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Jim Bracewell is president of The Men's
Resource Network, Inc. (MRN) and editor of MENSIGHT Magazine online.
MRN sponsors TheMensCenter
.com &
MENSIGHT Magazine.
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Editorial... |
Fishing for Daddy.
by
Jim Bracewell
© 2004
With Father’s Day on the horizon
(June 20), my father has frequently been on my mind. Thinking about
him usually brings up memories of my childhood in Gainesville, Florida. I
was born there, in the Alachua County General Hospital on September
8, 1940.
My most vivid memories of those
days are of going fishing with daddy. Anticipation of those
trips was as exciting as the trips themselves. I would wake up early in the
morning to the rich smell of coffee brewing. My mother was already up
and preparing breakfast. I could hardly wait to get
started.
That's me and
sister Kris in daddy's arms with our adoring mom looking on.
He was produce manager at the Piggly-Wiggly Supermarket.
It's about 1943 or 44.
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It was still dark as we left and
there was usually a bit of fog in the air. My father drove with an
authority that I admired. He had his left arm resting on the open
window sill, his right hand on the steering wheel and a Camels
cigarette in his mouth. Occasionally he would extend his arm with
his palm down then turn his hand like the flaps on an airplane wing.
His arm would move up and down as his hand changed position. I was
fascinated by whatever my dad did so I practiced hand flyingon my side of the car.
We usually went fishing on
Orange Lake about 20 miles to the south. Orange Lake
is famous for its continually changing shoreline. Islands of
hyacinth plants growing on the surface of the lake are blow around
by the wind. Orange Lake is connected to nearby Lochloosa Lake by a
natural canal.
The canal and the area around it
is called Cross Creek. It was the home ground of Majorie Kinnan Rawlings,
author of The Yearling and the subject of the movie Cross
Creek. I like to fantasize that Mrs. Rawlings was at home making her
famous “Utterly Deadly Southern Pecan Pie” while me and my daddy
were fishing nearby. She was still alive during those early fishing
expeditions so it is within the realm of possibility.
On many of our outings, my
dad found it necessary to make a brief side trip. I now realize that
these small detours were visits to one of the many moon shiners or
bootleggers in the area. Alas, Alachua was officially a “dry”
county. Naturally, this fact did not deter the clandestine
distillation efforts of many an enterprising country boy. The
laws of supply and demand ruled.
Occasionally, as we were
fishing, daddy would shout something like, “Jim, look at that eagle
way over by the big cypress tree.” As I strained to see what he was
talking about, he would take a quick slug from the pint bottle hidden
in his tackle box. As I got older, I gradually caught on to
the ruse.
My pre-adolescent fishing career
almost ended one fine day on Orange Lake. I think that it may have
happened on our last fishing trip but the actual sequence of events is
a little hazy. We were trolling, which means that our fishing poles
and rods were sticking out the side of the boat, and the boat motor
was running at a very slow speed. Trolling was usually boring but on this
day, it got interesting real quick.
I happened to glance toward the
stern of the boat and saw my father using a paddle in the fashion of
a sailboat rudder. It was not unlike the way he stuck his arm out of
the car window. Being ever fascinated by his actions, I proceeded to
pick up a small paddle lying under my seat in the bow. Not being
versed in the principles of fluid dynamics at this point in my
imminently endangered life, I stuck the paddle into the water at a
90 degree angle to the boat. It's amazing what a difference a few
degrees makes.
Daddy was at that precise moment
looking at his fishing lines for signs of a bite. So it appears that
no one witnessed the brief, though I imagine, exceptionally graceful parabolic arc
my body scribed through the air before plunging into the murky depths of
Orange Lake. I vaguely remember being suddenly wet and greatly fearful of
being eaten by a school of giant bass. That fear was likely induced by my guilt for snaring so many of their species with hook and
worm. Not to mention the gutting, cooking and eating that followed.
My grade for attending that
first experiential class in Fluid Dynamics 101: 4.0!
I regained consciousness lying
over one of the seats, on my stomach, wondering why I was staring at
the bottom of the boat. Had a monster bass, not liking the taste of
this particular human boy, spit me back?
I became aware of someone pushing on my back in
a successful effort to pump water out of
my lungs. This was followed by much spitting and coughing. I might mention here that my near death experience taught
me how easy it is to die from drowning. Fortunately, and forever
enhancing his position as my personal hero, daddy reached out and
saved my life.
Back at the fish camp when the
locals asked why I was soaking wet, daddy loudly related as to how he had
looked up from the business of fishing and realized with a start that I had suddenly disappeared.
The cap I was wearing was floating in one direction, my life jacket
in another and the paddle in
yet another. He reacted rapidly to shut off the motor and quickly
located me by the churning white-water created by my valiant battle with
the family of gigantic avenging bass. Everyone thought it was just
hilarious... except me.
When I was twelve (1952), my
mother left my father for reasons I didn’t understand until I was
much older. In time, I learned that he was an alcoholic, he liked to
gamble a little too much, and, possibly had a wandering eye for the
ladies. But from a child’s point of view, he was my daddy and I
loved him dearly. When my mother told me she was leaving him, I fell
to floor crying. I was devastated.
My mother, my three sisters and
I moved to Jacksonville, Florida to live with my grandparents. My
parents had obtained a legal separation agreement but never got a divorce.
Neither of them ever remarried. Losing the daddy of my childhood was
a sad, frightening and confusing experience. I remember being
depressed and lonely for much of the time through adolescence. I
wanted to know whose fault it was... who to blame.
My brother Dan was born
shortly after we left Gainesville. I asked him to write about
his experience of our father.
Jim Bracewell is
my older brother. Although our father was the same man, his
impact on our lives could not have been more different. Jim
was shaped by having and losing Chris Bracewell, while I was
shaped by his utter absence.
1952
An agreement to live
separately provided that Chris Bracewell would pay Laverne
Bracewell five dollars per week for each of the four
children of their fourteen-year marriage. As the party of
the second part was also five months pregnant, the party of
the first part also agreed to pay for the birth of number
five.
At school, I learned
to say that a meeting had not been attended or a paper was
unsigned because my parents were “legally separated”. I had
no clue what this meant, except that it was not as bad as
“divorced”, which every Baptist child knew was something
shameful. Chris Bracewell was a person I knew of but did not
actually know, like Mr. Green Jeans.
1962
Jim would drive when
the Bracewell children presented themselves in Gainesville.
Number five was a skinny, hyperactive boy, continually
hungry, so my strongest memories of these visits involve
Hattie Bracewell’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes with
strong, sweet tea. The man in the parlor chair was a
strange, broken person who smoked cigarettes and wanted to
amuse us.
When Chris Bracewell
spoke directly to me I would hang in space between fear,
shame and embarrassment. “Why don’t you write once in a
while?” His more sardonic remarks were for the room in
general, mostly but not entirely lost on a child. “If Ma
can’t cook it, sweep it, wash it, or put it in the First
Federal…then piss on it.”
When I asked what
Chris was reading in the Gainesville Sun, he was
“catchin’ up on all the rapin’, robbin’, shootin’ and
stabbin’.” Although we never slept under the same
roof, there must be some sort of wiseass Cracker gene. I
have essentially the same personality as Chris Bracewell,
the same impulse to fend off the world with slightly
offensive, off-the-wall humor.
1972
Standing at his
death-bed in the VA hospital, I felt sorry for his
suffering, but not really personally involved. The father
and husband these others were losing was no one in
particular to me. I had never witnessed the famous good
looks or high spirits. I had never been the object of the
storied charm. To me, he was the tattered ghost of a
countrified joker. “You can get anything in here if you
have the money. A pack of cigarettes. A pint of liquor. Even
some of that other stuff, although I’m too tired for that.”
2004
Without a person, I
think of my father as the books I have read. Without
memories, I never feel Chris Bracewell except in the dark
humor of Randle McMurphy or some other embodiment of Mark
Twain’s diamond of observation: that the secret source of
all humor is pain.
But wait. The pain
is funny, right to the end. So, thank you, Chris. If
for nothing else: for my life and the predisposition to
laugh at it.
Daniel Bracewell
I ran away from home in
Jacksonville once to be with my father but my mother came for me
after a few days. I was allowed to stay with him the following
summer and during that period I learned that he had not quit
drinking as he had promised. My disappointment in him started when I found several whiskey bottles hidden under his kitchen
sink. I went back to Jacksonville soon after that, despite the fact
that the summer was not over yet.
An infrequent vist to
dad in Gainesville. Back row l-r: grandma and grandpa
Bracewell, me and mom. Front row l-r: Sister Merry, dad in
wheel chair, little brother Dan and Sister Pally. Sister
Kris not pictured.
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In about 1953 my father was in a
terrible auto-train accident which almost killed him. Though
he survived, he was slightly impaired both mentally and physically.
After an extended recovery period he spent the rest of his life in
Gainesville with his parents.
I like to imagine that if he had
not been so severely injured in the accident and had lived long
enough, my father might have found the help he needed. There were signs that
he was searching for a solution. He tried to seek psychological help
but that failed. My mother says that his ego got in the way. He
even tried AA. I remember that he took me to an AA meeting once in an
effort to show me he was sincere.
In my teen years, and despite
the accident, I started to
blame him for my parents separation. For many years, including my four
years in the Air Force, I would not read or answer his letters. As I grew
older, I learned more about life and had my own experiences
with addiction. In recent years, I have come to better understand and
eventually forgive him.
Unfortunately, I was not able to
let him know of my feelings. He died in the Veterans
Administration Hospital in Gainesville in 1972. His death was from
“Pulmonary insufficiency (Incomplete closure of the pulmonary valve
in the heart), inanition (lack of nutrition), and Carcinoma (Cancer) of the right lung.” He was
56 years old. It this writing, I am 64 years old.
Despite the harm his behavior caused, I
believe today that my father was a good man driven by the demons of
his own family dynamics. From my mother and other relatives, I
have learned that he suffered periods of deep depression. It was
thought that he may have
been sexually abused as a child. I am convinced from reading
about alcoholism and addiction that he experienced tremendous
emotional pain as his disease progressed. His drinking and gambling
were possibly his attempts to self-medicate those dark memories.
They only made matters worse.
Even after the awful accident, my
father was trying to better himself. He took remedial classes at Sante Fe Community to prepare for the GED test. He wanted to
finally complete his high school education.
Alcoholics and other addicts are
shame driven. Therapist/writer/recovering alcoholic John Bradshaw explains shame by
contrasting it with guilt. Guilt feelings inform you that you have
done something wrong and need to make amends; shame informs you that
you are
wrong to the very core of your being and that you are irredeemable.
Shamed based people either feel that they are less
than or better than other human beings. There is no in-between. They can't be happy just
being human.
I have no proof but I believe
that the unacknowledged, untreated abuse that my father suffered as
a child was the source of his shame. This is a possible explanation
for his behavior, not an excuse. Since he could not find a cure, he
unintentionally passed it on to me and to my
siblings by abusive behavior such as abandonment and neglect.
Those shameful feelings
accompanied
me into adulthood and eventually drove me into counseling and
therapy. The help I received in turn, led me to an Adult Children of Alcoholics
program, and from there to discovering and becoming an activist in the “Men’s
Movement."
Today I spend my free time as an
advocate for positive masculinity by maintaining TheMensCenter.com and MENSIGHT Magazine
websites. TheMensCenter.com is an internet resource index of the
issues that men face today and the resources that are available.
MENSIGHT is a male positive, internet magazine that highlights the
positive aspects of becoming a man though books, articles, news and
columns.
From TheMensCenter.com (http://themenscenter.com)
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Our mission
is to assist men in finding male positive resources,
information, and support. We seek to empower men to lead
healthy, productive and fulfilling lives. This will
ultimately be beneficial to all men, women
and children. |
From MENSIGHT (http://mensightmagazine.com)
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MENSIGHT is dedicated to
publishing diverse articles for and about men. We believe that
there are valuable lessons to be learned from the advocates of
all the various men's issues. |
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MENSIGHT will publish articles,
stories and information that will be welcomed by many and
controversial to others. We offer the magazine for your
edification but you are free to disagree or reject what you do
not like. Be advised that we do not necessarily agree with every
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We hope that you will be
entertained, informed, educated, stimulated, and/or motivated by
what you read here. We seek to empower men to be the authority
of their own lives. We do not seek to tell men what to think or
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I couldn't save my father but my
hope is that through our efforts other men will be able to find the
help they are seeking.
I dedicate this article to the
memory of my father, Chris Franklin Bracewell, may he rest in peace.
I love you daddy.
Jim Bracewell, president, The Men's Resource
Network, Inc., a 501 (c)(3), non-profit org.
Visit The Men's Center.com:
http://themenscenter.com and
MENSIGHT MAGAZINE http://mensightmagazine.com
Copyright 2004 Jim Bracewell, all rights reserved
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