Bounce Back

By Earl Llewellyn Goldmann and Patricia L Brooks

"You can keep going long after you think you can't."

Earl Goldmann's poignant and moving memoir is the story of a young boy growing up in Tillamook, Oregon, and the terrible injury inflicted by the man who should have been his mentor. As he struggled to understand and forgive, an unexpected gift from a faraway relative gave him

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brooks Goldmann Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Aug 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781088041420

Earl Llewellyn Goldmann

Earl is a past high school social studies teacher and coach from Oregon. After a successful teaching and coaching career, he retired to Scottsdale, Arizona and took up writing and reading.He founded Brooks Goldmann Publishing Company, LLC, in 2005 with his wife, award winning author, Patricia L. Brooks. They are active in the Arizona writing community and attend several book festivals and many writing events during the year.Connect with Earl at:www.bounceb[e-mail]

Book preview

Bounce

Back

By

Earl Llewellyn Goldmann

Bounce Back

Copyright ©2017 Earl Llewellyn Goldmann

This book is a work of non-fiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are all true and have been faithfully rendered as the author has remembered them to the best of his ability. Some names, identities and circumstances have been changed to protect the privacy and/or anonymity of the various individuals involved.

All rights reserved. Manufactured in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, graphic, electronic, mechanical or digital, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by an information retrieval system without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For more information: Brooks Goldmann Publishing Company, LLC

www.brooksgoldmannpublishing.com

Editing by Kitty Kessler, Daffodil Press, KittyKessler.com

Interior Design by Ann Videan, Book Shepherd, ANVidean.com

Memoir 2. Abuse 3. Sports 4. Post-traumatic Stress

Bounce Back/Earl Llewellyn Goldmann

ISBN 13: 978-1-0880-4142-0 (ebook)

Also, available in paperback

First Brooks Goldmann Publishing Company, LLC ebook edition

August 2017

In Memory

Alice Margaret Rampton

Eastburn Alan Smith

Dedication

To my wife, Patricia L. Brooks,

who encouraged me to write my story.

Table of Contents

Introduction       i

My Reason for writing      iii

Abuse

Abuse Introduction      2

Notes from a Beaten Childhood      4

A Day in the Life of a Beating      11

Abuse: Church History and Corporal Punishment      19

Wait Until Your Father Comes Home      23

Basketball

Basketball Goals      28

Wilson Rockets      29

Junior High and High School       40

A Win by a Nose       48

OSC Freshman—Sophomore Year      51

OSC Basketball      59

Paul Valenti      67

OSC Apartment      77

Lee Dancer      81

Car Wreck

The Speed of Life      85

Car Wreck      96

Corvallis Hospital      111

Synopsis      116

Dr. Lermo      122

Mrs. Stevens      129

Alcohol

A Turn in the Road      133

Alcohol Progression      144

Depression      151

Curley Cramer      158

Sisters: Imelda Anne and Mary      160

Tillamook Stories

Stories Introduction      163

Mrs. Coats      164

Mike. Guidoni      168

Mel Remington      171

On the Right Path      174

Don Averill      180

Lumber Mills      183

Victory House      186

Fern Café      189

Fishing      191

Larry McKeel      195

Big Game      199

Small Fields      202

Wheeler Home Run      207

House in left Field      208

Baseball Semi-Pro      210

Saturday Matinee—Bobby Montgomery      212

All-Night Movies      217

THS Choir      219

Weather      223

My Family

My Father      226

Money—College—Roof      228

Fishing Out of Season      230

Rialto Tavern      233

My Mother       237

Democrat      241

Tricksey      245

Sunday Drives      247

Fairgrounds      256

Paper Route      261

Golf

Astoria Birdie       264

Golf in 1950      265

The Hill Hole      267

Golf      270

Work

Estacada and Canby      276

Ed Demurlea      287

Bridge Building      290

Percy Slocum      292

Work      295

Mrs. Bradbury      297

The End

Pat      301

Final Chapter      305

Bounce Back      307

Introduction

This book is not a definitive study of my life set down in a chronological sequence. Moreover, it is also not meant to be a literary exultation of my life. I understand many people have accomplished far greater goals than me. The book is simply a mixed report of events that touched my life. When I set out to write these stories, I followed one axiom, Write for yourself.

If the reader finds a word of wisdom or identification with his or her own life, that’s fine but not expected. Some of the material is serious, some foolish, some with an attempt at humor, and some just because I wanted to write about it. For me, it is a vehicle to understand my own life and an attempt to sort out some questions hanging around for many years.

Just as important, it was foremost an enjoyable pastime of writing. Even writing about the abuse of my father turned out to be therapeutic in confronting my demons that are still with me. I wrote about my father and his treatment of me and how his corporal punishment ruined our relationship and caused me depression.

I’ve written about a car wreck during my sophomore year at Oregon State College (now a university) because it was a life-changing event for me. It killed two people and left a lasting impression on me.

I’ve also written a good deal on basketball because it is a game that was part of my life for forty-seven years. In some cases, as with the basketball stories, I have repeated myself, looking at the same event or topic from a different perspective. Hopefully, you will accept the format as you read my story.

The book is truthful as I remember its contents.

My Reason for Writing

Ever since I listened to Jo Evalin Lundy speak to our junior high school, I have never forgotten the feeling of importance she expressed. Not her importance as in arrogance, but her spell she cast over me and the other students. I could tell she had done something few people could do. She was introducing a book she had written about Tillamook County. It was a long time ago, but the title was Tidewater Valley. A story of the Swiss in Oregon.

I can still see her standing before the student body of Liberty Junior High School reading an excerpt from the book and then presenting a copy to the school library. Through the years, I’ve carried that scene with me. I wanted to do what she could do, write a book. I just didn’t know how to do it.

The chance of me writing a book improved exceedingly when at the age of sixty-five, I met Patricia Brooks after moving to Scottsdale, Arizona. Patricia had a strong interest in writing, and after we married, wrote three memoirs. Our lives revolved around writing. While Pat was writing, we formed a publishing company to help other authors self-publish their manuscripts.

My living in an environment of writing, and with Pat’s encouragement, I started writing my memoirs. I started writing to pass along a legacy to my grandchildren, Sofia and Jordan Goldmann. As I wrote my story, the face of my manuscript broadened into a book that was more involved. I found I was confronting some issues I had long suppressed in my mind from early childhood to the present. I realized some things I didn’t know about myself by confronting those issues with a more honest assessment.

I came to understand that my life had always followed a theme of survival. I looked and worked at events in my life from a mode of competition. Sports became a path to development of a positive attitude of winning. Always striving to make the team, for instance, became my way with all life’s issues. Finding a way to win, whether it be the job or the girl, I developed a positive way to come out on top. My goals might have not been lofty, but that isn’t the point. Happiness is knowing who you are and enjoying your wins as they come along.

Coming from the Willamette Valley to the edge of the eastern forest and crossing the Johnson Bridge, a bit of excitement comes over me. Tillamook Valley is just ahead, rushing toward me on Highway Six. I anticipate the emerald green pastures and large gray dairy barns spotting the valley. Symbols that mark my return to this hallowed place of years past. Consumed with memories of wonderful events along the rivers, bays, and Pacific Ocean, I move on to new adventures in Tillamook. The land of cheese, trees and ocean breezes.

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Abuse

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Abuse Introduction

Harry Hathway was a grade older than me, and as full of anger. Every day at recess, we would fight. It wasn’t just with fists. It was pushing and shoving and wrestling to the ground, and then more wrestling on the ground until one of us would be on top for a short moment. Then up again, and continue to do it all over. We were sweaty and dirty from the playground. I suppose the teachers on duty knew full well we were full of anger. They probably thought no further than the playground and the school about our daily confrontation. That is how it went on each day. It was 1943 and I was in the third grade.

The teachers and the principal would take turns parting Harry and me from each other, one recess after the next. We must have made playground duty for them a little less enjoyable each day. I didn’t like the fighting with Harry all that much. It was like a habit I couldn’t break. The school principal, Mr. Davis, finally did everyone involved a big favor.

He took me aside in the hallway of the school one day and asked me if I were a rat. A rat! I was stunned Mr. Davis thought of me as a rat. What could be worse? He said only rats fight at recess. I’m not sure what he said to Harry or if he said anything at all. Though it was an uneasy truce between us, we stopped rolling around in the dirt each day. His comment stopped Harry and I from wrestling each recess. I would just have to find another outlet for my anger.

Mr. Davis was a short man with only one arm, which made him a little mysterious. I had always looked up to him and his calling me a rat has stayed in my memory to this day.

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Notes From a Beaten Childhood

Though beaten for years as a child with hands, belts, and sticks, I never hated my father. I only wanted his approval, something that never came my way during his lifetime. I tried until the day he died for a small bit of recognition. I yearned for it to happen every day of my life. A gesture of friendship or a physical endearment such as a warm embrace, a touch, or a simple handshake would not happen. A hug or a kiss was totally alien to any thought between us.

When he told me on his deathbed, as I stood by his side, he didn’t want to die, I felt cheated we had never been close in any way that was fulfilling. He was finally reaching out to me as he lay dying, and again, I was destined to disappoint him. I felt the disappointment come over me as he died. It was the end to a sad relationship between a father and a son. I felt cheated he had died before we could find the magic formula to bring us together. It is a sad commentary to realize the only time my father touched me was when he was delivering a beating.

I was subjected to violent beatings by my father during my years five through nine; the very person I was to look up to was confusing to me.

I developed a distrust of all people. Waking to the realization that I was alone, I then looked out for my own welfare above all others. I was the only one I had on my side. The beatings were followed by periods of silence by my parents or ultimatums and veiled threats. As a young child, I was at a loss to know which way to turn for relief. The sad truth is I tried even harder to gain his love, not knowing how to secure it or how to go about the task of receiving it if it came to me.

My mind entered a clashing of signals, not loving the people I was told I should love, and vying for their affection on the other hand. I couldn’t have love from my parents and was incapable of accepting it if it came in my direction.

I distrusted everyone and everything, I became afraid to accept the good because I distrusted my ability to keep it if it was real. I was filled with so much anger, produced by the beatings by my parents, destroying the love that should have been freely mine. I rebelled against any attempt they put forward. They replaced the nurturing with pain and abandonment from the early part of my young life. The cycle of feelings that prevailed was so confusing confusion became the norm. I played a role of feeling nothing, devoid of feelings for others. I was desperate to understand: What did I want from my parents, how do I go about attaining it, and why did it feel so empty when I got a glimpse of it. Why would it never seem to be enough?

* * *

My mother followed the lead of my father’s discipline. She carried on the theme of I was wrong and needed to be punished. She would extend the scene for her own use by reminding me of the pain associated with my last beating. A direct reminder that the pain was close at hand if need be. This scenario, the constant feeling I was wrong, forced guilt upon my back in constant doses. I was reared in an atmosphere of guilt and fear taught every day by my mother and father. She was the mentor to my depression. I was inherently a sinner in the eyes of my parents, the church, and God. She had a fine-tuned, never fail system on how to keep me in check. What child wouldn’t be brought to their senses with the threat of more pain and the feeling you were letting down your family?

To seal the deal, it was also against God’s will. This is powerful stuff for a child to sift through for understanding of what’s right and what’s wrong. The beatings and admonishments were never enough for my parents wouldn’t offer a word of forgiveness for my transgression. That had to come from God on Sunday. They would divorce themselves from the whole thing and leave it up to God and me to sort it out as best we could. They would beat me and God would forgive me. That was their game plan. After they beat me, they sort of washed their hands of the whole thing like Pontius Pilate did with Jesus. They would not display any form of empathy after the beatings, which is not too hard to understand, for if they had empathy in their bodies, they wouldn’t have condoned the beatings in the first place.

When Sunday rolled around, I had a whole week of transgressions to carry to church and ask God to forgive. I don’t think God was all that interested in whether I did my chores around the house, such as cleaning my room. I think He likes to deal with the big stuff like felonies and misdemeanors. But, it seemed that is what my parents had in mind for God and me.

I seemed to need a lot of help on the seventh day. It may have been a day of rest for the public, but for God and me, we were working hard. Me praying and Him forgiving. The forgiveness of sin has intrigued me since my childhood, as you can imagine. I found I felt better once I confessed and asked God’s forgiveness, which led me to believe if we forgive ourselves, we are forgiven. That, I know, is a good thing, especially for overcoming mental health issues, which I now suffer from because of all those beatings.

My anger over this lack of understanding piled high over my childhood. The percentage of anger I wouldn’t know, but as a child, I was angry more than half the time. Today, the percentage is lower, but never to be extinct.

To be disciplined as a child by being beaten and never taken back into the inner circle of your family, just being left to drift on your own, is a blueprint to a life of depression. There is nothing you can do, but find another family or create your own. This leaves one vulnerable to good, as well as bad, people. The people around you become more important. I always felt my parents were glad I was closer to other people than them.

My teachers, coaches, parents of my friends became my closest allies in life. They became my friends and mentors. My friends took precedent over my parents. My parents thought it was normal for me to break away from their apron strings. I wasn’t breaking away. I was being forced out. My dog became a steadfast friend, always there for me with unquestionable love. Something alive and warm to take the place of my parents. I’d have conversations with myself out loud, so I could hear a voice talking to me because my parents ignored me. I developed another person in my mind I could depend on who would agree with me, and was always there for me. When my parents would hear me talking to myself, they would sometimes ridicule me. They never got it. I was talking to myself because I couldn’t talk to them, and they didn’t talk to me.

* * *

The lost feeling of being totally alone was always close by. Just one more disappointed act of disregard, lingering, waiting to surface through layers of doubt to become known fear. For as long as my father was alive, wariness would halt any return to trust, gone so long as if to ask, Did love really even exist? Every day was a separate period, not existing to connect to the next. I had to just travel through this one day, not thinking too far ahead. Today and now was my life, tomorrow couldn’t be trusted to come, not reality until it took place when the sun came up.

The next minute or hour was more important than dreaming of tomorrow. Stay away and out of sight; hope everything was calm when you stepped back into the light. Maybe at dinnertime, sitting two bodies removed from his stern reprisal simmering just below the quiet meal. This wasn’t the time to think too far ahead. A family on hold. No real thoughts of happiness, co-existence, watching each other from a distance. Fulfillment towards life’s promise of good things to come was always on hold.

That spark that could be hope seemed too much to think about, lost in the many harsh blows and anger molding this young child’s mind. The physical abuse would never leave my life, clouding the condition of love. A lifetime of instability, right, wrong, anger, love, peace and unrest would interfere with production and success for my lifetime. Enlightenment was a metaphor, for it didn’t exist. Love was a long journey somewhere off in the future, maybe far far away from this place. What I really had was a dog that would listen without judgment, a friend from across the street who would agree and pass only agreement to my claim.

* * *

Some evenings after a beating, I would sit in the dark on our emerald green grass lawn beside the garage. I was out of sight from our house’s back porch, so no one could see me. It was like my own refuge place where I thought nothing bad could happen. I would sit with my back against the old, gray cedar siding worn by the weather. The boards had a feeling of stability about them. The siding seemed to fit the time. It had turned gray over the years with repeated storms from the Pacific Ocean not far to the west. Our grassy, green lawn, cooling my backside on those angry nights, stretched all around the house and garage and abutted the garage wall to the west and the ocean.

Sitting on the cool grass with my back resting against the cedar siding, taking in the unique cedar aroma mixed with the smell of the cool green grass, made the spot a mecca of respite. A distinct opposite of my beating a few minutes before. I used this spot many an evening, trying to catch up to my emotions and make some sense of the violent episode so riveted in my mind. It was a place to lick my wounds and take stock. It would be a safe place for a while. It was a place of welcome refuge until inside the house they realized I was gone.

My father would come to the back door, throw on the porch light, and yell a threat toward the evening air that I'd better come in the house or the beating would start all over again. At first, I thought he might be worried about me, but soon gave up that fantasy, and realized he was more concerned I might run off to the neighbors and how it might look. It became difficult to find a place in my mind that was safe in their world. Only my anger would keep my parents from breaking me. Rising from the cool grass, I dutifully went inside and upstairs to bed without saying anything to anyone and wet the bed one more time. I was eight years old.

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A Day in the Life of a Beating

My corporal punishment at the hand of my father followed a sequence. Usually with my father off to work in the morning, it would be my mother and my two brothers at home doing some chores before playing with my friend Bobby Montgomery from across the street. The beatings mostly took place around dinnertime after my father returned from work. They could take place before dinner or after dinner depending on my father’s mood or when my mother told my father about my most recent disobedience.

The wheels were set in motion by my transgression against the rules of our family, God, the surrounding neighborhood, or my mother. With such a broad range, I usually could be counted on to foul up somewhere almost every day. The before mentioned Bobby and I were a couple of hyper-kinetics so we ran a good chance of getting into trouble of some kind every day. We were always on the move with lots of energy. We were always into something. We couldn’t sit still.

If the infraction I precipitated was enacted in the morning, my mother would inform me she was going to tell my father when he got home from work, and he would administer the discipline. Also, if it took place in the morning, I would have the rest of the day to ponder my mother’s threat and my impending doom.

After years of these types of days, the feelings I had for my parents were mostly of fear. My parents became my adversaries; strangers to contemplate, as opposed to the loving protectors I should have been able to run to.

People you fear have a negative aura about them rather than a bright