Then Aunt Prist died. She had no children and no relatives, and was buried at the city’s expense – so we, in a sense, our family, allocated something.
She bequeathed all her property to our family, but Pa gave the order ‘chuck this stuff out.’ So workers in blue coveralls came, took out all her furniture, threw many things in sacks and took it all away on a big truck. All that was left was on a windowsill – some flowers in pots and three rows of those big videotapes. I grabbed my two favourites, The Great Dictator and Modern Times and took them away home. We had nothing to watch them on – we already had a DVD player – but I kept those tapes until Pa noticed them by chance.
‘What shit is that?’ he asked, shaking The Great Dictator. “What’s it for?”
‘For memory…’ I mumbled.
‘Memories are here!’ Pa tapped himself on the forehead with his finger. ‘And this is rubbish and shit the red madman made for fools and idlers. Throw it out at once!’
I threw out both tapes. Because if Pa called someone ‘red’ things looked bad.
Charles Chaplin was indeed red, or more precisely, or most likely, a socialist in beliefs, but my Pa used the word ‘red’ not only in the ideological sense.
‘Red’ for him was first of all the enemy of all that he loved, appreciated and protected. Of all things American, correct and true. ‘Reds’ wanted to destroy them all, to delete, wipe out and if possible erase them altogether.
There was a time Pa was in the CG – that’s the Coast Guard – and on Fridays over beer they’d all discuss ‘reds’, and it was better not to get involved. Everyone was subjected to severe punishment – both ‘stupid Chinese’, and ‘narrow-eyed Viet Congs’, and ‘hairy Russians’, and ‘whacked out Latinos’, and even ‘the mumpish Brits’ which welcome ‘dirty Muslims’ and had ‘strongly reddened’ in recent years – just like ‘those French frog-eaters’.
I should tell you about my father. His name is George. George Alan Kold, his full name. He is a real American – strong, energetic, self-assured in his person and what he does. Always so sure. I remember, since I was an infant, he would say:
‘Josh, if you want to achieve something in life, never doubt yourself. Doubts are like fear, and for a man there is no worse accusation than cowardice.’
Once I asked him:
‘And what do you do if you aren’t right, Pa?’
‘Stand your ground!’ he answered firmly and thrust his chin out. It was his habit at every trifle to thrust his chin out and to look with a squint as though he wants to hit you.
‘Even if you’re not right at all?’
‘Precisely, Josh, quite so. Even if you did something wrong, you behave as if you won the biggest discount at a sale. People love confidence and can’t stand doubting whiners. And remember, little Josh: if you do something, never be afraid of a result, do not be afraid to finish your deed, you understand? Like President Truman with the Japanese. The weed must be weeded out with its root! If Kennedy hadn’t tucked his tail between his legs in ’62 and had instead given the reds in Cuba a big thump on the head, he’d be alive, and the world would be absolutely different.’
‘How?’
‘Entirely American!’ Pa’s chin thrust even higher. ‘Nowhere would have stayed red and the whole world would live like us. That means right and happy.’
Pa’s friends were like him. They called themselves ‘the real guys’. Not all of them were from the Coast Guard. Big Bruce, for example, headed the fire team, and bald Walter served in the police.
On Fridays, as I said, they gathered either in a bar on the embankment, or at our place, drank beer and discussed any news and problems, and the next day, on Saturday, they went to a shooting range because all were members of the National Rifle Association.
Of course, all these ‘real guys’ voted for elephants, that is the Grand Old Party, and hated donkeys, that is the democrats, for their liberalism, cleverness and love for any strange minorities.
Perhaps from my story you might get the idea that my Pa and his friends were gallant soldiers who enjoyed singing the national anthem and marching on Independence Day, and spent the rest of their time in a bar or in front of the TV or shouting at the wife?
Well, no, my old man was not that way at all. He read much, especially magazines on the military and history and he regularly executed tough work. The Coast Guard in Wilmington doesn’t catch Mexican smugglers like in California or on the beaches of Texas, but there are plenty of real problems on the Eastern coast, especially during the storm season, and Pa had several commendations for excellent service.
I was always proud of my old man and I am still. He is a very good person. Yes, his character is no bowl of cherries, but it depends how you carry it, doesn’t it? At least, a lot of what is in me is down to Pa’s strengths. He taught me to be a real American, and I always remember him when things are hard or I need to make an important decision.
Maybe you’re surprised that I still haven’t mentioned my mother? Well, of course, Judith and I have a mother; we aren’t orphans! And Mom is a remarkable woman – kind, lovely, and we love her…
But somehow when I was a child she spent all her days at work without a break. She’s a lawyer, and I can’t remember ever seeing her on weekdays – during the week Pa often stayed at home because he was on day duties, and two days he had a rest. So I remember Pa, but Mom – no.
During week-ends, of course, like any real American family, we gathered round the dining table, prayed, ate, discussed things, but I remember that during these family lunches it was Pa who always led everything, and Mom only smiled.
I can’t tell even now whether she had the quality of brevity, rare in women, or just didn’t want to talk to us – or rather, didn’t see the point or wasn’t interested. Anyway it’s hard for me to understand what united her with Pa – they weren’t just different, but like entirely separate physical particles.
They divorced soon after I left school. Judith was already in college by that time and, remarkably, studying to be a lawyer. Mothers and daughters seem to know better how to pull together. Psychologists may say it happens the other way – that fathers gravitate toward communication and affection for daughters, and mothers towards sons, but in our family Pa was lukewarm with Judith. Frankly, she didn’t like his morals and his categorical way of making decisions, and he… well it seems to me that he doesn’t really believe in natural equality, but that’s only a politically incorrect guess.
Mom works in the Federal Court of Pittsburgh now… Or Baltimore? We sometimes correspond by e-mail or exchange calls on Skype, and she always sends a big paper card with spangles on holidays.
Well, that’s all I can tell you about my family and childhood. Well no, of course, there were many different situations, both ridiculous and sad. Once, for example, there was a fire at our house and Pa and I and the neighbors had already put it out by the time Big Bruce’s firemen arrived.
Or there was the seasonal sale in Nordstroms – when we arrived during the night to grab first place in the queue. Pa always loved to be first in everything – but it turned out that nearly half the city were already there!
And one day on TV it was declared that the wreck of the ship of the notorious pirate Edward Teach the Blackbeard, full of treasures, had been found on the North Carolina coast, near our city (The wreck of the Blackbeard’s ship The Queen Anne’s Revenge was first discovered in 1995 off Beaufort in North Carolina, where it went down in 1718. But it wasn’t until 2011 that it was finally confirmed to be the real thing). So Pa and I and one of his friends, red-nosed Rick, went out there on a boat to have a look at what was what, and, maybe, try our luck. But of course we were intercepted by the Coast Guard from the next base who mistook us for marauders. Who knows what would have happened if uncle Ric hadn’t had acquaintances among this Coast Guard.