@Inspired_2write . My father, is a prideful man. Once I turned 17, I routinely dominated him, in sparring matches. I was training in boxing, at the time. After that, our relationship changed forever. He was no longer the loving father, who taught me how to fish, and hunt. Who protected me, and taught me how to drive, and how to ride a motorcycle, etc.
I was rebellious, and always in trouble. I had a huge problem with authority.
So. A former drill sergeant, and a kid, who hated being ordered around, clashed… His most famous saying was, ” if I tell you to jump, you say’how high?’ “If I tell you to shit, you say ‘what color.”
He rarely beat me, and when he did, I’m sure I deserved it. His father was a super asshole, and would beat him relentlessly. He was a cop, in downtown Charleston. He had a reputation for being a violent man.
When my family and I moved back from Germany (we lived there for several years,) we moved in with my grandparents.
We lived there, for about 7 months. It was a bad neighborhood, and I routinely got my ass kicked, for being the only white kid there. My grandfather (asshole) spoke one sentence to me, in the 7 months we all lived together.
I had been beaten up, by multiple kids on the bus, and wasn’t allowed to get off at my stop. The bus driver, did nothing. So. I had to walk a couple miles from where I was finally let off. I got within a hundred yards, of our house, when I noticed my grandfather standing in the doorway, glaring at me…
He scared me. He never seemed to pay attention to me.So. as I walked up the steps, I said “I’m sorry, I was late getting back. ..” He interrupted my excuse, and said “I never asked you, why you were late,” walked off. That’s the only thing he EVER said to me. EVER. Interestingly, his middle name was Hugo. He died just a couple of months, before Hurricane Hugo, destroyed most of Charleston, and many other places. A strange coincidence, that I have never fully wrapped my head around. I am an atheist, and don’t have any superstitious thoughts. But…. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that storm, was his rage. His last violent act, from a terrible man…
My grandmother, was essentially his slave. She’d get up, at 4AM, and cook a huge breakfast, and start cooking a huge dinner around 4PM. It took her hours, each time, to cook all that food. The, my grandfather, would sit down at the table, and be served. If he didn’t like what was served, he’d slam the plate to the floor, breaking it. And he’d say “clean that shit up, and cook———, instead.” My grandmother would get on her hands and knees, and apologize, and clean up the mess. Then, she’d cook what he wanted. She was a sweet little woman. I looked at him , with rage, every time he did that. I didn’t divert my eyes. If he touched me, my father would have violently murdered him. He didn’t like the loss of physical dominance either…
My father used to curl 100 lb weights, in each arm. He was 6 feet tall, and about 280 lbs. I saw him beat many men up, as I grew up. To me, growing up, he was the baddest man, on the planet. We traveled a LOT. And he beat men to a pulp, in dozens of countries.
As his age advanced, his strength declined. I was the next one up. At first, he seemed to take pride in showing me what he knew. We had two pairs of 16 ounce boxing gloves, and all the other stuff, like weights, a 100 lbs heavy bag, etc.
He taught me what he was taught, when he was special forces. Put me in karate classes, since I was 5…
Eventually, he just couldn’t beat me hand, to hand. That seemed to bring out his father, in him. He grew distant, and spiteful. So. When we would argue, he would go for a gun. I realized quickly, I couldn’t let that happen. So. I would immobilize him, if I thought he was going for a gun. That didn’t help things. As he got older, he lost strength. Bit, he could still damage me. So. For years, we would come to an all out fight. I have not fought him, in about 10 years. I just quickly take him down. It breaks my heart, every time. But I’ll NEVER forget when he pulled on me. And, I’ll never let it happen again.
Every couple of years, he goes for a gun, and I take him down. It has severely damaged our relationship. And with all due respect/love, to him, NOBODY puts a gun, in my face…
I’ll see him tomorrow, on Christmas day. We’ll see how that goes. Will it be my loving father, or the killer? I never know. But, I’ll have to hurt him, if he tries something. It’s a hell of a way, to celebrate a holiday…
Sorry for the length of my tale.
But, it’s just a keyhole.
I appreciate your opinion, but the war killed my father, long ago. What’s left, is a manic individual.
War, is Hell. That’s why I’m so against it…
