Tag: Family

Editing history

It’s time for me to set the record straight. I’ve been dragging my feet for more than two years, but I must admit I unknowingly told you a lie.

Scroll back, if you wish, to March 18, 2023, a post I headlined as “Out cold.”

No, don’t do that, you’ll lose your place here. Just click this link and open it in another tab or window.

I wrote about the irony in the fact I had done many physical things, suffered a few injuries, etc. but the only time I had been knocked unconscious was while playing on the den floor with my 2-year-old sister.

Of course, I didn’t remember what happened, but I had carried a concept for almost 60 years, as presented in this paragraph from that article:

“The time I was knocked out, however, there was no wild activity going on. Brenda was sitting, as I picture it, and I was kneeling. We were rolling a ball back and forth. And I’m pretty sure I remember losing my balance while reaching for the ball and falling forward.”

I now know that assessment is not quite the truth. Let’s see, “no wild activity going on,” “I was kneeling,” “rolling a ball back and forth,” are total fabrications, and the comments about losing my balance, reaching for the ball and falling forward, while probably true, are gross misrepresentations.

Pardon me while I collect myself.

OK, I wrote that piece in March 2023, but it’s a story I had carried and shared for about 60 years at that point. Life goes on.

The following October, I traveled to nearby Lake Somerville and spent the day visiting with my brother, Ward, while he was camping there.

We were sitting outside on a nice autumn day, conversation ranging through the usual topics. I really cannot tell you what led to his revelation, which he just last week referred to as “the confession.” I wish I had written down exactly how he said it, but the bottom line was that the story was made up to keep the two of us out of trouble with our parents.

He spun the story to them that we were rolling a ball (he’s not sure if he included Brenda in it or not) and I, the brother who took pride in maintaining balance and being able to go to the ground and bounce up without injury, I fell forward and hit my head.

Don’t get distracted here. That’s not at all what happened. Nope, he admits now that we were playing tackle football in the house. And I will accept that charge. At fault, I’m sure. It wouldn’t have been the first nor the last time we got into trouble for roughhousing.

As I said, I would accept that. Guilty as charged. And to be fair, his ploy worked. We didn’t get into trouble, even though I think it unlikely they would severely punish a kid who just had his lights turned out.

However, instead of punishment for horseplay, probably a week without playing outside, I spent most of my life thinking I was concussed by a toddler.

And, on top of that, I lost a funny story.

100 years

A young Alva Martaindale on his beloved horse, Flash. (Family photo, originally black and white)

A few scattered memories leading to a point.

(1) My dad was a horse trader to the core. When he bought a convenience store, he used it as a place to show off some of the junk he turned into … well … art. He specialized in old farm implements like a singletree used by a horse to pull a load, or a turning plow that could be pulled by the horse.

Customers would ask if a particular item was for sale and Daddy would reply, “Everything but my wife and kids is for sale.” Now, if that doesn’t make you feel wanted, nothing will.

(2) Our mother would never spank my brother and me, leaving it up to our dad when he got home. He had a rule that if one of us earned a spanking, we both did. He explained that even if one was not involved in the offense, he should at least keep his brother from getting into trouble.

I was about 6 years old and we were waiting for him to get home from work to administer justice. I do not remember what got us into trouble, but I do recall thinking at the time it was pretty petty.

When the time came, I assumed the first position because I was the eldest. That was the procedure. When Daddy laid the belt to me, it was a mild slap, and I knew immediately that he agreed the punishment was not really deserved. I stepped aside and my brother, 15 months my junior, took his licks, then straightened up and said, “That didn’t hurt.”

I probably slapped my forehead; I knew that was a stupid thing to say.

“Well,” the executioner said, “it’s supposed to hurt. Guess I’ll have to try again.” You know how it finished.

(3) The final few years my dad worked at the fire department, the three of us attended most of the Pine Tree High School home football games. We never sat in the bleachers but always stood along the end zone chain link fence. Don’t ask me why.

One highlight for Ward and me was going to the concession stand to buy Daddy a coffee and each of us a cup of hot chocolate. The challenge was navigating back to the fence without spilling too much of the drinks. Without a memory like that, I’d probably assume I always had great balance.

During one game, we were all three standing along the fence. Ward and I were about third- and fourth-graders. He probably was jumping around or something and this older boy tripped over Ward’s foot and immediately took umbrage. There were three boys, as I recall, probably junior high age, and the boy who fell started fussing at my brother, apparently trying to start a fight with this much smaller boy. Ward said it was an accident and probably apologized, but the outrage continued. I stepped in at that time with the classic street gang line, “He said it was an accident!” Yeah, that really showed them. Regardless, they moved on and nothing happened.

The entire time, our dad stayed on the fence and silently watched without a movement or a word. Later, he told me he was proud how I stuck up for my brother. Seriously, when you grow up together, it’s just what you naturally do. However, his words meant a lot to me.

(4) For a guy who didn’t finish high school because he “knew I would farm the rest of my life,” he sure knew a lot about people. I’ve heard him talk someone off a metaphorical ledge, just flooding them with common sense.

But most often, he was trying to make people laugh. He always had a corny joke or some off-the-cuff remark to lighten any situation.

Many years back, I was fairly new in a job that involved managing a dozen people with a wide range of job descriptions. One of them told me about a party many of them had attended and they talked about me, she said. “We decided none of us had ever seen you mad. Then we decided we didn’t really want to see you mad.”

That was my father. Not that he was fearful, but someone who always had a smile was one you shouldn’t want to be mad.

Century

Alva Martaindale, who died 12 ½ years ago, would have turned 100 on this date.

His mother lived to be 97 and he popped off in his later years that he intended to live to an older age than she did, at times even mentioning 100 years. His will to do so wore out after my mother died just two days after his 81st birthday. His final few years were tedious for him; he saw no point in going on alone. Those who loved him and saw him struggle with pain and sorrow, still working to keep up a cheerful persona, recognized that he had earned the reward of peace.

At his explicit demands, his funeral was graveside only and he imposed a strict rule there would be no tears. My eyes are watering now while typing this, but they stayed dry during the service. He ordered it and I did not want to disappoint him.

Dad’s Day

Erin and I at Niagara Falls in 2015.

It’s Father’s Day morning and Leah made pancakes and scrambled eggs for breakfast. So, naturally, when I sat down to write a Memories piece, paternal thoughts rose to the top. This time, though, they drifted toward “being” a father, and the child who made that possible.

Hence, some wandering memories, presented chronologically…

An early bonding activity with Erin grew out of overnight bouts with colic. We spent many hours with me walking up and down the hallway and around the living room utilizing a walking/rocking/cuddling technique she helped me develop. This was also during the infancy of ESPN and often occurred during broadcasts of Australian Rules Football or repeats of the previous evening’s Sports Center.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Three years later, Leah had emergency surgery and was looking at several days of recovery. Her parents made the eight-hour drive from northern Texas to the coast and, when Leah was released from the hospital, they took Erin home with them. After a couple of weeks, I met them about halfway, meeting at a Dairy Queen. When they arrived, Erin wrapped herself around my left arm while we sat at the table. On the drive home, she remained wrapped around my right arm for much of the drive.

Girls’ basketball was big in Erin’s school, and she started playing early. I bought a goal for the driveway and the two of us played on it for years. Fortunately, my work was such that I could almost always attend her games. Perhaps my proudest moment was during a junior high game on the road. At one point, she was somehow hit in the face but popped up and kept playing. During the drive home, she confessed that her lip had been bleeding. “I knew if they saw blood that I would have to leave the game, so I just sucked on it until it stopped.”

The three of us saw the movie “Twister” in 1996 in Erie, Penn. We left the mall after the matinee showing and found a storm rolling in off Lake Erie. If you know that movie, you understand how such a sight gave us a temporary pause. Maybe that’s why we adopted “Twister,” often watching it on Sunday nights with popcorn and/or fudge. I think Erin pretty much memorized the movie; I was able to toss around enough lines to keep it entertaining. Leah would roll her eyes, but not like the waitress did in the diner scene. To this day, Erin and I will trade one-liners from the movie through texts, like, “When you used to tell me that you chase tornadoes, deep down I always just thought it was a metaphor.”

She has always enjoyed sports and baseball eventually found its way into her heart, something that I might have encouraged. I had covered a lot of high school and junior college games, had covered Texas A&M for the student newspaper when the Aggies won the Southwest Conference in 1977, and had attended several Houston Astros and a few Texas Rangers games, but in the late 1990s had never been to a minor league game, partly because we never lived near a team. Erin decided to rectify that, and we made an overnight trip to Alexandria, La., some 350 miles each way, to watch the Aces. As a bonus, we found the San Diego Chicken entertaining the crowd that night.

The morning of Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, I drove through the Whataburger in Port Aransas for a couple of taquitos and parked looking over the Corpus Christi Channel to watch ships while eating. I turned on the radio and, instead of oldies music, there was confused talk about a plane crash in New York City. I promptly drove home and turned on the TV. Erin was a sophomore at Texas A&M. Shortly after I got home, she called. I’ll never forget her saying, “Daddy, what’s going on?”

These days, we’re still in close contact. At any time one of us will message or call the other with a funny observation, an interesting sports item, a question, whatever. I’ve been blessed. Father’s Day can be any day on the calendar.