Dallas has been home for a couple of weeks now. He brought his dog Baxter as well. Life has been an adjustment for him, Amy. Snoop, and me. I wasn’t sure we could co-exist after seven years, but so far things have worked well.
He took over Lacey’s old room since I turned his into my office. He loaded it with clothes and some of the more essential things for living. We agreed to share my office. I need to time to write and he needs time to fill out applications and respond to job postings. Somehow, the boy and I have managed to maintain a cordial relationship and to share time on the computer.
Dallas also attached his X-box 360 to the television in the office. I’ve have never asked for a turn. Just watching him play a couple of times has convinced me that I don’t have the manual dexterity, stomach, or calmness to succeed on such a thing. My arthritic fingers couldn’t begin to push buttons or flip switches quickly enough to win any game. In one session, Dallas managed to defeat the entire Japanese army forces that were entrenched on an island. Blood flowed as he shot, stabbed, and blew up enemy soldiers. In all the games, opponents are either trying to do the same to him or squash him into the sod of an athletic field. Were I to engage in one of those games, my nerves would be frayed before I ever got half way through the most elementary stages of a video game. I learned years ago how poorly I could compete when Lacey, as a four year old, beat my brains out in a game of Mario Brothers.
My son isn’t comfortable here. His bed is still in Chattanooga, and he suffers through bouts of insomnia, and I feel for him. He sometimes slips off in the early evening for a power nap. That rests him enough so that sleep is difficult and then he’s up into the early morning hours. The noise he creates wakes me up since I’m such a light sleeper. Of course, now when Snoop wants to go outside in the middle of the night, Baxter insists upon going as well. Neither dog obeys worth a darn, so I spend several minutes whistling, yelling, and cursing to get them in.
What I’ve learned since Dallas came back to our house is that I like him. Dads love their sons, but not all like them. When the boy left home at eighteen, he and I didn’t always see eye to eye, meaning he didn’t do all that I demanded. That led to some tense moments. Now, Dallas is a college graduate, and I keep telling him that “it’s all good.” He’s completed the biggest dream I had for him. We spend much of our time teasing each other, but we also find moments to have serious discussions. I respect and admire the person my son has become.
Dallas moved home to begin a job with a company. He completed his training, but since then he hasn’t heard a word. He’s going back to Chattanooga to look for a position and also to find some part-time work. More than anything else, he’s going “HOME” where his life has been for the last seven years. I’d just gotten comfortable with his return. Amy and I are going to be just a bit lonely without him, but what’s most important is his happiness. We’ll just have to readjust our previous adjustments.
Grandparent Discipline
In times gone by, families were more than just mom, dad, and the kids. Grandparents were integral parts of what we call family. They lived close enough to see any time, and they served as baby sitters and stand-in parents. That job also included administering discipline at times.
Our maternal grandparents lived not more than a mile from us. In fact, Cureton Road was named after Mamaw Balch’s family. When our parents were in a bind, they went to them to care for us. Sometimes it was at our house, but many times we stayed at their little home.
If we misbehaved both adults would put the hammer down on us. Mamaw was as slight woman, barely more than five feet tall. She was a faithful bible reader and every day she listened to radio preachers and singers. If the situation demanded, Mamaw would dole out discipline of a harsh nature. She administered a tongue lashing that cut to the quick. With every sentence, the misbehaving child felt whittled smaller and smaller. At the end, a weak-voiced “sorry” came from the one of us that was in trouble.
Papaw Balch believed in a stiffer punishment, what some of us call a “come to Jesus meeting.” A swat on the bottom with a hand, paddle, or switch is what he preferred. The man stood six feet, two inches tall and towered over us. His voice didn’t intimidate us until his anger rose. Then, his face contorted and he growled. Punishment would be swift and certain.
On one visit to their house, Jim did something that earned him a correction from Papaw. The big man grabbed my brother by one arm and half lifted him from the ground. His massive hand popped Jim’s backside twice. My brother bawled like calf, more surprised that Papaw would spank him than from physical pain.
“That’s half what you’re gonna get.”
Jim was traumatized for days. He fretted over when the next part of the whipping. It became almost unbearable, and the next time he saw Papaw, Jim asked when if he could have the other half of his spanking. Papaw laughed and then told Jim there wouldn’t be any more punishment.
Punishment by parents is bad enough. When grandparents become bad guys to children, it’s earthshaking. The older folks are supposed to be the ones who spoil children rotten and then send them home. I admit that I can be stern with Madden at times. I think it’s happened on, maybe, two occasions. I’ve not swatted his padded bottom, but the teacher look and a growling voice have come out. The tears flowed, and I felt like a monster. I discovered that in just a few minutes my grandson and I were friends again.
I don’t recall disciplining my own children as being so difficult. Of course, I lived with them 24—7. Although we live far apart, Amy and I plan to spend as much time as possible with Madden and correct him when he needs it. That’s not to say that our hearts won’t break when the boy tears up.
Our maternal grandparents lived not more than a mile from us. In fact, Cureton Road was named after Mamaw Balch’s family. When our parents were in a bind, they went to them to care for us. Sometimes it was at our house, but many times we stayed at their little home.
If we misbehaved both adults would put the hammer down on us. Mamaw was as slight woman, barely more than five feet tall. She was a faithful bible reader and every day she listened to radio preachers and singers. If the situation demanded, Mamaw would dole out discipline of a harsh nature. She administered a tongue lashing that cut to the quick. With every sentence, the misbehaving child felt whittled smaller and smaller. At the end, a weak-voiced “sorry” came from the one of us that was in trouble.
Papaw Balch believed in a stiffer punishment, what some of us call a “come to Jesus meeting.” A swat on the bottom with a hand, paddle, or switch is what he preferred. The man stood six feet, two inches tall and towered over us. His voice didn’t intimidate us until his anger rose. Then, his face contorted and he growled. Punishment would be swift and certain.
On one visit to their house, Jim did something that earned him a correction from Papaw. The big man grabbed my brother by one arm and half lifted him from the ground. His massive hand popped Jim’s backside twice. My brother bawled like calf, more surprised that Papaw would spank him than from physical pain.
“That’s half what you’re gonna get.”
Jim was traumatized for days. He fretted over when the next part of the whipping. It became almost unbearable, and the next time he saw Papaw, Jim asked when if he could have the other half of his spanking. Papaw laughed and then told Jim there wouldn’t be any more punishment.
Punishment by parents is bad enough. When grandparents become bad guys to children, it’s earthshaking. The older folks are supposed to be the ones who spoil children rotten and then send them home. I admit that I can be stern with Madden at times. I think it’s happened on, maybe, two occasions. I’ve not swatted his padded bottom, but the teacher look and a growling voice have come out. The tears flowed, and I felt like a monster. I discovered that in just a few minutes my grandson and I were friends again.
I don’t recall disciplining my own children as being so difficult. Of course, I lived with them 24—7. Although we live far apart, Amy and I plan to spend as much time as possible with Madden and correct him when he needs it. That’s not to say that our hearts won’t break when the boy tears up.
WELCOMING NEW FRIENDS
Well, life is filled with changes, and this is a big one for me. The paper for which I write wanted a different type of column from me. They did allow me to include a link to this web site. For many of you, that's why you're here. THANKS FOR MAKING THE JOURNEY!
What I'll do each Monday is post a new column like the ones that used to appear in the paper. Just follow the link that you find in the paper. Maybe you can add it to your bookmarks so that it will be handy. While you are here, why not become a member of Rector's Readers? It's easy to do. Just click on the link at the left of the page and follow the steps. I'd like to have hundreds of you as followers.
I'll miss the newspaper connection that I've developed with people over the last few years. Let's keep in touch and make this blog one of the most popular. I'll try to write pieces that are interesting and fun.
Thanks for dropping by. Please keep in touch. I hate losing friends.
What I'll do each Monday is post a new column like the ones that used to appear in the paper. Just follow the link that you find in the paper. Maybe you can add it to your bookmarks so that it will be handy. While you are here, why not become a member of Rector's Readers? It's easy to do. Just click on the link at the left of the page and follow the steps. I'd like to have hundreds of you as followers.
I'll miss the newspaper connection that I've developed with people over the last few years. Let's keep in touch and make this blog one of the most popular. I'll try to write pieces that are interesting and fun.
Thanks for dropping by. Please keep in touch. I hate losing friends.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
