I wanted to talk about my parents because there's so much to say about them, and it excuses my talking.
My Father, John Wesley B., should have appreciated that if he were alive to read it. We hated each other mostly. He called me idiot and I called him nothing. He used to complain at finding evidence of my existence in his living room, and made me erase it. He said children were meant to be seen and not heard, and then not seen either, so I made him eat his words by not speaking directly to him unless spoken to, beginning in 1954 and not ending until 1976. In spite of my never speaking directly to him, he constantly bitched that I would incessantly run off at the mouth. But I think toward the end of his life he began to appreciate that my loquaciousness was inherited as much from him as from my mother, and that it was something we at least had in common.
Dad was born south of Seattle in Auburn in 1917, to a man who'd done electrical work for the coal mines. His Father later settled into a house on Beacon Hill in Seattle, when Dad was starting school.
Growing up he was most noted for being an insatiable reader and gifted student. He was so gifted and diligent as a student that he eventually received a plaque from the Seattle Public School system honoring him for having never got a grade less than A, or missed a single day of school for any reason from Kindergarten through all twelve grades. I had to find that plaque myself. It was buried in a box of junk in the basement. My Father didn't want anyone to see it. I'll say why in a moment.
This picture proves Dad had friends when he was a kid, although some things he said indicated that he was often isolated. He's at our left, hanging with buddies outside of the old building at Van Asselt Elementary, which I also attended. In fact my 3rd grade teacher was old Mrs. Haugen, who had also had my Father as a student. As soon as she heard my name, she said, "You're not John's son are you?" Then she said, in front of the whole class, that if I was only half as good a pupil as my Dad was I'd be the best that year. I couldn't have been more embarrassed. My first day at that school and already marked as the best candidate for top new school egghead. Thank You Mrs. Haugen.
Dad Grew up with the Jazz Era and fell in love with it. He soaked up Seattle's Jazz scene. So while he had many interests, including writing and photography, his main goal was to become a jazz musician. He took up the horn, and his teachers were sure that he would get a music scholarship to go to college. He would need a scholarship to start college in the middle of the Great Depression. It would let him pursue music while also letting him read and study as much as he wanted for another four years.
But just before his senior year in high school he suffered a violent attack by a relative. I heard this story only a couple of times. He didn't like to talk about it, and when it came up it came up because my Mother dragged it out of him. So the details are sketchy, but apparently a step-grandmother went berserk that summer, chased Dad around the yard with a hatchet, and whacked him on the right side of his head with it.
The damage didn't take away all his musical ability. Just like the Peter Lorre character in M, my Dad could whistle the entirety of Hall of the Mountain King. He retained that. What he lost was the ability to learn to whistle anything new that he hadn't heard before the injury. A music scholarship was out of the question.
Other symptoms were more subtle. He had a slight droop of the left side of his face. His speech was slightly wooden. His emotional range was limited, mainly to angry and not angry. But he did those so well only I ever seemed to notice there was little else.
There's reason to think that Dad's last year in high school was orchestrated by his teachers to enable him to get his plaque even though his music ability was mostly gone. The accommodation didn't sit well with him and he didn't want to think about the plaque that resulted, because it was a reminder of a horrible loss.
Dad fell back on his other interests. He dreamed of becoming a journalist the hard way, without the benefit of college. He would start as a printer and work his way up. Since it was still the Great depression, the best place to be a printer's apprentice was at the Government Printing Office in Washington D.C. He continued practicing his amateur photography. His photos are distinguished by the preference for structures over humans, although humans sometimes find their way in. Here's a self-portrait. The switch tripping the camera is hidden in one of his hands. (To be continued.)
My Father, John Wesley B., should have appreciated that if he were alive to read it. We hated each other mostly. He called me idiot and I called him nothing. He used to complain at finding evidence of my existence in his living room, and made me erase it. He said children were meant to be seen and not heard, and then not seen either, so I made him eat his words by not speaking directly to him unless spoken to, beginning in 1954 and not ending until 1976. In spite of my never speaking directly to him, he constantly bitched that I would incessantly run off at the mouth. But I think toward the end of his life he began to appreciate that my loquaciousness was inherited as much from him as from my mother, and that it was something we at least had in common.Dad was born south of Seattle in Auburn in 1917, to a man who'd done electrical work for the coal mines. His Father later settled into a house on Beacon Hill in Seattle, when Dad was starting school.
Growing up he was most noted for being an insatiable reader and gifted student. He was so gifted and diligent as a student that he eventually received a plaque from the Seattle Public School system honoring him for having never got a grade less than A, or missed a single day of school for any reason from Kindergarten through all twelve grades. I had to find that plaque myself. It was buried in a box of junk in the basement. My Father didn't want anyone to see it. I'll say why in a moment.
This picture proves Dad had friends when he was a kid, although some things he said indicated that he was often isolated. He's at our left, hanging with buddies outside of the old building at Van Asselt Elementary, which I also attended. In fact my 3rd grade teacher was old Mrs. Haugen, who had also had my Father as a student. As soon as she heard my name, she said, "You're not John's son are you?" Then she said, in front of the whole class, that if I was only half as good a pupil as my Dad was I'd be the best that year. I couldn't have been more embarrassed. My first day at that school and already marked as the best candidate for top new school egghead. Thank You Mrs. Haugen.
Dad Grew up with the Jazz Era and fell in love with it. He soaked up Seattle's Jazz scene. So while he had many interests, including writing and photography, his main goal was to become a jazz musician. He took up the horn, and his teachers were sure that he would get a music scholarship to go to college. He would need a scholarship to start college in the middle of the Great Depression. It would let him pursue music while also letting him read and study as much as he wanted for another four years.
But just before his senior year in high school he suffered a violent attack by a relative. I heard this story only a couple of times. He didn't like to talk about it, and when it came up it came up because my Mother dragged it out of him. So the details are sketchy, but apparently a step-grandmother went berserk that summer, chased Dad around the yard with a hatchet, and whacked him on the right side of his head with it.
The damage didn't take away all his musical ability. Just like the Peter Lorre character in M, my Dad could whistle the entirety of Hall of the Mountain King. He retained that. What he lost was the ability to learn to whistle anything new that he hadn't heard before the injury. A music scholarship was out of the question.
Other symptoms were more subtle. He had a slight droop of the left side of his face. His speech was slightly wooden. His emotional range was limited, mainly to angry and not angry. But he did those so well only I ever seemed to notice there was little else.
There's reason to think that Dad's last year in high school was orchestrated by his teachers to enable him to get his plaque even though his music ability was mostly gone. The accommodation didn't sit well with him and he didn't want to think about the plaque that resulted, because it was a reminder of a horrible loss.
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