged into the night, my mother and father yelling at one another, louder than I had ever heard them yell before. I was afraid for my mother, I ran out into the living room just as my father lunged at her.
"I'm gonna kill you, you frickin bitch!" he growled.
He hit her, again, and again, and again.
"No, Tom! No, Tom!" my mother was screaming and crying. "Stop! Stop!"
Suddenly, my oldest sister, Sandy, ran up to me and shouted, "Mark! Go back to your bed!" She was scared. I could see the fear in her eyes. I ran back to my room shaking as the fight continued.
While my mother lay crying in the kitchen, my father staggered away. Then some men, who had heard the attack from down the street came to the house. My father fought with them. I heard the punches and the slams and the thuds. One of these men was hurt badly, the other ran away.
My father was a very violent man. He had fought his way out of the ghettos of Chicago to... raise a family. It would seem, however, that it is much easier to take the man out of the ghetto than it is to take the ghetto out of the man.
"I am The King!" He thundered and yelled over and over. "I am The King!"
Soon my father's drunken monologue subsided into a mumble of slurred words as the alcohol took its course and he staggered into a corner of the house where he collapsed. When the police finally came and took my father away it was not without another fight.
I ran to my mother in the kitchen. She was still lying on the floor crying, covered in her own blood. Her beautiful golden dress was torn to shreds. The blood was pouring from her mouth, which she was covering with her hand. But, when she saw me she removed her hand away from her mouth and I could plainly see that her teeth had been knocked out. It was a terrible sight to behold for a child of six.
"Mark!" She sputtered, "Go back to bed!"
"But, Mommy!" I cried, "What happened to you?"
I cried with my mother
And I knew her pain
We trembled together
Under tears like rain
Her blood on her shoulder
My chin on her stain
And hate for my father
Was conceived in my brain
The next day, my mother was black and blue everywhere. One eye was swollen shut, the other red. Her face was all bruised, her lips still swollen and bloody.
"What happened to you, Mommy?" I asked. Apparently I had forgotten about the fight during the night.
"I fell down" she said.
"You fell down?"
"Yes!" she answered, and then she began to cry.
"Why are you crying, Mommy?" I asked. I began to cry with her, though I did not know why.
"Come here, Mark." she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. Then she held me close and said, "It's alright, Mark. It's alright. I just fell down, that's all."
"How did you fall down, Mommy?"
My mother then proceeded to tell me this incredible story about how she had gotten drunk and fell down a hill while trying to go to the bathroom. I didn't believe her... but I wanted to.
"Where's Daddy?" I asked.
"Your Daddy is going to be gone for a while."
"Where did he go?"
"Away, for a few days."
"Where?"
My mother began to cry.
"Daddy did this to you, didn't he?" I asked.
My mother shook her head in denial.
"My Daddy is in jail, isn't he?"
But, she denied this also.
Now, what does a child learn but that which he sees and hears from his parents? Are not they the apples of his eye? Are not parents the focus of all a child's affections? And those most profound things that a child learns... do they not learn them from their parents?
Oh, it was that day so long ago that I learned of love and lies. And it was that day, that moment, that lies were born into the affections of my heart. The dry hot summer winds began to blow...
