My Life II, expanding.

It came to pass. That I reached fifteen. Wary, nervous, tense, guarded. Full of secret shame. I started a journal. My parents read it. Intertwined on my bed. Oddly the worst time. Was when they reconciled. Then we were targets. To be bullied, mocked. Identification with the aggressor. Remember, like Patty Hearst. My mother learned from him. Learned to use weapons. Of sarcasm and bitterness. Their sneers like acid. Reading aloud my secrets. Hopes, resentments spilled out. Exposed like raw nerves. I felt shame and humiliation. Learning again it wasn't safe. To think, create, or feel. Five words, I know. Fine, so sue me. Or get your own blog.

I adored sister Kristy. A pure, sweet child. Love, unconditional and safe. After school I would. Set her on the bed. As she was learning to crawl. It was a game. I would stretch out. To keep her from falling. My arms, my legs. A barrier of protection. She would laugh and giggle, infectious. A silly game. But the message was. "See, you'll always be safe. I'll keep you from falling over the edge." Holding her, reading to her. Was the only safe thing. In a house of madness. Where things could erupt at any time. To this day I love small children. And am irresistibly drawn to them. And they to me. I love to read to them. Invent silly songs. With their names in the lyrics. Give them rides. Make them laugh. I want them to feel safe. And be happy. And not be like him. It's my way of forgetting where I came from.

At school and among people. Tense, intense, nervous. Always smiling ridiculously wide. Bravely covering up. I tried to befriend everyone. Please everyone, straight A's. President of my sophomore class. Earnest athlete in every season. But too full of fear and secret shame to compete freely. Athletes must have confidence, grace, freedom of spirit. I just had effort. And failed utterly. A great disappointment to my father. Who like The Great Santini. Wanted sons in his image. For years he'd carried in his wallet. A newspaper clipping. Of a key block he threw. In eighth grade. His last year of school.

Remember the good times. I ought, I realize. But there weren't any. It was just grim and secret. We buried ourselves in television. The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island. Beverly Hillbillies and Green Acres. Happy families with problems. That could be solved in a half hour. I stayed away. To church, to friends. Endlessly practicing pass patterns. I would drop in the game. One moment of glory. Newton 25 pass from Elliot. West Linn 63, Tigard 0. In my junior year. It wasn't enough.

Hopelessly shy with girls. And desperate to be gentle and tender. Not like him. God, please don't be like him. On a clear morning at Malibu. In the summer of '73. Mountains rising out of the water. Reflections like glass. This incredible place God had carved. From solid rock, over time. I found Christ, as they say. But even my religion. Was filled with guilt and shame. And I struggled, though fervent. Wracked within with doubt. Over my worthiness, my purity. Don't be like him.

I entered adult life chaotic and ill-equipped. Met a girl. Fell in love. Conceived an ill-conceived baby. Repeating the pattern. A beautiful baby. The first one born in Clackamas Country. On June 1, national Dairy month. My father's birthday. Ironies abound. The Dairy Farmers of Oregon sent a blanket. Inscribed in one corner. As a child Stephanie clutched it. Her favorite, always sleeping with it. With the inscription clutched in her tiny fingers. Till the lettering wore away. My parents finally divorced. Then we did. No chance, really. I didn't have my mother's courage.

I ran, overwhelmed. From jobs. From Responsibility. From conflict. Out of control. No plan or purpose. My twenties were a blur. The Lost Potential. The Straight A student, the writer. Sleeping in his car. Rages, mood swings, gambling. Occasional brushes with respectability. Then more running. I managed fast food restaurants. Sold restaurant supplies. Drove garbage trucks. Saw Stephanie on weekends. Took her to see "Top Gun" thirteen times. At the second-run theater with sticky floors. Popcorn was a 1.80. She was 11, I think. And loved it each time. Probably the volleyball scene. And crisp white dress uniforms She decorated my apartment. Five trips to Fred Meyers. Borrowed art prints from the library. "The Luncheon of the Boating Party." Stephanie danced to Madonna in the living room, in a pink satin dress. Two more chaotic marriages. And more failures and more scenes. Don't be like him. Please don't be like him. Faulkner said, "The past is not dead. It's not even past." Gambling and madness. Sleeping in my car. Somehow I got to 50. It happened so fast. I was a gentle father, I think. Kind and loving, not like him. But inconsistent and often absent. Lost in some fog. Somehow they forgave me. And Stephanie and Roger are the two good things. I've done in a wasted life.

My father died at 68. At heart attack at the back of the semi trailer. Delivering a load of coffee. In Layton, Utah. He had mellowed some over the years. The rough edges worn down. And the anger defeated by time. We saw a high school football game. A few months before he died. West Linn lost to Tigard by 25. Some kid from Tigard ran for 200 yards. A scatback, fast and quick. They couldn't stop him. Like we couldn't stop time. I forgave him a little. He did the best he could. He thought he was preparing me for the world, in his own way. This I read in a book. Legacy of the Heart, by Dr. Wayne Muller. "The spiritual advantages of a painful childhood." I spoke at Dad's funeral. The act of getting up and speaking before people. Trying to convey meaning and hopeful ideas. Awakened in me the desire to write. I quit another job, angry. Delivered pizzas and washed golf balls. And wrote a failed novel. About a redeemed monster who played baseball. I had it printed and sent copies. To my children and brother Mike. It lacked a consistent voice. I am still searching for the consistent voice.

My mother died the year I turned 50. June 11, 2005. I told you before, buying strawberries for shortcake. A sudden, wasted death. Rear ended in her car. Just months after her retirement. Just months after a financial ruin and another deep secret. Another tumbling spiraling failure by one of us. The hardworking tense Newton kids eager to please. With addictions and missteps. A few who overcame in their own way. Death brought us together as she had wished in life. I spoke at her funeral. A beautiful service, outdoors before a wide beautiful meadow. Max and Mitzi lent us their farm. We'd raked weeds to get it ready. I gave the children rides in the wheelbarrow. I tried to convey her courage and devotion. Again I wanted to write. If I could tell this story I would have done one thing worthy of what she tried to teach me. I suppose there's still time.