My Alcoholic Father, true to the times. Believed a popular parenting Rhyme "Spare the rod, Spoil the child".
Dad used his belt. Prepared and on the ready.
Even when his Hands Were anything but steady.
Always on his waist or at his side. All the day and every night.
He worked the "graveyard shift". Slept during the day.
Not bad on weekdays -- When I was in school
Weekends & Summers Staying quiet was the #1 Rule.
Sometimes I remember, We would actually play.
As he grew older, Those were fewer & fewer days.
To hide his constant fears, Fighting back my reoccuring tears.
Alcohol bottles hidden away Food on the table? No money left today.
His needs came first Or his anger would burst.
Soups? Mostly. Always HomeMade. Piece of meat, a very rare treat.
Mom cooked, cleaned, She planned our escape.
She knew we could not survive. In that time or place.
Dad was much older, Fought in World War I.
Like many who'd seen. others killed and maimed, He could not take the constant pain.
Dad's favorite daily stop was down the street, a Bar around the block.
Missiles and hand grenades. Guns always at the ready.
Dirt and blood and cries of pain. WW1 stuck in his brain.
Men just like him, Mentally, physically torn apart.
Removed his belt as a constant threat. Held in one hand, pulling on it with the other.
Dad seemed to "stroke it' as if to say, It's time for you and I "to play".
When he was really drunk. He did not see it was me.
Just something he "had to" correct. To "survive" needing superiority.
Applied on my body Wherever his arm could reach.
Lessons learned as a child. One I will never teach.
