Hot Dogs and Funerals

By Willie Church

Hotdogs and funerals—right down the street from the funeral home sits a local ice-cream shop that also serves hamburgers, fries, and other artery clogging prizes the entire family can enjoy. However, nothing tasted as good as the footlong hotdog with sauce or as, us, locals would mispronounce, “a footer with sauce.” Mm-hm, boy, howdy, are they good!

When I would come home on leave from the air force, the first place I wanted to visit was that little ice-cream shop to order “a footer with sauce” or, in my younger days, “two footers with sauce.” Again, I’m hard to kidnap. Don’t judge. Well, wouldn’t you know it, one evening when my sister and I were still young, Igene and Irene returned from the funeral home with two footers with sauce. Both footers were laid out in a cardboard box…much like the people in the funeral home now that I think about. In the box, each footer was placed inside the paper sleeve with the ice-cream store’s name on it. Due to the ride home, the footers were a little cold, and some of the sauce were stuck to the paper sleeve as well as some of the bun. No matter the condition, my sister and I held our footers proudly as if we were going to raise them like flags before a defeated enemy after a long hard-fought battle with starvation. No doubt this is what the marines felt like raising the American flag after the Battle of Iwo Jima. Bombs burst in the air of our minds as we relished (no pun intended) in our wiener victory!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638749318

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Sins of the Father

My mother’s family was predominantly Irish coming from the East Coast of Ireland, which today would be the greater Dublin area. The family history does include a preacher who was burned at the stake for his Protestant views. (If he was anything like mom’s family today—including me—he probably couldn’t keep his mouth shut.) So we had that to brag about. Most of my mom’s family moved to America in the nineteenth century to get away from England. To be honest, they had it rough as hunger and disease took many of their lives as they made their way to the US; with that said, I will not mention family names.

I am intentionally not using my mother’s name nor will I use any names from her side of the family. This isn’t about embarrassing my mom or seeking revenge for her abuse. This is about sharing what my God has brought me out of and how He—praise His holy name!—broke the cycle of abuse in my life. After all, how can you hate someone who had it even worse than my sister and I did? My maternal grandfather caused so much pain and fear in his children that it was only natural it would spill over onto his children, grandchildren, and, possibly, their children. I deeply respect my aunts and uncles on mom’s side as I know their path through life was not easy. I know because I heard it straight from my grandfather’s mouth as he sat on our porch with me and my mother a few days after my grandmother (his wife) had passed. I heard him confess to my mother and apologize for every dastardly deed he had done to his wife and children. I sat in astonishment as he detailed the pattern of abuse he had forced on his loved ones year after year after year.

To avoid confusion, we will call my mother’s dad Tom as it is easy to type and even easier for me to spell. Tom was a well-known preacher in our small community. Tom was brash and unapologetic in his preaching which oftentimes filled the pews of smaller country churches. Because of Tom’s boldness, he preached against the many sins of the world, only to leave out the hidden selected vices he practiced daily in his life. I can recall being dragged to a church service in which Tom preached. On one particular evening, Tom stood behind the pulpit in his one good suit and tie, arrogant and flamboyant for his position in life. As the church’s crowd sat in silence with anticipation of what was to come, Tom pulled a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket and smacked the pack and a book of matches down on the pulpit for God and all present to see. Gazing out at the crowd he stated, Yes, I smoke. Now let’s get on with the gospel! Antics such as this actually gained him favor in the poverty-stricken hills of Southern Ohio. Despite the rumors of his physical and sexual abuse in his family, our small community continued to embrace Tom with blinded eyes and muffled concern for the children in his care.

In addition to his smoking, Tom loved to drink. He loved to swear. He loved to beat his wife. He loved to beat his children. He loved to molest his daughters. He loved to preach the gospel. Tom’s wife, my sweet grandmother, lived a horrible life. She had a number of children with Tom and had to stand as strong as she could in the face of his torment, anger, and evil. Grandmother was beaten, belittled, subjected to drunken outburst of harsh and scathing verbal abuse her entire adult life. She would often sit in her assigned living room chair defenseless to his condemnation and disapproval. Despite all of Tom’s domestic violence and criminal aggression, he once broke his wife’s back, and she was in a body cast as a result of his actions; grandmother remained with him until she died of cancer in early 1970s.

My mom even used her mother’s death to torment us. It was April 13, and I was nine years old, soon to turn ten, when my grandmother passed away. One of my jobs was to collect the trash every evening throughout our house. We lived in a modest home with one long hallway running from the living room back to my bedroom and my parents’ bedroom. It was a stormy evening with dark skies, thunder, lightning, and the threat of our electricity going off. Mom waited for the perfect opportunity, which was right after dad left for work, to tell me and my sister that our dead grandmother had appeared to her while she was in the bathroom. No, this is not a joke. Apparently, while mom sat contemplating life, grandma showed up in her pink funeral dress, which was gently blowing in a breeze, to tell my mom that she, grandmother, was at peace. Ghost and nine-year-olds are not compatible! Shortly after this haunted revelation, in the midst of a thunderstorm, mom ordered me to her bedroom to empty her trash can. I still remember whispering under my breath walking down that four-mile-long hallway, I believe you are alright, grandma. I don’t need to see you. Thank God grandma honored my request.

One of the many stories my mother told when she was expressing her hatred for Tom was the time she was using the old wooden outhouse near the creek next to their home. With a flock of children, mom grew up in a small home that only had three rooms downstairs and one bedroom upstairs. Indoor plumbing did not come to her home until much later in life, so it was only natural that an outhouse would be a necessity. On this day, my mom sat in the outhouse, contemplating life, when, as she told it, a copperhead snake made its way under the outhouse door and up to her feet. Mom stated that there was a mason jar sitting next to her that held matches so the men could smoke while contemplating life and their constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness. Mom somehow used the mason jar to capture the deadly snake and avoid getting bit. When mom took the snake, in the jar, into the house to tell her story of bravery, both her and her mother were beaten by Tom—Mom for bringing a snake into the house, Grandmother for raising a child so stupid as to bring a snake into the house. Leave no bark on the rod or the snake-catching spoiled child.

Of all of his many abuses and perversions, the sexual abuse against his daughters boggle the rational mind. Any reasonable individual knows that abuse is not an act of God, so how could a so-called preacher justify such crimes? To sexually violate your child is…well, I have no words to describe such deplorable desecration of a child’s trust and innocence. My mind twisted in the wind in my youth as I questioned why not a single family member turned Tom over to law enforcement? Why not a single sibling came to the rescue of their sister(s)? Then I remember the fear that ran through my veins when our mother abused us. My sister and I were beaten with belts, fly swatters, sticks, extension cords, brooms, frying pans (both cold and hot), fist, kicks, hair pulled, eyes poked and more as we sat silent for decades. A vicious cycle of wrenching pain, a regeneration of abuse set in stone in the minds of broken children. Yet, in the case of me and my sister, when mom was abusing one of us, the other would step in and try to stop the carnage knowing full well what awaited our heroic deed.

During the cold and flu season, mom would sit my sisters and I up on the kitchen counter late one an evening and smear a homemade rub all over our chest to prevent sickness and death (even though she threatened to kill us if we did not sit still). Once the rub was applied, mom would use old cloth diapers and diaper pens to cover our chest before putting us in our pajamas. By accident, my mom had stuck Sissy with a pen one evening, and she began to cry. Mom then smacked her in the face for crying. I tried to explain to mom that Sissy was hurt and need someone to love her. Mom turned to me with anger in her eyes and proceeded to jam a diaper pen into my chest! She left the pen hanging as she told me to never talk back to her again. I’m sure Tom made the same threats and acts of violence to control his children and the daughters he was sexually abusing.

Later in life, I began researching sexual abuse, and according to the American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry,

Child sexual abuse has been reported up to 80,000 times a year, but the number of unreported instances is far greater, because the children are afraid to tell anyone what has happened, and the legal process of reporting can be difficult. The problem should be identified, the abuse stopped, and the child should receive professional help. The long-term emotional damage of sexual abuse can be devastating to the child.

Because of the fear Tom had instilled in his family, it should come as no surprise that when he impregnated one of his daughters, nothing was said or done. Not one single family member attempted to reach out to law enforcement. Fear controlled them and their decency.

Tom’s secret child, which was known throughout the community, went unchallenged or punished, he was allowed to perpetrate his lie until the day he died. Much like his cigarettes and matches on the pulpit, Tom almost dared others to say something. After all, if anyone came against him, his entire family would rise up and defend him to the death as they do to this very day. What is it with the abused and protection of the abuser? Even my mom, who hated her father, would always defend him if anyone spoke against him. The only time she expressed her true feelings was when she was punishing me or belittling my father.

Ironically my aunt, who conceived Tom’s child, was the total opposite of her father. She was one of the nicest, kindest woman who ever walked the face of this earth. She was the anti-Tom. She entered a room smiling and laughing as her heart of gold gleamed through the darkness that was her youth. To meet her, you would never guess the physical torment she faced as a child. No complaints crossed her lips. No pity resided in her heart. No signs of the abuse could be seen as she did not withdraw from friends and family. She loved her son and her father without a single hint of her abuse. The pride she had for her boy was immeasurable. Her spoken regrets were few. Sadly, I did hear her speak of not finishing school. A number of Tom’s children did not finish school as they stayed home to care for him—my grandmother, the younger siblings, and the new infant in the house. As I recall, my mother was forced to quit school around eighth grade. Mom always said she would finish her high school education but, like her siblings who were forced to leave school early, she never did achieve her goal. For many of the children, the only true quest was to find a way out of the current situation with Tom: to marry and move out, to find relief even if love did not exist between them and the new spouse. Escape was necessary for survival.

It still haunts me to this day how my mother reacted when Tom passed away. It had only been a few months after his wife’s passing when Tom left this world to face his Maker. Sitting on the same porch where Tom had confessed so many of his sins to my mother and me, my mom sat in the swing just hours after his burial and laughed that he was gone. After expressing her joy over his death, she turned to Sissy and said, Now if your father and Willie would die, my life would be perfect. Mom made it very hard to find that perfect Mother’s Day card.

And Baby Makes Three

My mom and dad met in 1962. After a short dating period, they were wed and then, before you knew it, a baby. On August 18, 1963, came their first child…a boy…me! Fifteen months later, in November of 1964, my sister (Sissy) joined the coven… I mean family. My second sister arrived in 1970. Sissy and I basically raised her, which give our mother more ammunition for her abuse gun. In the beginning, we made our home in a single wide trailer that my dad’s older sister, Aunt Igene, had purchased and placed beside her house. Okay, timeout. Let me end some confusion as to whom I speak. Grandpa and Grandma Church (Mamaw and Papaw) had four children: Edward, Imogene (Igene), Irene, and Melvin (Dad), in that order. Edward and Dad both married. Dad was the only one of the four to have children. Igene and Irene never married. Good thing! Without Igene and Irene, my sister and I may have never made it! Come to think about it, my family may have not made it if not for the free groceries my Aunt Igene gave us from her little country store: Church’s Grocery. My aunt’s store is where my mom and dad first met. Mom came to the store to fill the weekly grocery list with Tom and some of the other youth in her family when her and dad glanced at each other over the Kahn’s bologna which rested on the bottom shelf of the old meat case. Dad was in love, and my mom had found her escape from Tom. Tom married my mom and dad in a small home ceremony. The bride entered from the kitchen while the groom came in from the front porch where, prior to the wedding, he rested on the front porch sofa/bed. Dad gained a wife; mom gained freedom, and Tom had to pray one of his sexual abuse victims would not go straight to the police.

A few years after Sissy and I arrived, with the family growing out of room, it was decided that a bigger home was needed. Aunt Igene arranged to have a house built for my mom and dad, again, right beside her house. From the road, you could see our old trailer, Igene’s house, then our new house. Igene did a lot for Dad as Dad did a lot for her. All Igene had to do was ask, and Dad was there. All Dad had to do was ask, and Igene was there as well. Igene respected my dad as did many around home as he was honest and reliable. We had a very hardworking father. Some have asked me why my dad never stepped in to stop the abuse my sister and I faced. Simple, Dad worked day and night trying to make a living for his family. I honestly do not believe he knew the extent of what was happening in our home because he was always out working. My earliest memories was of Dad leaving for his main job around 9:00 p.m. each night. He would work the midnight shift