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Please Post Childhood Stories About Your Parents In Here (1 Viewer)

rockaction

rockaction

Footballguy
So I just heard the ice cream truck go by. Never realized it would hit, but it did. I'm never getting an ice cream as a young kid with my mother again. She's still alive -- but it just won't happen. What are your childhood memories with your parents? Share here, if you'd like. 

 
We grew up poor, without me realizing it. My dad worked 4 different jobs at times, so he could feed and clothe 8 kids and afford for us to go to school in a great school district. I remember him going to work after 4 hours sleep, with a 104 degree fever. Solid, salt of the earth working man, son of Italian immigrants.

He worked so much, I can sadly say that I don't have any memories of playing catch with him or learning to ride a bike from him. We never went out to eat and never got fast food, but every once in a blue moon, he'd have off on a Sunday and take us out for Dairy Queen. That meant 2 sisters, my brother and I would load up in our old blue station wagon, with the back seats that faced backwards, and go for a drive around the old neighborhood. We'd roll our eyes at his stories about his dad having built that church, or done that rock wall at that house, because we'd hear the same stories every trip. Finally, we'd get to DQ and beg for a hot fudge brownie sundae or banana split and be told it was a dipped cone or a Dilly bar. We'd all stand outside and eat so the drips didn't get on the car.

For some reason, it strikes me today, that I'd give anything for another Sunday ride with my old man to go get a Dilly Bar. And I'd love to hear him tell all those stories I could probably recite verbatim myself. Thinking back, my biggest hope is that I leave my kids with those kind of memories, and set the kind of example he did for me. 

 
ProstheticRGK said:
We grew up poor, without me realizing it. My dad worked 4 different jobs at times, so he could feed and clothe 8 kids and afford for us to go to school in a great school district. I remember him going to work after 4 hours sleep, with a 104 degree fever. Solid, salt of the earth working man, son of Italian immigrants.

He worked so much, I can sadly say that I don't have any memories of playing catch with him or learning to ride a bike from him. We never went out to eat and never got fast food, but every once in a blue moon, he'd have off on a Sunday and take us out for Dairy Queen. That meant 2 sisters, my brother and I would load up in our old blue station wagon, with the back seats that faced backwards, and go for a drive around the old neighborhood. We'd roll our eyes at his stories about his dad having built that church, or done that rock wall at that house, because we'd hear the same stories every trip. Finally, we'd get to DQ and beg for a hot fudge brownie sundae or banana split and be told it was a dipped cone or a Dilly bar. We'd all stand outside and eat so the drips didn't get on the car.

For some reason, it strikes me today, that I'd give anything for another Sunday ride with my old man to go get a Dilly Bar. And I'd love to hear him tell all those stories I could probably recite verbatim myself. Thinking back, my biggest hope is that I leave my kids with those kind of memories, and set the kind of example he did for me. 
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Mister CIA said:
My Dad died unexpectedly in 2003 at the age of 61, two days after my birthday. Exchanging I Love You's with him on the phone, on my birthday, represents one of the two luckiest events in my life.
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Thanks, guys. I'm having a hard time realizing what's coming and just wanted to share my own concerns/love.  

 
My dad died when I was 7. He had MS and it took over his nervous system very quickly. Sadly I don’t have any memories of him being able to walk. So no trips, no playing catch, fishing, riding on his shoulders. None of that. I also lived with my mom (they got divorced when I was 2 and we moved 1,000 miles away from him and his parents). He was paralyzed for the last 3 years of his life in a bed full time with oxygen mask. 

I have lots of memories of sitting in his hospital bed that was set up in a room in my grandparents house. We watch game shows like Price Is Right and Family Feud. He was sooooooo positive all the time. 

The one memory I have with him in a wheel chair - they picked me up at the airport when I flew out to visit. I was probably 3. I was riding on his lap and in the airport he decided to race ahead pumping the wheelchair wheels hard with his hands. It felt like we were going 100 miles an hour. My grandmother was screaming at him to slow down - ‘Rick!!!  Stop!!!’  My grandfather was laughing hysterically. 

Its the only ‘active’ memory I have of him being mobile. 

I used to know all of his nurses names, all the medicines he had to take and when etc. 

 
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mr roboto said:
My dad died when I was 7. He had MS and it took over his nervous system very quickly. Sadly I don’t have any memories of him being able to walk. So no trips, no playing catch, fishing, riding on his shoulders. None of that. I also lived with my mom (they got divorced when I was 2 and we moved 1,000 miles away from him and his parents). He was paralyzed for the last 3 years of his life in a bed full time with oxygen mask. 

I have lots of memories of sitting in his hospital bed that was set up in a room in my grandparents house. We watch game shows like Price Is Right and Family Feud. He was sooooooo positive all the time. 

The one memory I have with him in a wheel chair - they picked me up at the airport when I flew out to visit. I was probably 3. I was riding on his lap and in the airport he decided to race ahead pumping the wheelchair wheels hard with his hands. It felt like we were going 100 miles an hour. My grandmother was screaming at him to slow down - ‘Rick!!!  Stop!!!’  My grandfather was laughing hysterically. 

Its the only ‘active’ memory I have of him being mobile. 

I used to know all of his nurses names, all the medicines he had to take and when etc. 
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Oh my God. Thanks, roboto. 

 
We lived in a small town that had a hill to come in one way and a hill to go out the other way. We lived on the going out side. My dad had a Harley he drove to work. He worked 4-12 when we were kids and came home at 1-130. Mom was always like be home before your Dad gets home (she hid anything from him that would get us in trouble). We used to party in the alley a block up from the house with about 15 others. We'd hear that Harley coming down the hill at 1-130 and that was our time to run home and hop in bed. We (4 of us) did that for years. 

Mom died early at 61 in 2010 from ALS. Her mother, sisters and aunts are all still alive at 70-100 years old. ?

Dad passed last year. He was a big guy and made it to 72.

 
Both of my parents are still alive, and I'm happy to say that I don't really have any negative stories about them, except that there were times that my mother could have used having him around more often to help her with keeping my older brother and sister in line.

My father's job took him out of town multiple times growing up, sometimes for months, and at least one "permanent temporary" transfer that lasted several years. At the time, when there were moments when I wished that he was around, I would swear to myself that I would never get a job that kept me away from home and my kids.  While I don't regret having stuck to that 'vow' all these years, I do now appreciate that a benefit of him having to work out of town was the extra money he earned in per diem.  Over the years, he was able to save and invest enough money that he has paid/helped pay for my mother's college degree, my college degree and my son's college degree, and to this day, he still makes more in his retirement than I do at my full time job. All of this without ever going to college himself.

My mother had my brother and sister from a previous marriage, and while I never really saw it growing up, she had been put through such a physical and emotional wringer by the time I came along that she was just grateful that I wasn't a bratty pain in the ###.  I think that because they were such terrors growing up that since I wasn't as bad as they were, my shenanigans mostly flew under the radar, and if/when she knew something was amiss with me, she didn't let on, as it never involved the police or neighbors banging on her door to complain about me. She gave us a scare in 2000 when she was diagnosed with advanced stage breast cancer, but 18+ years later, she's still with us, still as mentally sharp as ever.  Over the years, I was the only one of the kids that she could talk to, as my brother was battling alcohol and a crazy wife, and my sister couldn't carry on any conversation without dredging up the past and unloading on her.  As a result, we've had a lot of conversations about life that that's what I'll miss most when she finally goes, but there won't be any regrets.  It's tough seeing her slow down physically, but she's already lived longer than her mother did and despite the cancer, is still otherwise as healthy as can be expected.  I'd say that even more than my father, she has really shaped my outlook on life and helped me grow and understand that life is a journey, not a destination.

 
Yeah, slider, thanks for that. I lost a friend to ALS three years ago. She was in her thirties. Terrible disease. 

And Steiner, thanks for sharing; late stage breast cancer is awful. I'm glad your mom is still around. I often think of what would happen if mine wasn't. 

 
rockaction said:
And Steiner, thanks for sharing; late stage breast cancer is awful. I'm glad your mom is still around. I often think of what would happen if mine wasn't. 
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I was actually working at the same place as my father at the time, and even though he tried to remain stoic about the news, I could see a lot was going on in his head. I think his brave face helped me with mine.

On a more positive note, I will tell you that even though there was at least one clue growing up, I've learned over the years that my mom wanted to be a bad-### growing up.  She wanted her first car to be a '29 Ford that she could turn into a hot rod, but her policeman father wouldn't allow it, so a few years later, she bought a '57 Chevy Bel Air that she had until I was about 5 or 6, and she used to say she wanted a Datsun 240z. Maybe it was because she had one, but to me, that '57 Chevy is the peak of car making in the US.  All due respect to muscle cars, but those '57 Chevys were just about the perfect blend of looks and performance. I've been lamenting my lack of automotive skills, money and facilities in which to work on cars, but maybe I'll take on one as a project some day after she's gone.

 
Charlie Steiner said:
I was actually working at the same place as my father at the time, and even though he tried to remain stoic about the news, I could see a lot was going on in his head. I think his brave face helped me with mine.

On a more positive note, I will tell you that even though there was at least one clue growing up, I've learned over the years that my mom wanted to be a bad-### growing up.  She wanted her first car to be a '29 Ford that she could turn into a hot rod, but her policeman father wouldn't allow it, so a few years later, she bought a '57 Chevy Bel Air that she had until I was about 5 or 6, and she used to say she wanted a Datsun 240z. Maybe it was because she had one, but to me, that '57 Chevy is the peak of car making in the US.  All due respect to muscle cars, but those '57 Chevys were just about the perfect blend of looks and performance. I've been lamenting my lack of automotive skills, money and facilities in which to work on cars, but maybe I'll take on one as a project some day after she's gone.
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I'm a little younger, but I remember the Datsuns. The '57 Chevy is stuff of iconic legend. Clapton, even.  I just remember the lyric.  

 
rockaction said:
I'm a little younger, but I remember the Datsuns. The '57 Chevy is stuff of iconic legend. Clapton, even.  I just remember the lyric.  
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It took me a while to comprehend the '29 Ford part.  It would have been the early 50's when she wanted that car, and hot rodding was coming into its own at that point.  I'm not sure what would have happened to her if she had gotten her way, but it definitely made her a forward thinker in her day. I still remember the last time I rode in the Chevy.  We were coming home from somewhere and a mile or two from the house, the hood unlatched and flipped up, blocking the windshield. They probably had it towed to a garage and sold it to them for $50. She also was behind getting me out of my gas-guzzling 77 LTD and into the car that I still regret not having any more: my 1980 Toyota Celica Supra. The one pictured is the exact match of the one I had, same color, same wheels.  I should have fixed it up and kept fixing it up over the years, but I was too young and too stupid to realize how unique and special it was. I had already driven it for 8 years and even though it was a Toyota, I felt it needed too much work to save: the clutch was going, the speedometer cable had broken, and the interior needed some work.  Taken as a whole, it just didn't seem worth the effort at the time.  However, that car was also like a companion.  It's stupid, but I imagine the way I felt about that car was how cowboys would feel about their horses.  For the cost of the car I replaced it with, I could have had all that work done and more, plus probably freshened up the paint job, and the added bonus was that my wife would never have driven it because it had a clutch.

 
My dad turns 68 in July.  He was military, navy diver, Spec Ops.  He never really showed emotion growing up.  I know he loves me but we never verbalize it to each other.  Two things that stick out.  He didn’t cry at his mom or dads funerals.  One time he was cutting a branch from a tree.  It was around 10’ long and about 4” in diameter.  He was about 6’ up in the tree.  He cut the limb.  He fell out and landed on the ground,  the limb fell perpendicular to his ankle and broke it in a few places.  He stood up on his good foot.  Hobbled to his car and told me to tell my mom he was going to go to the ER, without even a wince on his face.

Now that he is older I see how much he loves his grand kids however we still to this day have never told each other we loved one another or hugged.?

 
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ragincajun said:
My dad turns 68 in July.  He was military, navy diver, Spec Ops.  He never really showed emotion growing up.  I know he loves me but we never verbalize it to each other.  Two things that stick out.  He didn’t cry at his mom or dads funerals.  One time he was cutting a branch from a tree.  It was around 10’ long and about 4” in diameter.  He was about 6’ up in the tree.  He cut the limb.  He fell out and landed on the ground,  the limb fell perpendicular to his ankle and broke it in a few places.  He stood up on his good foot.  Hobbled to his car and told me to tell my mom he was going to go to the ER, without even a wince on his face.

Now that he is older I see how much he loves his grand kids however we still to this day have told each other we loved one another or hugged.?
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Do it. It'll be awkward, but you'll feel better, it seems. Maybe not. Maybe let sleeping dogs lie. I think you ought, ought.  

 
Charlie Steiner said:
It took me a while to comprehend the '29 Ford part.  It would have been the early 50's when she wanted that car, and hot rodding was coming into its own at that point.  I'm not sure what would have happened to her if she had gotten her way, but it definitely made her a forward thinker in her day. I still remember the last time I rode in the Chevy.  We were coming home from somewhere and a mile or two from the house, the hood unlatched and flipped up, blocking the windshield. They probably had it towed to a garage and sold it to them for $50. She also was behind getting me out of my gas-guzzling 77 LTD and into the car that I still regret not having any more: my 1980 Toyota Celica Supra. The one pictured is the exact match of the one I had, same color, same wheels.  I should have fixed it up and kept fixing it up over the years, but I was too young and too stupid to realize how unique and special it was. I had already driven it for 8 years and even though it was a Toyota, I felt it needed too much work to save: the clutch was going, the speedometer cable had broken, and the interior needed some work.  Taken as a whole, it just didn't seem worth the effort at the time.  However, that car was also like a companion.  It's stupid, but I imagine the way I felt about that car was how cowboys would feel about their horses.  For the cost of the car I replaced it with, I could have had all that work done and more, plus probably freshened up the paint job, and the added bonus was that my wife would never have driven it because it had a clutch.
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My brother had a Supra. Love that car.  

 
My dads firs car was a 50 2 door ford.  He had Carol Shelby blueprint the engine.  When he was drafted his mom sold it without him knowing.

 
My dad lived an astonishing life (rip 1999). You'd never suspect he'd experienced any of the stuff I might share here if you'd known him. He seemed like any regular old get off my lawner who drank too much - as typical as it gets. Though by high school my friends had nicknamed him Santini. He was military and strict for sure. He was as scary as a man with 4 daughters should be and kind of soft if you were brave enough to pet him. 

1st and maybe last story. I'm reminiscing so move along if it's tl;dr.

1973.

I was addicted to trout fishing as a youngster. I had more gear than most adult fisherman. It was the only thing I studied before the age of 10. I could describe dozens of the world's greatest trout locales even though I'd only fished a couple dozen times in the Sierra.

One afternoon my dad came home from work early and told me we were going fishing, just us two. We'd gone camping many times but he didn't fish. I fished alone or with a friend. I fished mostly when a friend's dad took us. Dad didn't have a fishing pole. I didn't care. It was too cool he was taking me fishing. We were in this worn out pickup he sometimes took home from work. As we headed out I requested places I wanted to go. 

"Come on, dad! Let's go to Bootleg!"

"Too far." 

"Benton Crossing, please please!?"

"Other people fish there."

He was such a dummy. "It's trout season. There's going to be people fishing where there's trout."

"Not where we're going."

"Where we going?"

I didn't get an answer, but if you're northbound on highway 395 in the southern Sierra, you generally fish the lakes and connecting rivers east of the highway or head west into the mountains. Not us. We crossed the Owens Valley and went eastbound toward Death Valley, wth. I thought I knew that part of the country like the back of my hand, but didn't have a clue where we were, and I could tell you where to fish in Patagonia. I knew the dummy was trying, but we weren't going to any fishing spot anyone had ever mentioned. I was pouting and hungry. We were driving into these desolate, dry, barren hills in the wrong direction. About 15 minutes later we turned on to a half paved road and left civilization on a steep climb. 

Almost everyone is familiar with California's Sierra. What isn't well known is just across the valley is another impressive mountain range. Whitney in the Sierra is the tallest mountain in the lower 48 at 14,505 feet. Across the valley White Mountain peak is 14,252, 3rd highest. A half hour into the White Mountains we stopped to check out the ancient Bristlecone Pine forest. He was excited to show me the oldest living things on earth. They were here 2000 years before Jesus, blah blah blah. I was a brat. A hungry brat. A hungry brat who was told he was going fishing, not looking at dumb trees

So he promised me a stringer of trout before sunset, and drove up to a gate with a big sign that said Road Closed. A smaller sign mentioned the end of the state maintained road, no trespassing, government property and some more fine print warnings. My dad pulled a big metal pin out of the ground, swung the gate open, locked the hubs for 4 wheel drive, and we went through. We bumped along for almost an hour when we got to a canyon with rocks falling here and there. Dad was not happy about it. Around a corner a big rock had fallen in the middle of the road. He tried to budge it with a crow bar and didn't have a chance.  Smaller rocks continued to hit the road. As he was digging out one side of the big one in the way, a rock about the size of a shoe landed in the bed of the truck. It scared the crap out of me. I was hungry, cold, scared. The whole day had gone wrong. What the hell were we doing in this stupid place? I started bawling. He ran to me by the passenger door then looked terrified and ducked under the truck as it got pummeled. 

That's part one I guess. 

 
ragincajun said:
My dad turns 68 in July.  He was military, navy diver, Spec Ops.  He never really showed emotion growing up.  I know he loves me but we never verbalize it to each other.  Two things that stick out.  He didn’t cry at his mom or dads funerals.  One time he was cutting a branch from a tree.  It was around 10’ long and about 4” in diameter.  He was about 6’ up in the tree.  He cut the limb.  He fell out and landed on the ground,  the limb fell perpendicular to his ankle and broke it in a few places.  He stood up on his good foot.  Hobbled to his car and told me to tell my mom he was going to go to the ER, without even a wince on his face.

Now that he is older I see how much he loves his grand kids however we still to this day have never told each other we loved one another or hugged.?
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Sounds pretty similar in some ways, but my dad got cancer at 75 and was gone by 76. That year he changed and shared real warmth with all of us. I teared up thinking about it. My mom made it 87 years to 2014. I hear regularly from one family member or another how much they miss her. That's fine and she was an unforgettable character, but I've been missing dad for 19 years and it hasn't let up a bit. Sometimes I want to say that, but I keep it to myself. 

 
Chaos Commish said:
My dad lived an astonishing life (rip 1999). You'd never suspect he'd experienced any of the stuff I might share here if you'd known him. He seemed like any regular old get off my lawner who drank too much - as typical as it gets. Though by high school my friends had nicknamed him Santini. He was military and strict for sure. He was as scary as a man with 4 daughters should be and kind of soft if you were brave enough to pet him. 

1st and maybe last story. I'm reminiscing so move along if it's tl;dr.

1973.

I was addicted to trout fishing as a youngster. I had more gear than most adult fisherman. It was the only thing I studied before the age of 10. I could describe dozens of the world's greatest trout locales even though I'd only fished a couple dozen times in the Sierra.

One afternoon my dad came home from work early and told me we were going fishing, just us two. We'd gone camping many times but he didn't fish. I fished alone or with a friend. I fished mostly when a friend's dad took us. Dad didn't have a fishing pole. I didn't care. It was too cool he was taking me fishing. We were in this worn out pickup he sometimes took home from work. As we headed out I requested places I wanted to go. 

"Come on, dad! Let's go to Bootleg!"

"Too far." 

"Benton Crossing, please please!?"

"Other people fish there."

He was such a dummy. "It's trout season. There's going to be people fishing where there's trout."

"Not where we're going."

"Where we going?"

I didn't get an answer, but if you're northbound on highway 395 in the southern Sierra, you generally fish the lakes and connecting rivers east of the highway or head west into the mountains. Not us. We crossed the Owens Valley and went eastbound toward Death Valley, wth. I thought I knew that part of the country like the back of my hand, but didn't have a clue where we were, and I could tell you where to fish in Patagonia. I knew the dummy was trying, but we weren't going to any fishing spot anyone had ever mentioned. I was pouting and hungry. We were driving into these desolate, dry, barren hills in the wrong direction. About 15 minutes later we turned on to a half paved road and left civilization on a steep climb. 

Almost everyone is familiar with California's Sierra. What isn't well known is just across the valley is another impressive mountain range. Whitney in the Sierra is the tallest mountain in the lower 48 at 14,505 feet. Across the valley White Mountain peak is 14,252, 3rd highest. A half hour into the White Mountains we stopped to check out the ancient Bristlecone Pine forest. He was excited to show me the oldest living things on earth. They were here 2000 years before Jesus, blah blah blah. I was a brat. A hungry brat. A hungry brat who was told he was going fishing, not looking at dumb trees

So he promised me a stringer of trout before sunset, and drove up to a gate with a big sign that said Road Closed. A smaller sign mentioned the end of the state maintained road, no trespassing, government property and some more fine print warnings. My dad pulled a big metal pin out of the ground, swung the gate open, locked the hubs for 4 wheel drive, and we went through. We bumped along for almost an hour when we got to a canyon with rocks falling here and there. Dad was not happy about it. Around a corner a big rock had fallen in the middle of the road. He tried to budge it with a crow bar and didn't have a chance.  Smaller rocks continued to hit the road. As he was digging out one side of the big one in the way, a rock about the size of a shoe landed in the bed of the truck. It scared the crap out of me. I was hungry, cold, scared. The whole day had gone wrong. What the hell were we doing in this stupid place? I started bawling. He ran to me by the passenger door then looked terrified and ducked under the truck as it got pummeled. 

That's part one I guess. 
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alright, I'm going to bed soon, won't wait for the next couple of parts, but I'm in.  Please quote this when you continue the story so I know to check in.  Or just pm me.

 
ragincajun said:
My dads firs car was a 50 2 door ford.  He had Carol Shelby blueprint the engine.  When he was drafted his mom sold it without him knowing.
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From that little description, that car sounded like it must have been pretty badass. I can't imagine how he must have felt when he learned it had been sold.

 
Earliest memory with my parents together (I was about 2) was Mom, Dad and me in the car driving from Fort Riley to Fort Benning. Dad pulled too far forward at a RR crossing and the antenna got snapped off by the boom gate.

Once, in Fort Dix, I remember my Dad pulling over to tell some GI to take his hands out of his pockets and get some gloves if his hands were cold.

When my Mom baked chocolate chip cookies, she always made them small (I'm guessing about 1.5" dia). Always just popped the whole thing in my mouth.

We played a lot of cards. I remember seeing my parents playing cribbage together and playing rummy with other adults for pennies. The big game when we got together with relatives was called 200. Being old enough to be included in the game was awesome! Everyone knew my paternal grandfather cheated ;-)

One of my last memories of being together with them was when they came over for my 1st Thanksgiving dinner after getting married. My wife thought the little pop-up indicator thing in the turkey was taking too long to pop. Mom looked in the oven and said that the turkey was upside down.

Shortly after turning 55, my Dad slowed down, stopped watching the news (said mostly it was bad, mostly didn't affect him, mostly a waste of time) and starting going on multi-day car trips with my Mom. About 6 months after these changes, he went to the doctor because he was finding blood in his stool and was diagnosed with cancer. He died a month later. 6 months after that, on Christmas morning, I cried like a baby.

At 89 Mom was living in an in-law apartment above my garage. Most days I would visit with her when I got home from work and we would do the word jumble together and talk for a half hour or so. One day she said her hands felt a little numb. I said that's probably because you smoked your entire adult life and your circulation isn't optimal. A little while later, she was calling for me from the top of the stairs leading to her apartment. She was disheveled, had a hard time coordinating her movements and speech. 3 years after the stroke, she died in a local nursing home. My brother and I visited every day in the beginning, once or twice a week toward the end.

Something to consider.
Mom didn't have much, but was very frugal as she wanted to pass on something to her her children and grandchildren when she died. Once the stroke hit, protecting her money was no longer possible and at $13k-$14k  per month in the nursing home, her little nest egg that she had thought was going to her heirs was gone by the time she died. She could have just spent it all on Canadian baloney for all the good it did her. At one point I talked to her about moving some of he money into the grandchildrens' accounts for this possibility, but I felt weird and uncomfortable. It probably would have been better to visit a professional who could talk objectively about it.
So, if you're thinking about passing on your assets to your heirs. Take action before it's too late.

 
Charlie Steiner said:
From that little description, that car sounded like it must have been pretty badass. I can't imagine how he must have felt when he learned it had been sold.
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My Grandfather owned a body shop.  When my dad turned 15/16 he was told go to the junk yard and pick a car out.  This was 1965 or so.  My grandfather built the dirt track frames for Richard Petty.  I think that is hw he ended up knowing Carol Shelby.  They towed the car back to the shop and rebuilt it with a freshly blueprinted 289.

It was very similar to this one. https://de.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datei:1950_Ford_Custom_Coupe.jpg

 
ragincajun said:
My Grandfather owned a body shop.  When my dad turned 15/16 he was told go to the junk yard and pick a car out.  This was 1965 or so.  My grandfather built the dirt track frames for Richard Petty.  I think that is hw he ended up knowing Carol Shelby.  They towed the car back to the shop and rebuilt it with a freshly blueprinted 289.

It was very similar to this one. https://de.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datei:1950_Ford_Custom_Coupe.jpg
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Love the shoebox cars, don't even have to chop the top any more for them to look cool. Also very cool about your grandfather, Shelby seemed like a man's man.  I have been known to use his chili seasoning from time to time.

 
Mmm Chili.

My grandfather was one of those scrawny guys with huge forearms from years of wrenching.  He would bet guys they couldn’t touch their nose with a sledgehammer after he did and watched them smash their noses.

I would love to find his car and buy it for him.

 
I don't really have any stories about my mother. She's - to this day - a fantastic, brilliant lady. I wonder what she could have done had she not gotten knocked up with me right out of high school.

My father, who died 4 years ago this coming week, was a hard-### - looked and acted like a Marine. It was apparent he loved my brother and I, but we also didn't want to cross him.

Until......

I was 16 (he was 36; 36!; 20 years younger than I am now) and he was #####ing at me about something when he got home from work. I had had ENOUGH and walked out of the house, slamming every door behind me as hard as I could. I was thinking "I'm gonna drop this sucker if he's brave enough to come after me" (I was taller, but left Dad-strength out of my reckoning). Then I heard the keys jangling. The keys he wore on his belt. The Dad Keys. I started quivering before I saw him come around the corner. By the time he got to me, I was blubbering like a little baby. He jacked me up against my car - '74 Nova hatchback with custom rust, baby - and told me to go back in the house to apologize to my mother. "I'll be here when you come out". By the time I came back out, all of my machismo was gone. He gave me $20 (gas was like $.40/gallon then and beer was cheap, too - it was HARD to spend $20 in those days) and said "don't #### up tonight - you almost did already".

 
The details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my ####. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.

 
AAABatteries said:
The details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my ####. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
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I expected more posts like this one.  

Well, My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.

 
Whoa. A bit dusty in here. I’ll have to come back and read more. Great stuff. 

I’ll put some stuff in later at some point after a few drinks one evening. I had similar experiences as a few in here with my mother and father.

Luckily both parents are alive still and in good health. Dad worked his ### off on the road, was very strict but sacrificed for us to have a good life. Mom stayed at home and was a fantastic mom. She was involved in my school, loved sports (my Dad couldn’t care less) and was/is interested in many things which she tried to share with me and my brothers.

Earliest memories are her taking me to a movie or playing Putt Putt on Friday afternoon during the summers and then going to MCL a Midwest cafeteria chain that I loved for some reason and the best part going to pick out a match box car at the toy store if I did my chores all week. 

Of my Dad he was really a clean freak, he would wash his car a lot on weekends. I would wash (and wax :lol:  ) my plastic Big Wheel along side. He showed me how to apply the wax and buff it out. I rode that thing until the wheels split.

Need to give them a call. 

 
Chaos Commish said:
My dad lived an astonishing life (rip 1999). You'd never suspect he'd experienced any of the stuff I might share here if you'd known him. He seemed like any regular old get off my lawner who drank too much - as typical as it gets. Though by high school my friends had nicknamed him Santini. He was military and strict for sure. He was as scary as a man with 4 daughters should be and kind of soft if you were brave enough to pet him. 

1st and maybe last story. I'm reminiscing so move along if it's tl;dr.

1973.

I was addicted to trout fishing as a youngster. I had more gear than most adult fisherman. It was the only thing I studied before the age of 10. I could describe dozens of the world's greatest trout locales even though I'd only fished a couple dozen times in the Sierra.

One afternoon my dad came home from work early and told me we were going fishing, just us two. We'd gone camping many times but he didn't fish. I fished alone or with a friend. I fished mostly when a friend's dad took us. Dad didn't have a fishing pole. I didn't care. It was too cool he was taking me fishing. We were in this worn out pickup he sometimes took home from work. As we headed out I requested places I wanted to go. 

"Come on, dad! Let's go to Bootleg!"

"Too far." 

"Benton Crossing, please please!?"

"Other people fish there."

He was such a dummy. "It's trout season. There's going to be people fishing where there's trout."

"Not where we're going."

"Where we going?"

I didn't get an answer, but if you're northbound on highway 395 in the southern Sierra, you generally fish the lakes and connecting rivers east of the highway or head west into the mountains. Not us. We crossed the Owens Valley and went eastbound toward Death Valley, wth. I thought I knew that part of the country like the back of my hand, but didn't have a clue where we were, and I could tell you where to fish in Patagonia. I knew the dummy was trying, but we weren't going to any fishing spot anyone had ever mentioned. I was pouting and hungry. We were driving into these desolate, dry, barren hills in the wrong direction. About 15 minutes later we turned on to a half paved road and left civilization on a steep climb. 

Almost everyone is familiar with California's Sierra. What isn't well known is just across the valley is another impressive mountain range. Whitney in the Sierra is the tallest mountain in the lower 48 at 14,505 feet. Across the valley White Mountain peak is 14,252, 3rd highest. A half hour into the White Mountains we stopped to check out the ancient Bristlecone Pine forest. He was excited to show me the oldest living things on earth. They were here 2000 years before Jesus, blah blah blah. I was a brat. A hungry brat. A hungry brat who was told he was going fishing, not looking at dumb trees

So he promised me a stringer of trout before sunset, and drove up to a gate with a big sign that said Road Closed. A smaller sign mentioned the end of the state maintained road, no trespassing, government property and some more fine print warnings. My dad pulled a big metal pin out of the ground, swung the gate open, locked the hubs for 4 wheel drive, and we went through. We bumped along for almost an hour when we got to a canyon with rocks falling here and there. Dad was not happy about it. Around a corner a big rock had fallen in the middle of the road. He tried to budge it with a crow bar and didn't have a chance.  Smaller rocks continued to hit the road. As he was digging out one side of the big one in the way, a rock about the size of a shoe landed in the bed of the truck. It scared the crap out of me. I was hungry, cold, scared. The whole day had gone wrong. What the hell were we doing in this stupid place? I started bawling. He ran to me by the passenger door then looked terrified and ducked under the truck as it got pummeled. 

That's part one I guess. 
Click to expand...
Sorry, I'm reminiscing and this is too long.

Obviously, we weren't crushed by a rock slide. It was terrifying. I was sobbing between saying angry things to my distressed father.

He got in the truck and backed up around the corner and got out. "A stringer of trout by sun down! We're fishing!" He used the voice that meant one reply. 

"Yes sir." 

He pulled a winch line around the corner and was gone too long, about a minute. It moved the rock enough (because of the angle the corner gave him) that he could get around it. We were pelted again as he negotiated larger rocks with the 4x4, and we were out of the canyon. I looked back still traumatized. How were we getting home? We continued climbing deeper into wilderness. I was trying to stay composed but things didn't make sense. We didn't bring camping gear. My dad was insane.

He stopped at a rock marked with green paint. "Ready to fish?" There was no water in sight. He grabbed a canvas bag from behind the seat. I grabbed my gear. The sun was low. After a few hundred yards we were following a small trickle of water, about four inches wide. It merged with a few other trickles, widened, then disappeared under rocks. We descended into a patch of woods with a couple ponds about a quarter acre each. Beaver dams. An insect hatch had 100s of trout in a feeding frenzy. I was in awe.

Dad said, "Now two people on earth know about this."

I had a lure on and was fishing fast. Nothing. I tried another. Nope. Dad was fitting together a long rod with an odd reel, inspecting insects at the water's edge before choosing a fly from small box. I had seen this on tv, read about it in magazines. It was the ultimate. My dad was a fly fisherman!? No way. Was I dreaming? 

He told me they wouldn't take my lures during a hatch and asked me to watch him for a minute as he explained casting and feeding the line. He went into the back and forth slinging motion. Then the fly touched water. One cast, one fish. Four casts, four fish. Beautiful little brook trout. For 20 minutes I was given my first fly fishing lesson. I was taught simple tricks to present the fly, but mostly I worked on learning to feed out line while sending a fly back and forth overhead. I'd caught a half dozen fish before the lesson ended and he told me to go fish on my own for awhile and to release anything I caught. We had plenty. I did until I smelled the trout cooking. The hunger came back. He'd used steel leaders and fish hooks to keep whole trout from falling off diy skewers as they roasted over the fire. He sprayed them with a seasoned oil from his little bag. Amazing. I ate 8 trout sticks sitting around that fire feeling better, but still unsure of our situation. It was dark and cold away from the fire. 

I'll finish with the best part of the story tonight. 

 
rockaction said:
So I just heard the ice cream truck go by. Never realized it would hit, but it did. I'm never getting an ice cream as a young kid with my mother again. She's still alive -- but it just won't happen. What are your childhood memories with your parents? Share here, if you'd like. 
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My mother was a terrible alcoholic. Slept with any man in the neighborhood that had a big enough bank account.

I had a sister. We had furniture because she slept with these men.

She repeatedly threatened suicide which led to me speaking to several of these men. Most were just desperate men looking for a screw.

we got furniture out of it. Sometimes a little more

My mother was usually drunk every day and played Janes Addiction repeatedly. Occasionally she would play Fleetwood Mac and meatloaf

i destroyed several stereos because she played “ Jane says” all day. Literally all day.

on top of that I had to be a hawk and find her hiding places for alcohol. I did and I poured it all out. It got to the point I would throw any enablers out of our apartment...with force.

it was a constant battle of desperate men vs her son. 

Eventually I would just sit outside her room, playing NFL 2k until 3 or 4 in the morning just to protect her

eventually she went to AA

met a desperate guy, got married, told her children to #### off

she no longer existed to me at that point

my father was no better. The ultimate #####. Every effort I made in my life was quickly reduced.

so much of a ******* I was almost longing for my mother. 

Both pieces of ####

The day I hear about either of them dying is a good day.

Despite all that.....neither would care if anyone told them I feel this way.

I will feel a lot of relief when either dies. I hope both.

 
RokNRole said:
My mother was a terrible alcoholic. Slept with any man in the neighborhood that had a big enough bank account.

I had a sister. We had furniture because she slept with these men.

She repeatedly threatened suicide which led to me speaking to several of these men. Most were just desperate men looking for a screw.

we got furniture out of it. Sometimes a little more

My mother was usually drunk every day and played Janes Addiction repeatedly. Occasionally she would play Fleetwood Mac and meatloaf

i destroyed several stereos because she played “ Jane says” all day. Literally all day.

on top of that I had to be a hawk and find her hiding places for alcohol. I did and I poured it all out. It got to the point I would throw any enablers out of our apartment...with force.

it was a constant battle of desperate men vs her son. 

Eventually I would just sit outside her room, playing NFL 2k until 3 or 4 in the morning just to protect her

eventually she went to AA

met a desperate guy, got married, told her children to #### off

she no longer existed to me at that point

my father was no better. The ultimate #####. Every effort I made in my life was quickly reduced.

so much of a ******* I was almost longing for my mother. 

Both pieces of ####

The day I hear about either of them dying is a good day.

Despite all that.....neither would care if anyone told them I feel this way.

I will feel a lot of relief when either dies. I hope both.
Click to expand...
I've always wished you well on your journey and continue to do so. My friend had to be emancipated from his crackhead mom who let people molest him. He's one of my best friends to this day and has forgiven his parents and made peace, no matter how screwed up it is. I wish you the same.  

 
rockaction said:
I've always wished you well on your journey and continue to do so. My friend had to be emancipated from his crackhead mom who let people molest him. He's one of my best friends to this day and has forgiven his parents and made peace, no matter how screwed up it is. I wish you the same.  
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Why respond to a story with a more messed up story?

How is that helping anyone?

Are you helping yourself? 

One thing i learned after a terrible lifetime was that I should be thinking about others before I think about myself.

Msking someone else feel good, if for but a moment, echoes in eternity and heals both parties.

 
RokNRole said:
Why respond to a story with a more messed up story?

How is that helping anyone?

Are you helping yourself? 

One thing i learned after a terrible lifetime was that I should be thinking about others before I think about myself.

Msking someone else feel good, if for but a moment, echoes in eternity and heals both parties.
Click to expand...
You've gotten on me a bit lately for that. I'm just trying to say that there's hope, that's all. Hope for everybody involved. My friend suffered greatly, and has wound up a terrific and vibrant person. I'm not trying to make you feel bad or help myself. I'm just trying to tell you that there might be a way out of pain; that everybody's circumstances, while different, can be dealt with. No, I'm not trying to make myself feel better in the least. I'm trying to say that there might be a different way of approaching things, but I'm not a psychologist and I'll just leave this as it were. Your issues are yours; bones to pick are also yours.   

 
I was 22 when my Dad passed away.  I have more years now without my Dad than I did with him.  I was stationed in the Army and in Mogadishu at the time. I thought about a lot on that flight back home.  So many life lessons about what it is to be a man, and basically boiled down to "do the right thing because it is the right thing to do", and "be a stand-up guy!"  It never really hit me my Dad was gone until several months later I picked up the phone to call him on a Sunday.  It had become our thing to talk on Sundays and was funny to me because the older I got the smarter my Dad became.  I was a typical teenager who would stare out the window of my Dad's truck while he was trying to tell me something important and all I wanted to do was spend time with my friends.  My Dad was a policeman and after he retired had a small construction company that I was "forced to work" for during time off from school.  Never worked so hard in my life the way I worked for my Dad.  I was always pissed off that I never got paid as much as the other guys, felt like I had to work harder and took the brunt of his anger.  I have twins that just turned 14 a few days ago and I can catch them doing the same eye roll or wanting to spend time with their friends, not having the time or patience to hear a story.  I guess I will just wait for my time until I become smart and interesting again.  

 
rockaction said:
You've gotten on me a bit lately for that. I'm just trying to say that there's hope, that's all. Hope for everybody involved. My friend suffered greatly, and has wound up a terrific and vibrant person. I'm not trying to make you feel bad or help myself. I'm just trying to tell you that there might be a way out of pain; that everybody's circumstances, while different, can be dealt with. No, I'm not trying to make myself feel better in the least. I'm trying to say that there might be a different way of approaching things, but I'm not a psychologist and I'll just leave this as it were. Your issues are yours; bones to pick are also yours.   
Click to expand...
What hope?

Do you think the world has the ability to understand?

are younot clutching at straws and hoping one of us understands?

Get it together. We are surrounded by hate.

 
rockaction said:
You've gotten on me a bit lately for that. I'm just trying to say that there's hope, that's all. Hope for everybody involved. My friend suffered greatly, and has wound up a terrific and vibrant person. I'm not trying to make you feel bad or help myself. I'm just trying to tell you that there might be a way out of pain; that everybody's circumstances, while different, can be dealt with. No, I'm not trying to make myself feel better in the least. I'm trying to say that there might be a different way of approaching things, but I'm not a psychologist and I'll just leave this as it were. Your issues are yours; bones to pick are also yours.   
Click to expand...
You sound like someone that drinks a lot

i do too

you can PM if you need to

We live in a sick world. Some of us learn the deal....and some of us die. The world is the world if we like it or not.

Dying for it can be a good thing or a bad thing.

 
RokNRole said:
You sound like someone that drinks a lot

i do too

you can PM if you need to

We live in a sick world. Some of us learn the deal....and some of us die. The world is the world if we like it or not.

Dying for it can be a good thing or a bad thing.
Click to expand...
sounds like you might need to get back on meds broham.  

 
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