Give Till It Hurts

How Being Raised in the Old Homesteader Traditions Has Failed Me in a World Without Values.

I've always had a special appreciation for the old saying, "Give until it hurts." For some reason, it evokes a welcome memory of my grandmother when she was in her early 50's buzzing around her house preparing for one of many backwoods social calls from some great great uncle or third cousins or step-grand-niece and her new husband. That woman knew how to put out a spread. She cooked so well and so often that people came from miles around to share Sunday supper or a mid-week cup of coffee with home baked bread or biscuits or cookies. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that to her food was love, but she definitely loved feeding people, and I absolutely loved eating all of it.

My grandmother had a huge influence on me during the years after my parents divorced and I went to live with her and my grandfather for about 4 years of grade school. She worked full-time for the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries in Pineville, LA as a secretary, and there wasn't a day that woman didn't dress to the nines for work. She thrived on the attention her designer suits and high heels won her from the men at the office, though, like a dutiful wife many years beyond the expiration date of love, she came home at 6:00 on the dot five days a week and had dinner on the table by 7:00.

She taught me much about how people ought to behave and how they should treat others, whether they were family, neighbors, or strangers off the street. Everyone deserved a friendly smile, a kind word, and a hot meal if one was ready. While our little rural town wasn't much for diversity among its population nor its congregation, to those who stopped by or passed through, my grandmother was known high and low as a great gal who could cook like the devil. I wanted to be as well liked and appreciated as she was by those men and women in that community. I watched everything she did from the hours long night time ritual of her bath, moisturizers, and expert level upkeep regimen, to the precise and perfect way she ironed and folded load after load of laundry. Everything she touched was a perfection worthy of a fancy Southern magazine.

We were a poor family, I learned much later on. We didn't have much, and what we did have, we plucked from the earth or pulled from the streams. I treasure my childhood experience of growing up on a farm that fed my grandparents and me along with neighbors and extended family anytime they decided to drop by around supper time. In exchange for a free meal now and then, our family and neighbors would repay the kindness in great little ways like an evening of live fiddle and guitar right there in our living room, or a weekend's worth of babysitting to give my grandparents some time off from me while I got free swimming lessons. Even when the crops were light thanks to bugs or frost or when the fish weren't biting and the chickens weren't laying, we made due, and not a person who needed anything was ever turned away from my grandmother's doorstep. She literally gave until it hurt, and then a bit more on top of that.

I like to think I've made her proud while she was living. I hope she saw how much of her there is in me, and that she was flattered by my unwavering generosity to those around me in my life or just passing through it. I definitely feel the hurty part of giving more often than she ever had to endure, but regardless of the lack of reciprocation these days, I can't seem to stop giving of myself in whatever capacity I can when someone is in need of help. Even after being taken advantage of by ungrateful guys that survive by taking and taking, my heart won't let me not provide comfort or shelter or support however I can to those people again and again.

Sometimes I wonder if she would have continued had she ever been so unfortunate as to have encountered young gay junkies who are dope sick, gay for pay homeless hustlers trying to swindle a few bucks for diapers for their babies, and myriad other varieties of ne'er-do-well and miscreant out to take whatever they can from anyone who's kind enough, dumb enough, or weak enough to provide it in some form or another. Something tells me she would, though not without the wagging of a finger and a stern life lesson to go along with whatever generosity she bestowed upon them. Wisdom would be a part of that gift, and they'd be fools not to take and cherish it. Yet I would warn her how disrespectful and opportunistic the world has become hoping to shield her from the kind of treatment I've received myself while emulating her good spirit and kind heart.

It's a shame to see how different the world is today from the simple, friendly, neighborly one I remember growing up in for those few short years with my grandparents. Nowadays, folks don't have the same kind of understanding that goes without saying about how to repay kindness with kindness or how respect is always afforded to everyone until perhaps they prove themselves not deserving of it. A smile and a nod at a passerby on the sidewalk these days could just as easily win you a middle finger as it could a smile and a "Mornin'!". People have lost their kindness. They don't connect with one another in the same ways, and they are suspicious of those throwbacks like myself who insist on carrying on such antiquated traditions. My forthright conversation and my hospitable nature puts people ill at ease when all I want is to look after their comfort and make sure their time in my company is as pleasant and memorable as I can make it.

I don't know how to live in this world. Too often turned away, and almost never sought out for company, I have given till it hurts and have gotten more hurt as repayment. At some point, of course, it's got to become a case of "Shame on me.", because it doesn't make sense to keep on emptying my reserves of time, money, patience, and care on people who don't want it, don't like it, don't respect it, and won't appreciate it. I think I'd almost rather have a crafty hustler pull the wool over my eyes and feign some attraction and intimacy for an hour than to have my kindness repaid with name-calling or willful silence and utter ignorance of my person. At least if they lie to me, it perhaps costs them something in doing so. That's sort of a barter I suppose. It hurts, nonetheless. So I guess it's worth giving.

Brenda Gail

"Nobody in this whole great big world, no matter how far you go or how many people you meet, will ever love you as much as I do. You are my heart. I will always be proud of you. Nothing you say or do can change it."

Those are the words that stand out most clearly to me from the four-and-a-half hour cry-fest that was the conversation my Mom and I had the day I came out to her. In the years that followed, I certainly put that statement to the test as I ventured out into the world meeting all kinds of new people, learning who I was, and often dancing on the edge of a sword with no regard for my health or safety. None of it mattered to her. When I fell down, she was there to pick me up again, brush off the filth, and bandage whatever cuts and scrapes the world had given me.

Mom has always loved me so fiercely that I sometimes felt smothered by it. Her concern for me when it was clear I was in a bad situation felt stifling while my life managed to hold itself together, but so, so welcome each time the house of cards inevitably fell down around me. I suppose it's that way between lots of sons and their mothers, especially firstborn sons of very young mothers.

Even with so much love in her big, big heart for my little brother and me, Mom was never really able to love herself. We watched as she opened her heart, home, and bank account to undeserving men that treated her unkindly and took advantage of her need for love (or anything that passed for it) time after time after the passing of our step-father in the early 1990's. Her inherent generosity and kindness were repaid with theft, disloyalty, and emotional abuse. Over time, following some harsh truths from her sons, our mom flipped off the switch that had driven her out into the world in search of anyone who could give her the love she lacked for herself. Having almost recovered from a bankruptcy, she was injured at work and became physically unable to work, yet her case was contested by management and she had to fight for over a year through an attorney to get the surgery she needed to repair damage to her spine. By then, a number of other health issues had developed, she lost the house that she and my step-father built themselves from the ground up, and she quickly declined into a deep depression that prevented her from taking care of herself or her home.

Over the last the last ten years, I did my best to return the love she so readily gave to me when I was falling apart in my misspent youth. I frequently drove to visit her in Louisiana while I was living in Austin, TX so that I could get her to her doctors' appointments or meetings with her worker's compensation lawyer. I spent holidays with her when I could and sent her money and gifts when I couldn't be there in person. On more than one occasion, my brother and I took turns cleaning out the house she inherited from my grandmother, which she couldn't or wouldn't keep clean or uncluttered. She built around her a mess that I sometimes think represented what she felt she deserved to live in. Watching her give up on herself and growing more and more reclusive was heartbreaking for me, and I eventually moved back to Louisiana so that I could ensure that she was at least taking her medicine and keeping her appointments with the doctors for her chronic pain and her diabetes. But no matter how often I came to her and propped her back up, my mom no longer cared for herself and immediately fell back into the dark place she had resigned herself to.

For the last year, I stopped going to see my mom, telling my brother that it was too much, that I had tried in vain for too long, and that he needed to be more involved in trying to get her back on track. It had gotten to the point that I couldn't stay the night anymore for fear of my own health. Each time I left her, she would hug me hard and cry, and that left me an emotional wreck for days afterward. I eventually stopped going and started keeping in touch with her only by phone or text, while my little brother and his family took up the task of checking in on her and getting her through the last year's health crises.

My aunt, her sister, who lives next door to her, found Mom dead on her couch yesterday afternoon. Last night, I received the phone call from my sister-in-law letting me know that the one person in this great big world who would always love me - no matter what I said or did, no matter how little I sometimes deserved it, and no matter how poorly I often repaid it - was gone from me forever. I was her heart. I wish I had been able to love her enough for us both. I wish she had been able to be happy, and that she hadn't been made so afraid of the world that she closed herself off from its wonders or its possibilities. I wish that the defiant, adventurous spirit she nurtured in me had also remained within her so that she could have had the life she deserved. I wish that I could hit the rewind button and go back and change all the bad things that happened to her in her life. But most of all I wish I could hug her one more time and hear her tell me again how much she loves me and how proud of me she'll always be.

Rest in peace, Brenda Gail Hataway Murdock Prier. I love you.

Lessons To Be Learned

When I was born in June 1973, my parents were only 19 and 18 years old. Mom, the older of them by two weeks, began feeling labor pains on her 19th birthday, three days before I was delivered, and Dad would turn 19 just a week and a half later. If anyone reading this wants to make a movie of it, take this note: I was NOT the birthday present they wanted, but I was the best damned birthday present they were going to get! Be sure the actors know to look mildly disappointed but also miserably resigned to their fates. Got it? Okay.

Brenda and Rusty had “fallen in love” their senior year at Dry Prong High School, where they were each something of a local basketball star on their respective varsity teams. (Where those sport-inclined genes went is beyond me.) Somewhere between all that jumping and dribbling, somebody scored a real three-pointer, et voila - I was made! The sperm must have wriggled and gnawed and battered its way into that egg late in the fall of 1972 as Brenda was settling into her dormitory suite and beginning a very short-lived college career studying art at NSU. Once she could no longer hide the baby bump, they were rushed quickly but quietly into a family church wedding and then forced to start our dysfunctional little family in a tiny little house on a great big hill in the middle of Kisatchie National Forest.

"Rusty" Murdock

My dad took a job as a rookie police officer, which it turns out suited him pretty well. His temper and resentment of being trapped in a marriage with a kid served him well with the department, and between routinely beating my mother unconscious and narrowly beating charges of sexual misconduct with underage girls while on duty, he began his meteoric rise through the ranks of the Pineville Police Department. Spoiler Alert: Last I heard, he still works there. Like I said, the job suited him.

Melvin Alvin Hataway

One of my earliest memories is of being given a bath by my grandfather during a weekend visit when I was three. I clearly remember feeling apprehensive about being truthful when he discovered red, blistering welts all over my legs, buttocks, and back from a beating my dad had given me with a switch. He had warned me in no uncertain terms not to let my grandparents find out about it, and here I was, a wet, naked stool pigeon spilling my guts to my pappaw.

Pappaw dried me off, dressed me, and drove the fifteen miles or so to the Grant Parish Sheriff's Office for a meeting with my great uncle, his brother, Sheriff Pop Hataway. I was asked to retell the story and then they pulled down my pants and photographed the welts for evidence, and we all drove back to my parents' house. Uncle Pop, as I recall, had the good sense to keep Pappaw away as he brought me inside to confront my dad.

I remember the house being so dark and foreboding, even though it was still a fully bright mid-afternoon outside. Dad worked nights, so that meant he had to sleep during the day. Our house was to be kept cool, dark, and silent when he was sleeping, otherwise we paid the price for waking him.

2nd Street Home, Dry Prong, LA

My eyes stayed locked on the pattern in the atrocious red plaid carpet that extended from the front door into the sunken living room. It was red, I know it for a fact, though in such perpetual dimness, I don't know how anyone could have guessed its true color.

L.R. "Pop" Hataway

I listened, eyes down, hands clasped behind my back, to Uncle Pop tell my dad that he understood that kids sometimes got sassy and needed a good spanking so they'd learn to be better. But Dad would be better off, he went on, if he'd stick to using a hand or a belt rather than drawing blood with a switch. He warned Dad that if he had to come back out to discuss more bloody welts on my butt, it would be as the Sheriff and not as family.

The bright, yellow-orange sunlight from outside struck my down turned eyes and I looked up in time to watch the back of Uncle Pop sauntering out the door and through the yard to his car. In a slow, angular way, it was pinched back and pushed out by the closing door, my dad's anger radiating from the shadows as his hand left the door knob and went to his belt.

Did I mention that my dad and his two hippie brothers fancied themselves leather artisans who made big, gaudy, embellished leather belts and watch bands in their free time? Oh, yeah. They totally did. I wonder if Uncle “Here’s-My-Advice-About-How-To-Beat-Your-Kids” knew that when he made his recommendation that day. My dad's favorite belt was a thick, ugly, brown one adorned with little brass sea shells that punctuated his circumference every 6 inches with a glint of tarnished gold and sounded like a tire rolling over rumble strips on the shoulder of the road when he took it off.

Those shells didn't break the skin like a switch. But neither did they give him the immediate satisfaction of a kid well beaten. It took hours, sometimes a whole day for the enormous purple and green lumps to fully ripen on my skin after a belt beating. And often, that meant that a belt beating could last much longer than a whipping with a switch, because there was no blood to indicate when he'd done it properly. So, not long after that visit to Uncle Pop's office and having my first set of naked photos taken in front of several men I didn't know, we packed up and moved out of Uncle Pop's jurisdiction and into to Dad's. Switches were back on the menu.

Before I’d started kindergarten, I had been thoroughly trained in the art of switch selection. It was a sort of tortuous ritual my Dad had had me learn. I could always feel his glare on my back, watching and savoring my terror as I traversed the length of the back yard to select a worthy instrument of pain for him.

Not too wispy; not too thick. It needed to be roughly 4 feet long, slightly thicker than a pencil's width at its base, and it should be green and mature, but elastic enough to allow its end to wrap around my hips and thighs many, many times without splintering or breaking to pieces.

At age four, I knew to have it stripped of all its leaves by the time I handed it over to him. I also knew without being told that I was to turn around, pull down my pants, grab my ankles and be silent while he inspected the switch I'd selected for my own whipping. I knew that my silence was to be held onto for as long as I could, in order to show that I understood the specific reason for each punishment and had accepted my responsibility for what was happening to me. To cry out too soon only showed weakness and a failure to reflect appropriately on my errant actions. Not crying at all was seen as obstinance, and obstinate was not the same as contrite. Failure nor obstinance would do. I would be taught. He was teaching me. I would learn.

I was a remarkable learner, even before enrolling in school. By the time my kindergarten teacher, Miss Tynes, welcomed me into my very first classroom filled with other students, I was already a perfectionist and a devoted student. Being a fast learner afraid to make mistakes before the age of five served me well in school, but I can't say I can recommend the Rusty Murdock Head Start Program. It's not for everyone.