Dad’s Family

Three parts, each one the same yet different  

Part One

Dad was from an extremely dysfunctional family, alcoholism, sexual abuse, and mental illness replete in the Short family. He and his sisters, Hazel and Ruth, were raised by a strict Nazarene mother. 

Her name was Clara Margaret Short I was named after her but exchanged to Margaret Clara Short. 

Dad used to say “Watch me be Ari.” As a kid I wasn’t sure what that meant, still don’t know in that reference he was schizophrenic, one who has episodes of psychosis, seeing things that aren’t there, conspiracy theories and dangerous at times. I consider it the worst of mental illness. They live in a different time, a different world. Decades later I was diagnosed bi-polar but that was the tip of an iceberg, dangerous and cold. 

Dad told me about a time when Ari was running about in a rage. Grandma was so scared she gathered her children and hid behind a bush wrapped in a blanket to keep them warm and from harm. 

I met her only once. Her house was cold and served us cold asparagus with dinner. Afterwards she took us in the kitchen and took out her glass eye and put it in an eye-shaped dish on the kitchen windowsill. It was pretty scary for little girls. She explained she lost her eye when she was dragged behind a horse. It would have been terrifying and was a wonder she lived through it.

Grandpa often abandoned his family. He was an alcoholic, ruled his life and affected his family in a very negative way.

Dad was the baby in the family but he shouldered all responsibility. Grandma banged her iron skillet on the wood stove, a signal for him to take his 22 rifle and his dog to get something for dinner. The land was rocky and barren hard for even weeds to grow. I wondered if he sometimes didn’t come back with any meat. 

One summer he went to Eastern Oregon for the haying season to earn money for his family waiting back home. But when he got back he spent it all on drink.

Dad called his dad a ne’do-well a worthless person. How hard to have a Dad. 

My only memory of Grandpa: he was sitting on a rocking chair on our front porch, his eyes as blue as Dad’s. 

Part Two 

 Dad’s older sister Hazel reflected the harsh reflection for their growing up years. She married a man who wore a black patch over one eye. Just looking at him was scary.

Their house was really small, two bedrooms, one for their kids, four boys and one girl. They shared a bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and the laundry room on the back porch.

The entire house was messy and cluttered. The kitchen was a jumble, canned foods, bottles and cereal boxes covered the counters.The table had a Lazy Susan in the center; it circled around at people’s every whim to get whatever they wanted. No need to say, “Pass the” it was all in reach.

Typical of the Short family mental illness gambit ran from one family member to the next generation like an unstoppable plague.

All of their children had some form or another of it, depression, suicidal thoughts, bi-polar and schizophrenia. Decades later I was diagnosed bi-polar.

Michael, a cousin my age, committed suicide two years after he married Elouise. His sister wailed mournfully over his casket. “Why didn’t he come, why didn’t he come?” Why couldn’t I save my little brother? It was as if she was trying to bring him back to the land of the living.

Part Three

Dad’s youngest sister, Ruth and husband lived in Cottage Grove one hour north from home, an easy drive so we went to see them at least once a month. It’s odd but I remember Hazel’s family home and home much better.

They were polar opposites: Hazel’s house messy, Ruth’s neat and tidy, everything in a controlled environment just like me.

They had three boys; the youngest my age, both of us were diagnosed bi-polar, a bad thing to have in common.

Her husband was a pastor until he ran away with the church secretary. I don’t think she ever got over his betrayal.

She had an underlying sadness, a mood disorder undiagnosed, certainly. There was a picture hanging on the dining room wall. An Indian on his pony, both heads bowed low, mournful, maybe wanting to escape death, seeming a safe place.

But there’s still hope.