I was twelve when Mom sold the city home and then moved all our possessions on a pickup truck to western Montana. So it was a boy from the big city moving to a small country crossroads community and beginning life again. My little brother and I were farmed out (it is a pun) to my two uncles who had dairies, hogs and Montana stuff. Having no country living experience, it was a difficult adjustment.
Montana filled me with the hope of possibilities I hadn’t failed at already. New people and circumstances, certainly I would find acceptance with family. Although the unfamiliarity was unsettling, I set about to live up to expectations and be accepted. It ought to be easy if I tried hard, worked hard, applied myself.
I quickly found I had much to learn about farming: the tractors, the animals, the chores were all foreign but I assured myself that if I worked hard, they would accept me. Almost, well almost immediately I ran into myself; not only was I city soft but my body conspired against me with allergies. I quickly found myself allergic to hay, straw, grain, dust, well just about everything farms are made of. It quickly became evident that I was no prize for my uncle or any of my other relatives. I was book smart but work poor. I determined to try all the harder, took frequent doses of medicines and sniffled and dripped. I was pathetic and I was unacceptable, suspected of being a slackard. But I kept trying.
By the end of our first year in this new place, Mom had married a new Father and I was ecstatic at the prospects of having a real dad. He was an artisan and would let me work with him and even pay me small wages if I worked hard. And try I did. I desperately wanted him to love me and gave it my all. Allergies weren’t a problem with his work so I had a clear road to happiness if only I worked hard enough to please him. I would carry more materials, be quicker, more attentive, work longer, try harder and be eager to learn from him and he would treat me like a son.
Wow. If only I could do a little better. Often I didn’t get my duties quite right and he was loving enough to discipline me. I was very frustrating to him and deserved the rebukes I received. Eventually my failures to try hard enough to improve provoked him to beat me with his fists, broom handles, straps or whatever was convenient. But it was my fault because I didn’t work hard enough or right enough; everyone in the community knew him to be an exceptional man, a leader, dependable, compassionate so there was no question who failed to measure up. But I kept trying to work harder, to be pleasing to him.
Finally, like a repeat of the previous decade, he could take me no longer and left Mom and us to fend for ourselves. I had mixed feelings—the sense of loss of possibilities but the relief of not failing and being beaten. I had also begun to learn not to feel hurt, to not show either physical or emotional pain. I also had other older friends who accepted me. I worked with a high school teacher on a research project which helped him earn a Masters degree and he had nothing but praise for me. Other older men also appreciated my work ethic of working harder and longer than many others my age.
Then college was easier for me than most because I worked so intensely at it. By mid-term I would always have all of my assignments done for the quarter so I could do more work. Work became my invitation to acceptance.
After marrying at 21, I went to work in a store as a box boy and proceeded to work up into management in three years. All of my friends were those I worked for; I learned to do all the extra projects no one else had time for and this made them look good—I worked long and hard and I was appreciated for what I got done. I was good, I was special, I was accepted.
Maybe the beatings hadn’t been so bad after all for now I was worthwhile.
If only I could keep working harder and better, I would be loved. Life was good, love was within my grasp.
Cowsbell the workaholic. Tomorrow, Cowsbell the co-dependent.
Montana filled me with the hope of possibilities I hadn’t failed at already. New people and circumstances, certainly I would find acceptance with family. Although the unfamiliarity was unsettling, I set about to live up to expectations and be accepted. It ought to be easy if I tried hard, worked hard, applied myself.
I quickly found I had much to learn about farming: the tractors, the animals, the chores were all foreign but I assured myself that if I worked hard, they would accept me. Almost, well almost immediately I ran into myself; not only was I city soft but my body conspired against me with allergies. I quickly found myself allergic to hay, straw, grain, dust, well just about everything farms are made of. It quickly became evident that I was no prize for my uncle or any of my other relatives. I was book smart but work poor. I determined to try all the harder, took frequent doses of medicines and sniffled and dripped. I was pathetic and I was unacceptable, suspected of being a slackard. But I kept trying.
By the end of our first year in this new place, Mom had married a new Father and I was ecstatic at the prospects of having a real dad. He was an artisan and would let me work with him and even pay me small wages if I worked hard. And try I did. I desperately wanted him to love me and gave it my all. Allergies weren’t a problem with his work so I had a clear road to happiness if only I worked hard enough to please him. I would carry more materials, be quicker, more attentive, work longer, try harder and be eager to learn from him and he would treat me like a son.
Wow. If only I could do a little better. Often I didn’t get my duties quite right and he was loving enough to discipline me. I was very frustrating to him and deserved the rebukes I received. Eventually my failures to try hard enough to improve provoked him to beat me with his fists, broom handles, straps or whatever was convenient. But it was my fault because I didn’t work hard enough or right enough; everyone in the community knew him to be an exceptional man, a leader, dependable, compassionate so there was no question who failed to measure up. But I kept trying to work harder, to be pleasing to him.
Finally, like a repeat of the previous decade, he could take me no longer and left Mom and us to fend for ourselves. I had mixed feelings—the sense of loss of possibilities but the relief of not failing and being beaten. I had also begun to learn not to feel hurt, to not show either physical or emotional pain. I also had other older friends who accepted me. I worked with a high school teacher on a research project which helped him earn a Masters degree and he had nothing but praise for me. Other older men also appreciated my work ethic of working harder and longer than many others my age.
Then college was easier for me than most because I worked so intensely at it. By mid-term I would always have all of my assignments done for the quarter so I could do more work. Work became my invitation to acceptance.
After marrying at 21, I went to work in a store as a box boy and proceeded to work up into management in three years. All of my friends were those I worked for; I learned to do all the extra projects no one else had time for and this made them look good—I worked long and hard and I was appreciated for what I got done. I was good, I was special, I was accepted.
Maybe the beatings hadn’t been so bad after all for now I was worthwhile.
If only I could keep working harder and better, I would be loved. Life was good, love was within my grasp.
Cowsbell the workaholic. Tomorrow, Cowsbell the co-dependent.
No comments:
Post a Comment