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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 dad's arms with our adoring mom looking on. He was produce manager at the Piggly-Wiggly Supermarket. It's about 1943 or 44. |
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. |
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.
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 had died in the Veterans Administration Hospital in Gainesville in 1972. His death was from “Pulmonary insufficiency and Carcinoma of the right lung.” He was 56 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.
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.
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.
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From MENSIGHT (https://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 position that is expressed here.
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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 feel.
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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 https://mensightmagazine.com
Copyright 2004 Jim Bracewell, all rights reserved
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