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

[rockaction]

yeah.  not sure if it was the intent of the OP.....but i take a lot of stuff for granted.  Lots of good dudes in here.    

The intent of the OP was the good stuff, my friend. I'm going to miss my parents when I'm gone, should I not predecease them. Not to be morbid, but the point of the thread was exactly what several posters have done, which is to remember their parents in a positive way.

 

[rockaction]

You sound like someone that drinks a lot

I do, but just wanted this to be a place for posting childhood memories that are positive, until you brought it up, then I felt bad. I had a great childhood. Others haven't.  

I don't know what else to say.

 

[rockaction]

 Lots of good dudes in here.    

Yup. That's what I'm going for. Good men, good women, good sons and daughters.  

 

[RokNRole]

sounds like you might need to get back on meds broham.  

Tiny thoughts can often infiltrate a small mind.

 

[RokNRole]

I do, but just wanted this to be a place for posting childhood memories that are positive, until you brought it up, then I felt bad. I had a great childhood. Others haven't.  

I don't know what else to say.

That’s a lot of pressure to put on me.

 

[Binky The Doormat]

sounds like you might need to get back on meds broham.  

Tiny thoughts can often infiltrate a small mind.

I don't often give you serious replies, but that one was.  No malice, you sound dark.  

ETA:  In the meantime, Brock has a plan

?????‏ @ImTheeBrock Jun 23

Working on my 6 year plan:

1. ?

2. ?

3. ?

4. ?

5. ?

6. And then they’ll all be sorry.

 

[RokNRole]

I don't often give you serious replies, but that one was.  No malice, you sound dark.  

If you think anyone thought that response was serious and not just you being a jerk

i have a few bridges you may want to buy

 

[RokNRole]

I don't often give you serious replies, but that one was.  No malice, you sound dark.  

ETA:  In the meantime, Brock has a plan

?????‏ @ImTheeBrock Jun 23

Working on my 6 year plan:

1. ?

2. ?

3. ?

4. ?

5. ?

6. And then they’ll all be sorry.

Where is your plan?

 

[RokNRole]

@Binky The Doormat

Im watching Beerfest. When landfill died.

“ He once farted an entire plum”

That line make me think of you. You are our fat #######.

 

[The Future Champs]

.

Still in...

 

[Chaos Commish]

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. 

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. 

I wrote all that enjoying memories, but what this thread made me want to share about my dad is below. First back to the story.

Getting to the truck wasn't a problem. The cold was but walking helped. I didn't complain to my dad the secret fly fisherman. I was in worship mode. I asked him nonchalantly about the rocks and getting home, having no camping gear, how late it was and other worries. He produced a couple Snickers bars in response.

Once in the truck he started it up, put on the brights, took a pull from a flask, lit a cigarette, told me to get some sleep and settled in for a drive. Of course he headed north deeper into the mountains. This was a rocky dirt road from that Road Closed sign over an hour from us in the right direction. Other than the falling rocks it only got worse (actual road near destination). I fell asleep. Looking at a map now I estimate he drove another two hours. I'd sleep until he'd drop into 4L. The old battered truck sounded like an angry kazoo fighting the hard climbs on loose rocks. The truck would win, we'd be back in 4H, and I'd fall back to sleep. 

He stopped at the end of the road which back then was the summit at White Mountain, 14,252 feet above sea level. We were here. You can only hike it now. There's a small building at the summit made of stone collected there. Little did I know but my dad built it (with help). He was a Navy meteorologist. The building was their high altitude research station. He worked up there several days a month and spent many a night. He told me to pick a bunk (bunk beds) then started up a generator, cranked up a heater, messed around with some of his work equipment, and turned on some needed oxygen.

I was blown away and wide awake, so he asked for help with his work bench that served as a desk and dining table. It was folded against the wall behind the bunks and looked familiar. We moved it outside. Our old ping pong table. He never lost a backyard tournament. We had an upgraded table at home. The moon was as bright as possible. So dad and I played ping pong under moonlight on that mountain top until the altitude messed with our oxygen. I got another great lesson to boot. 

It was an incredible day. Getting into the bunks for bed came with an awkward silence. I thought neither of us knew what to say. He had something in mind though. The thing I felt like sharing when this thread started. 

"When you became obsessed with trout fishing, I hoped you'd lose interest. You didn't so today was rewarding you for sticking with it. It's good to dedicate yourself to knowledge and expertise. You can have the fly rod and the gear that goes with it. There's a fly tying kit and an old book I used here too. But you're going to have to teach yourself. I'm done fishing. I promised myself the day I joined the military I would never fish again. I didn't consider having you when I made the promise, but today was it for me."

"Why?"

When he turned 14 in the depths of the depression he was basically on his own. His uncle had given him a home to that point, but he turned it into a  boarding house to make ends meet. He could no longer feed everyone, and several others were less capable than a 14 year old boy. Times were hard and people were starving. My dad was welcome to camp on the property, but he didn't have a room and food was scarce. Grown men were standing in lines to do jobs 14 years olds could do.

His uncle gave him a fly rod and taught him to fish. He shared the old proverb - give a man a fish feed him for a day, teach a man to fish feed him for life. So my dad fished to eat for four years through high school. He played every sport he could to have a place to be and an excuse to use the showers. In the summers he spent weeks at a time in the wilderness fishing to eat and foraging for edibles. When he caught more than he could eat, he took it to his uncle's place and helped out. Sometimes he ate worms, and sometimes he went hungry. The day he was old enough to join the military he did. His motivation in doing so was to never have to fish again. 

 

[The Duff Man]

Most of my positive memories were from my grandparents not my mom so I will share one of them. 

My grandpa was a big baseball fan and we used to sit together and listen to the Jays games on the radio. This was late 80s in their hay-day. 

But it wasn't a traditional way to listen. My grandmother would be in the living room watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, while the two of us listened to the game on our Walkmans. 

He used to score the game, I suspect so he could remember what was going on in the inning, so I would do the same. 

Such a great memory, the two of us listening to the game on our individual headsets and scoring it, exchanging silent looks of joy when the Jays did something good, while my grandmother sat contentedly watching her game shows. 

 

[rockaction]

I wrote all that enjoying memories, but what this thread made me want to share about my dad is below. First back to the story.

Getting to the truck wasn't a problem. The cold was but walking helped. I didn't complain to my dad the secret fly fisherman. I was in worship mode. I asked him nonchalantly about the rocks and getting home, having no camping gear, how late it was and other worries. He produced a couple Snickers bars in response.

Once in the truck he started it up, put on the brights, took a pull from a flask, lit a cigarette, told me to get some sleep and settled in for a drive. Of course he headed north deeper into the mountains. This was a rocky dirt road from that Road Closed sign over an hour from us in the right direction. Other than the falling rocks it only got worse (actual road near destination). I fell asleep. Looking at a map now I estimate he drove another two hours. I'd sleep until he'd drop into 4L. The old battered truck sounded like an angry kazoo fighting the hard climbs on loose rocks. The truck would win, we'd be back in 4H, and I'd fall back to sleep. 

He stopped at the end of the road which back then was the summit at White Mountain, 14,252 feet above sea level. We were here. You can only hike it now. There's a small building at the summit made of stone collected there. Little did I know but my dad built it (with help). He was a Navy meteorologist. The building was their high altitude research station. He worked up there several days a month and spent many a night. He told me to pick a bunk (bunk beds) then started up a generator, cranked up a heater, messed around with some of his work equipment, and turned on some needed oxygen.

I was blown away and wide awake, so he asked for help with his work bench that served as a desk and dining table. It was folded against the wall behind the bunks and looked familiar. We moved it outside. Our old ping pong table. He never lost a backyard tournament. We had an upgraded table at home. The moon was as bright as possible. So dad and I played ping pong under moonlight on that mountain top until the altitude messed with our oxygen. I got another great lesson to boot. 

It was an incredible day. Getting into the bunks for bed came with an awkward silence. I thought neither of us knew what to say. He had something in mind though. The thing I felt like sharing when this thread started. 

"When you became obsessed with trout fishing, I hoped you'd lose interest. You didn't so today was rewarding you for sticking with it. It's good to dedicate yourself to knowledge and expertise. You can have the fly rod and the gear that goes with it. There's a fly tying kit and an old book I used here too. But you're going to have to teach yourself. I'm done fishing. I promised myself the day I joined the military I would never fish again. I didn't consider having you when I made the promise, but today was it for me."

"Why?"

When he turned 14 in the depths of the depression he was basically on his own. His uncle had given him a home to that point, but he turned it into a  boarding house to make ends meet. He could no longer feed everyone, and several others were less capable than a 14 year old boy. Times were hard and people were starving. My dad was welcome to camp on the property, but he didn't have a room and food was scarce. Grown men were standing in lines to do jobs 14 years olds could do.

His uncle gave him a fly rod and taught him to fish. He shared the old proverb - give a man a fish feed him for a day, teach a man to fish feed him for life. So my dad fished to eat for four years through high school. He played every sport he could to have a place to be and an excuse to use the showers. In the summers he spent weeks at a time in the wilderness fishing to eat and foraging for edibles. When he caught more than he could eat, he took it to his uncle's place and helped out. Sometimes he ate worms, and sometimes he went hungry. The day he was old enough to join the military he did. His motivation in doing so was to never have to fish again. 

Whoa. That was some stuff, man. Thanks. We often forget The Depression and what people did and had to do to get by. 

 

[ProstheticRGK]

@Chaos Commish outstanding story! Reminded me of Hemingway's Nick Adams short stories. Your dad sounds like a pretty incredible guy. Thanks for sharing that.

 

[rockaction]

Most of my positive memories were from my grandparents not my mom so I will share one of them. 

My grandpa was a big baseball fan and we used to sit together and listen to the Jays games on the radio. This was late 80s in their hay-day. 

But it wasn't a traditional way to listen. My grandmother would be in the living room watching Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, while the two of us listened to the game on our Walkmans. 

He used to score the game, I suspect so he could remember what was going on in the inning, so I would do the same. 

Such a great memory, the two of us listening to the game on our individual headsets and scoring it, exchanging silent looks of joy when the Jays did something good, while my grandmother sat contentedly watching her game shows. 

I learned to score games from my father and others. Such a rite of passage for us oldsters. Learning that 6 was the shortstop was so, well, edifying for me for some reason. 6-4-3, mon frere. Love it. 

 

[SWC]

it is a funny thing that when you are younger you spend all of your time waiting to break free of your parents and holding every seeming transgression against them but i see now that my ma and pa never had had much and the truth is that we grew up pretty poor in a house no bigger than most peoples basements but they both worked and i mean worked all of the time either at there jobs or at church or for 4h or for scouts or as coaches or doing as much as they could for whatever else my sister and i were in to basically i watched them give up all of there dreams and free time to put food on the table and a roof over the top and to make sure that my sister and me had our chances and i realize only now how lucky i was take that to the bank brohans  

 

[Tin Cup]

Random memories of my childhood:

• My parents divorced when I was 4.  Even decades later, I remember my mother picking me up at day care and us going to a different house than I had ever known.
  
• My mother dragging me along against my will to pick blueberries or strawberries in the summer
  
• Sitting on my father's shoulders at a Don McLean concert on the 4th of July, a few years after American Pie hit it big
  
• Learning to drive on a Ford Pinto and learning to parallel park a Plymouth Satellite station wagon that seemed 20 feet long
  
• Weekend trips all over New England with my grandfather, who stepped into the "father" role after my parents divorced.  Usually in a Volkswagen Beetle he got from the gas & electric company he worked for.  And usually with no AC in the summer or heat in the winter.
  

 

[Mookie]

My Dad was a BIG tennis player.  2 or 3 times a week and he was super competitive.  I therefore also grew up playing a lot of tennis and got the point when I was 12 or so that I could give him a good game.  He'd always win though as he was bigger and could just toy with me.  As I got stronger and he started to slow, the gap narrowed and I was clearly the better player by the time I was 16.  I still couldn't beat him though because he could get in my head and make me choke like a dog.  He'd give me pointers, say "nice try!" when I'd miss by a fraction, or say "Wow, that was lucky!" when he'd hit a great shot.  To the casual observer, he was being supportive, but to me, it was annoying and just his way of messing with me.  We'd play 2 out of 3 sets and I would usually win the first set, only to collapse and lose the next two. 

One day when I was about 17, we played on a really hot day.  I came out fast and just destroyed him in the first set like 6-1.  He was wilting in the heat, but kept chirping expecting me to choke like always.  This time was different and I felt strong while sensing weakness in him and got up 5-2 in the second set. I was determined to finish this off.  He hit a shot down the line which I barely got back as he charged to the net.  My return meekly floated in the air onto his side of the Court, and despite having an easy put away, he proceeded to shank it into the bottom of the net.  Cursing, he turned and threw his racket with all his might towards the back fence.  Unfortunately for him, the racket sailed over the fence and into the parking lot.  We still had points to play, but at that point, he said "I'm done", and we shook hands at the net.  We drove home in silence and never talked about it again.