Early Education 2

Early Education 2

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medical              *
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Not much to report. Checked in with my family doctor yesterday on a scheduled visit and reviewed my progress. Dr. Kolb has hospital privileges in San Luis Obispo. There are a few likely kinds of complications that may require hospitalization going forward... dehydration...reduced immune competence and infection...pain from tumor itself....It is  helpful to know your admitting doctor at a hospital. You generally have a little more leverage based upon the length of relationship.

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In the weeks prior to starting college, my father had a burst of energy. Much to my mother's objection, he turned the tiny dining room in our house into his "workshop." He bought a few hand tools, including rip and cross-cut saws, a keyhole saw, a brace with bits, a couple of planes--no electric saws or drills. And he started making wooden things, such as corner cabinets in our dining room, valences for curtains to come, built-in bookshelves and desks in the bedroom that I shared with my brother, Geoff, and redwood outdoor furniture. These products were not "perfect" or "artisan" grade by any means. They were functional. My mother was one who was much better at seeing imperfection and particularly expert in finding faults in my father, his beliefs, his behaviors, and his aspirations.

She particularly thought him a fool in his understanding of children. She was right being from a family of eight whereas he was an only child.

I recall two examples that clearly indicate an erroneous appreciation of child development.

Example 1:

I am six years old and I am playing with my friend, Johnny Handiboe. We have pencils and paper. I draw a stick-like figure of a man in profile, including the man's penis. A stream is issuing from the penis to the ground. Of course this is 6 year-old "potty" art--pretty typical stuff. My mother sees the picture and swats me and tells me that she will be showing this to my father, which she does when he comes home from work.

After supper he takes me aside and looks at the picture. He asks me why I drew this picture. "I need to know whether this is serious. Is this art?"

I knew that art was serious. I had seen my father drawing and painting on many occasions. He had never done it while laughing and joking with another person next to him.

I tell him that it wasn't serious. It was meant to be funny. But I was thinking at the time that it was so strange for him to think that my picture could be anything else. "I'm only six. How could he think that?",  I remember saying to myself."

Example 2:

I am seven years old and my father pulls me aside for a conversation. He tells me that if I wanted to date someone, that he could make sure that it was arranged. I believe he explained the function of a chaperon who could be used in such cases. I'm shocked. I knew that "teenagers," (those giants that are not quite adults) could date, but I was several years away from that. I am uncomfortable to be discussing this with him.
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On entry into 3rd grade in 1951, my father was in college and likely to be home in the afternoons.  He had begun driving a cab in D.C. generally between 7 PM and 3 AM. He had a good working knowledge of Washington, D.C. and was an accomplished driver. He had driven every type of vehicle in the army, including traillering heavy guns and tanks. He would come home in the early A.M., get some sleep, often take us to school in the morning, go to classes, come home in the early afternoon and, perhaps, nap  for an hour or two prior to our return from school.

He began receiving the Congressional Record in the mail every day. He explained that it was the right of every citizen to know what the government was doing. He would glance through it and sometimes read out parts of the congressional proceedings. He explained the use of political bombast. Even if you were talking about a Senator who was spreading vicious lies about you, you addressed him in terms such as
"my esteemed colleague." The Congressional Record was of significant bulk and began to occupy an increasing amount of available shelf space in our living room.

My father always had art tools around. His most basic tool was a lightweight, but thick 3' by 2' board that he used as shield when cutting paper or other materials with exacto knives or box-cutters. He also used the board to pin up drawing paper when he sketched.  He generally wore a hat and almost always had a pencil behind his ear.

One day I came home and he was busy working on a project on his art board. He asked me about the day and I expounded on the nature of "souls" particularly the difference between human and animal. I was beginning to learn that my father was not a candidate for heaven. He was not a Christian, much less a Catholic. He did not appear to have been baptized and, according to Sister Mary Francis, this excluded him from heaven forever. Somehow the relating of this information to my father seemed not to faze him in the least.

He continued to look down at his work. He said,  "I think of God as the good stuff ...in that bird outside singing, in the way grass smells in the morning, the feeling you get when you are doing things and you begin to sweat...just everything."

He went on..."How about dogs? Do they get into heaven." I was sad to inform him that dogs did not have souls and could not go to heaven. I backed up my argument with a reference to Sister Mary Francis who seemed very sure on this point.

He still never looked up and said, "I don't know about you, but I don't know if I'd like to go to a place that doesn't allow dogs."

I know that we had several discussions about Catechism. I wanted my father to go to heaven (I guess I still hadn't gotten the word from Sister Mary Francis that my preoccupation with my genitalia made heaven a highly unlikely personal destination.) He managed to turn my arguments aside without rancor and didn't appear to be interested in trying to change my beliefs.

At the age of 8 he began to teach me about history, geography, and politics. Generally I would ask a question and a little lecture or teaching would follow. Occasionally we would play checkers and by nine or ten I was winning most of the time. He never complained when defeated in checkers or chess. Generally he didn't gripe as I got older and was able to beat him in badminton. However, one time I did laugh at him during a game and he threw a racket at me...and one time at the dinner table during a mild dispute, he became so angry that he threw a fork (at least it wasn't a knife).

Seeing my father go to school impressed upon me the importance of education, particularly when I saw the rearrangement and disruptions that had been imposed upon our family by his decision to seek that education at a later age.

My father liked books. He built himself a desk that he could use while sitting up in bed. Occasionally when he had a cold or was exhausted from his work and school schedule, he would lie in bed all day and read. Having been so affected by the war, he was fascinated by its history. Early on we had Churchill's Six Volume Set and he read every word. He was only marginally interested in great literature or thoughtfully constructed movies. I remember seeing "Wild Strawberries" with him in 1958. I loved it and the movie seemed "true" to me--my own definition of a "true" movie might be one that ends exactly where it should. He didn't care for it.

The greatest gift from my father was his refusal to censor anything that I wanted to read. Although I've just made fun of a father who thought my "dirty" picture might be a work of art, this same willingness to concede the possibility of an artistic intent may be from the same source as his allowance of literary freedom.

The second great gift from my father was his refusal to buy into any organized religion, seeing all of them as essentially perverted by the control of the few at the top of the food chain. I think this mitigated the damage from unadulterated rote religious teaching.