My mother had many siblings.
Her brother Joe scared me because he liked to pick me up, turn me upside down and paddle my bottom, long after such things would be done to someone my age. Tears never deterred him and my parents never intervened. One time he threatened to stuff me in my grandparent’s coal-burning stove. I kicked and screamed and cried for help, but not even my beloved grandmother stopped him. When I felt the heat on my face and thought my hair was on fire, Joe finally set me down. I scurried away as fast as I could.
Clarence was a backwoods man. He lived off-the-grid before it was popular to do so. He was moody, somber and seemed to have created a family different from any I knew. According to my mother, Clarence fathered children with several of the women sharing the house. It was possible because they all, from young to old, looked the same.
There were several sisters.
Rachel lived on a huge chunk of land, her house sitting high on a hill overlooking meadows of green grass. Not only was it a peaceful environment, she was a calming presence in my hectic life. I loved visiting her. Her youngest son was older than me but still liked to play little-kids games. Only later did I learn that Jimmy was learning disabled. One time my brother and I got to spend a weekend with Aunt Rachel. It was one of the best weekends in my life. I missed her when we moved to Ohio.
Virginia, or Ginny, was a fun-loving, easy-going parent to three girls, all close to my age. They lived in many different places over the years, from a tiny, rustic cabin near Lake Michigan to a crumbling southern-style home in Kentucky, to a farm in southern Ohio. I hated the cabin because the only toilet was a smelly outhouse. We didn’t have a flashlight, so going out there at night was terrifying. The Kentucky home had egg-laying chickens which was something new and unexpected. But there were insects that buried their heads in my arms and legs. The farm was my favorite as we ran all over, making up games. There was a dog who did tricks and chickens and an old horse.
One time my mother let me spend the weekend with Aunt Ginny. We watched TV, drank soda, ate popcorn and feasted on candy. There was no set bedtime. We fell asleep on the front room floor.
The uncle I knew the best was Rudy. He moved to California before we did and was established in Orange County by the time we drove from Ohio to Orange County. He had a house and a good-paying job, and better yet, his three sons and wife seemed happy. We stayed with them for several days. The sons were rough-and-tumble, but overall good kids. The wife was merry, easy to be around, and a good cook. Rudy was a quiet, respectful guy, quick to hug and laugh. He told great stories and enjoyed athletic pursuits. He was also an alcoholic.
When Rudy drank his personality changed. He growled with anger at perceived insults, was argumentative and disagreeable. He grabbed me whenever I passed nearby and held my arms so tight that he left bruises. He pulled me to his chest and kissed my head, over and over, stroking my hair. It gave me the creeps.
He threatened my brother, called him names and made fun of him for being an intellectual. Rudy respected only his type of intelligence: mechanical skills. He could fix any engine, appliance, television or radio. When he was sober. Drunk he was useless, which is probably why he moved so often.
My family first lived near Sacramento, then down in South San Francisco a few miles away from Rudy. Our house was a tiny three-bedroom affair that had seen better days. It was all we could afford because my dad struggled to find full-time work. Rudy came over one evening and after quite a few drinks convinced my dad to be his courier. My dad was to go to a mail pick up spot, open the box, remove whatever was inside and deliver it to a different address each time. He was not to open the envelope or ask the name of the person receiving the package. For this my dad would be given several hundred dollars, an amount that would feed us and keep us sheltered.
I think my dad knew there was something shady about this business. One time after Rudy left, my parents huddled together in their bedroom for a long time, the murmur of voices the only sounds we could hear. The need for money won so my dad made a few runs.
Each time he was handed a bundle of cash. The money was a wonderful gift at a time when we were desperate. But then something happened that frightened my dad and he was not easily frightened. A man standing outside the box pickup spot followed my dad to his car, knocked on his window and demanded the package. Dad sped away, but later noticed a car following him. A chase ensued. Eventually my dad shook the tail and delivered the envelope.
When he got home he called Rudy and told him he would never do that again.
Within minutes Rudy stormed into our house. He threw his barrel chest out, bumped it into my dad and pushed Dad up against a wall. I believe that punches were thrown, because I heard thumps and bumps from my hiding spot behind the couch.
My uncle’s bass voice reverberated against the walls. He threatened to turn my dad into the police for laundering money. He promised jail time and a long conviction. His verbal abuse continued for a long, long time.
When my dad did not give in, Rudy demanded a beer, which my mom delivered. He parked himself in our rocking chair and sat there, downing beer after beer until his words were slurred. Throughout it all, he ranged from being abusive, threatening, intimidating, and finally as the alcohol set in, he fell into uncontrollable sobs.
Shortly after that incident we moved. My dad found work and things were going well. We were in school and finding our way.
Rudy reemerged, this time as the warm, loving bear of a man that I knew and loved. He was once again jovial, telling jokes and stories that brought guffaws. But I knew, I remembered the evil version, the threatening grizzly bear who intimidated my rock-solid dad.
If Rudy could intimidate Dad, then what could he do to me?
Even when Rudy moved back to Ohio I never forgot his temper, his strength, his posturing. The teddy bear when sober was a man-killer when drunk. I was glad that I never saw him again.
I had some interesting cousins that I seldom saw. There were three teens, all older than me. They lived in a tiny house on the side of a hill, in a home with no electricity or indoor plumbing. They dressed alike in cotton dresses, did their hair in the same curly styles, and even sounded the same when they spoke. Which they seldom did.
My mother’s family harkened back to their Appalachian roots. My mother never lost her eight-grade dialect which included vocabulary that identified my mother as being poor. Only one brother completed high school. Her other siblings finished eighth grade. Except for Clarence.
Only one had a good-paying job. The rest worked as itinerant laborers. None of her sisters worked.
My cousins married young. Fourteen for girls. Sixteen for boys. None of them went beyond high school. None traveled. None moved away from Appalachia.
We don’t get to choose family, but we can choose to not be influenced by them or to follow their ways. I wanted more in life. I wasn’t sure what that was until older, I just knew it wasn’t marrying at fourteen.
