Читать книгу Love Poems for Dodie - Joe Callihan - Страница 7

I was in the fourth grade when a traumatic event changed the course of my life. I had survived two earlier kidnap attempts when I was younger. But I was not prepared for the day when a nun came into my classroom during class. She took me by the hand and told the teacher I was to be excused for the rest of the day. She then proceeded to take me directly to the principal’s office.

Although I was a bit mischievous, I could not quite figure out why exactly I was being taken to see the principal, as I had been pretty good so far on this day. Soon the answer was revealed to me. We entered the office and I noticed there was a man sitting directly across from the principal. Then the principal announced saying, “Joe, this is your father. He has come to visit with you. We are turning you over to him and giving you the rest of the day to spend with your dad.”

The look of fright came over my face. I could not believe this nun was so stupid! Didn’t she know, as I did, that my father was a war hero, a pilot who had been shot down over the Pacific? This man was obviously an imposter, trying to kidnap me and hold me for a ransom. As he reached for my hand, which the first nun was offering to him, he said, “Come on son. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

I LOUDLY shouted out as my fist was striking the hand of the nun holding me and that of the man who was reaching for my hand. I proclaimed as clearly as I could, in panic, saying, “No! This is not my father! My father was killed in the war. This is a man who wants to kidnap me!” “You’re wrong Joseph, said the principal. I personally know this man to be your true father.” How could she be so dumb? I protested all the louder, “Please! Don’t hand me over to this man! My father is dead! He was killed in WWII!”

It soon became obvious that nothing the principal nun could say would calm me down or make me stop fighting as I desperately struggled to get my freedom and run away as fast as I could. So she phoned my wonderful grandmother, seeking her help in explaining the situation to me. As I listened, my grandmother, in tears, explained that in an effort to protect me from the stigma Catholics place upon divorce and to keep me from feeling I was missing out on all of the father/son nights; a bad decision had been made by all, to lie to me about what had really happened to my father. Crying profusely, my grandmother told me she realized now how wrong that decision had been. She said I had the right to know my father, and he had the right to get to know me.

As I continued listening, she explained how as a baby, my father had divorced my mother and moved to Oklahoma to begin a new life with his new wife. Hearing me crying as I asked why did this happen, my grandmother’s answer was that satan had interfered in their marriage. She said she, along with my mother, and my grandfather had chosen to lie to me, thinking it was in my best interest. But now she was very ashamed she had gone along with the lie. She ended by telling me to not be angry with my father, as he had traveled a long way to see me. She suggested I use this time to get to know him and have a fun day with him.

Having finished talking, all I could do was stand there in shock, looking at my real father, a ghost who had just risen from the grave. Smiling gently, he again took my hand and said, “You and I have a lot of things to talk about. Come on son, lets’ go.” With that, we left the office, got into his car, and he began to drive away, leaving Ironton, Ohio, heading for Ashland, Kentucky.

As we drove, in tears I said, “All of this time I’ve been lied to about your being alive. Believing you had died a war hero, I never felt I was missing anything not having you attending father/son nights with me. It was O. K., since you were dead.” As I was saying this to him, my father began to ball his eyes out “Please son, I wish you wouldn’t say that to me. It makes me feel awful!” He was crying so hard I could see he too was sincerely sad over the circumstances I had been enduring. But still, I had no idea of the story behind what had happened between my father and mother.

We had quite a day that day. He bought me the latest three speed bike, a walkie-talkie, and a fabulous and very expensive leather first baseman’s mitt (Costing $25.00, which was high for the time). We were gone for most of the day. When we returned to my grandmother’s house in time for dinner, I found he was well received by her. They laughed and kidded around, he even was invited to stay for dinner. But he declined, saying he had to get back to his wife and kids, whom he had left with friends.

I thought to myself well, at least I know part of the truth. My father did not die as a shot down pilot. He had however served as a Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps. He had been stationed in Guatemala and later in Panama during the war. It was not until the morning of the following day that I learned the rest of the truth. I learned in a way which traumatized me and effectively directed my attitude about what true love is and is not. Most likely, it was a good part of the reason why I never married until age 63.

That particular morning after having awakened, as I was coming down the stairs for breakfast, I could hear coming from the kitchen, the loud shouts of my mother. She was cursing her mother (my grandmother), demanding to know why she ever had allowed that damn SOB to see me, let alone spend any time with me. The words she lavished on my grandmother (who had raised me from the age of one) were coming straight from the pits of hell!

I was getting increasingly angry with the way she was addressing my REAL mother – my grandmother. (I should point out here that upon their divorce, both of my parents being young, neither wanted to be slowed down by a kid. My wonderful, loving grandparents on my mother’s side took it on themselves to raise me from a baby). Angry, yet I was getting an education into the whole truth of what had actually happened. So I simply parked on the carpeted stairs and took in the whole conversation with great interest.

In response to the question – why, my grandmother said, “Joe has the right to know his father. Beecher missed seeing him and wanted to know how he was doing. I felt he, as Joe’s father, had the right to know about that.” “Damn You! You know the kind of Hell that man put me through! I vowed to him he would never see Joe again. I told him as far as Joe was concerned, he was dead! Now Joe knows we have lied to him. He may never trust us again! Why the Hell did you let that demon see Joe?”

My mother went on to explain why she had such hatred. “You know what he put me through! Or have you forgotten?” She went on to tell all of the dirty details in an effort to remind her mother of the suffering and pain he had caused in her life. She explained how he had written and called her repeatedly; asking for a divorce, telling her their marriage had been a mistake. He said he had found someone else he loved more and wanted to be free to marry her.

She went on to explain how she had told him as a Catholic she had not gotten married to be able to get a divorce, and the vows they had made were not just to each other, but to God as well. I learned his response was, “Well, that’s your problem, not mine. I’m not Catholic and I know God wants me to be happy. You don’t make me happy, Donna does!”

That perspective having failed to get his attention, she went on to remind him they had a little one year old baby boy. He deserves to be raised in a home having both a mother and a father. To this, he responded, “I’ll pay you any amount of money. I just want my freedom from both you and the kid!” My mother stated how this constant badgering, both by phone and in letters, led her to having experienced a nervous breakdown. “That damn son of a bitch was dead for years. Damn it! He should have stayed dead!”

She had yelled so loud and so long, at this my grandmother said, “Be quiet, you’re likely to wake Joe. You don’t want him knowing all of this, do you?” Then there was silence. I sensed they were heading toward the kitchen door. So I scrambled up the stairs to my room. I pretended to be asleep as they looked in.

Need I say anymore, or can you guess? I spent the next couple of years trying to analyze why this had happened to me. I came to the conclusion that when they got married, neither understood what true love was all about. If they had, I surmised, such a thing as divorce would never have happened with my parents. I made a vow to myself that I would never allow such a thing to happen to me, and especially to my children. I would be certain I truly was in love, and the woman I chose truly loved me. I wanted my children to grow up seeing their mom and dad deeply loved one another with all of their heart.

Yes, my life had been traumatized. But the life of my poor mother was even more so. Later in her life, now having two failed marriages, one day my mother announced she was in love with her boss. They had been dating a lot. But there was one obstacle; he was married with three kids. This produced great turmoil among my mother and her mother (my grandmother). My grandmother was telling her how wrong it was to steal a husband away from his family. My mother insisted he had told her his wife was a cold fish, and he had no real marriage. He claimed their love for one another had vanished many years ago.

But it only got deeper, as my grandmother said it was wrong to deprive his children of their father. To this, my mother said she deserved to find some happiness in life before she died. The argument intensified with time. It became one o clock in the morning. At this point my grandmother suggested we all get some sleep, as they were only going around and around. She said after a good nights’ sleep things would look different in the morning, with a clear mind able to function.

It was agreed to do just that – go to sleep. My head had barely hit the pillow when in came my grandmother, worriedly telling me I had to get up right away. “Your mother has taken a bunch of sleeping pills and I’m afraid she might die!” We called the poison center and they advised us to keep her awake, walking her around the living room and giving her lots of coffee.

My little sister and I spent the night walking my mother around the room. I would not let her go to sleep. When she tried, and refused to respond to my pleas not to, I would slap her in the face and say, “You’re not going to sleep on me! I’m not going to let you! So stop trying, and keep on walking!” With God’s help we were successful. My grandmother agreed to let her have her way in the matter and never brought up her disagreement again (At least not until after the wedding – then the cold war began).

From this experience, I learned how much emotionally horrible damage could be caused by irresponsible words and actions. I made a promise to God and myself that I would never tell a girl or woman I loved her, unless I truly did, and believed her love for me was equally as deep and committed as mine. My life’s desire became never to emotionally hurt any girl or woman I dated.

I remember in high school, listening to guys relating stories involving their sexual adventures. I one day got very angry with one guy in particular. He was telling how the girl he had dated refused his advances. “She was so cold. I was wondering how I could get her to put out. Then I said those three magic words: “I Love You.” Man, you wouldn’t believe how quickly she opened her legs for me! Yes boys, if you ever have a hard time getting your way with a girl, just use those magic words. They are so gullible!”

I then asked him, “Don’t you care how badly you may have emotionally damaged her?” “That’s her problem! Besides I paid $15.00 for our dinner, she owed me a good time.” His answer made me want to hit him in the mouth just as hard as I could. But logic prevailed. I realized this was just the exploits of a simple minded, self centered jerk. Also, the damage was already done to that poor girl. My hitting him would not be able to undo the emotional damage he had inflicted on her. Besides, if I took on such an attitude, I would have to punch out over 80% of the guys attending that all male Catholic High School.

Was I always the perfect gentleman? Unfortunately, the honest answer would have to be no. I did my share of sowing my “wild oats.” But I never had to lie and use the “magic words.” I found several women during the years that, thinking I was attractive, would gladly and freely offer their bodies to me for sex. Some would get a little far out and insist that when in the throws of passion they had heard me say “I love you” to them.

I would always stop and set the record straight. I would tell them I liked and respected them, but was not in love with them. I said if I were to become in love with them we both would hear me say it, because I would shout it out. Through the years I dated many lovely women. Quality women, not dog in heat kind of sluts. But very sincere women, who like me, had fallen into the prevailing lie of the time, that sex without marriage was a natural and expected way of life. Free sex, morality had become passé.’ Still, I would say without a doubt, a great majority of the women I had sexual encounters with, remained faithful to me and I to them while we dated. However, only a very few times did I ever ask any woman to marry me. Then somehow, something would prevent it from going through.

With my goal of seeking to love and truly be loved in return, satan’s lie that sex for kicks was satisfying, began to take a quick and painful toll on me emotionally. The kicks were not as thrilling as promised by satan. My heart was not in it. When the session was over, I would hurt inside. I would be thinking we just used each other for kicks, much like dogs in heat would do. We should strive for something better than that. Why could we not have done this as an act of love between a husband and his wife? That cherished value would raise its head, causing me to deeply hurt emotionally inside. I began to wonder and question if such a woman as I was seeking really did exist. Was she really just a figment of my imagination?

Still, I would continue listening to satan telling me that until “she” comes along, I need not be a hermit. “Go ahead, have your “fun, you’re only young once!” satan would say. Like a dummy, I went along with it. Never did I stop to think that my action of ignoring God’s standards of purity was only making me more and more unworthy for that someone “special” to arrive in my life.

Nevertheless as I got older, I was tempted to feel as if the boat was sailing off without me. This was what my step-father would tell me, when challenging me. Asking of me when in my mid 50’s, if I really believed I would find someone at this late stage of my life. I would reply by telling him that with God, all things are possible.

Satan would mock me; telling me I had set my standards way too high. He tried his best to convince me the woman I was looking for simply did not exist on this planet, only in my dreams. But I had developed the faith to believe that if I were to begin living for God, one day He would provide for my need and desire to truly love and be loved. Dodie was out there, still in the distance. I didn’t realize that distance was quickly fading, as she was getting closer and closer to my sight!