Prologue: I don’t know Michael T. Smith and I have
no idea about what he does or where he lives. I however stumbled on this story
in my quest for knowledge and got fascinated. I am so touched by the story that
I have decided to share it with my readers. Read it with an open mind and pick
useful lessons from it.
I was the youngest of three
boys. We lived in a four-room house with our parents. Dad liked to say we had
four rooms and a “path,” referring to the well-worn trail to our outhouse.
There was no hot-running water. We heated water on an oil stove, which doubled
as our heating source in the winter. We washed our hair in the kitchen sink and
took baths in our rooms, using a cloth and a bucket of hot water.
I guess you could say we were
poor. Dad had a job, but he spent all extra money on alcohol. There were many
nights when I would be roused from sleep by loud voices. I would lie still and
listen, instantly aware it was Thursday night, and like every Thursday, Dad had
come home drunk. Thursday was payday for my
father. After work, he and his co-workers would go to the tavern and drink. It
was the start of four days of hell. On Friday he would go to work hung over and
return in the evening drunk again. For the rest of the weekend he would be
drinking with his buddies. I remember a time, when he came home so drunk, when
he got out of the car, he lost his balance, and staggered 20 feet, to smash his
head into the front porch. Yes, he was that drunk, and he drove.
He was nasty when he drank, not
violent, just mean. He would yell at us for the smallest infractions. Even
though we tried not to disturb him, he would lash out with complaints about our
behaviour. There was no pleasing the man. Four days of the week we cowered from
him. I know more about him now, and
can even understand his bitterness toward the world. He was born out of
wedlock, and spent many years in a Catholic orphanage. I don’t even want to
think about the abuse he may have received there. As the school week wound down,
my stress increased, knowing the weekend, the drinking and the arguing were
coming. How my mother tolerated him, is a mystery. I believe she had no where
to go, where she would be able to support three boys on her own. She stayed for
us. My biggest fear: she would give up, walk out, and leave us with our father.
I was sitting in my classroom
one morning. I believe I was in first grade. From my seat, I could look out the
large windows, and see my house and the store across the street from it. At
that time we had a small bus service. It came once a day, stopped at the store,
and took people to the city. On this morning, I saw a lady with a red jacket
getting on the bus. My mom had a red jacket! I began to cry in front of my classmates.
Mom was leaving. The teacher calmed me, by saying
my mom would not leave without telling us she was going. I wasn’t convinced.
When we were released for lunch, I ran home to find my mother making my lunch.
I was so relieved; I ran up, clutched her around the waist and began to cry
again. Dad went by the rule “children
should be seen and not heard.” If he was home, we were not to make a sound or
he’d punish us. This is not necessarily a bad rule, but when he was drinking,
he was overly sensitive.
Mom would do everything for my
Dad. She made his lunches, cleaned, cooked, and took care of us. Dad did very
little. He worked and in the evening he sat. I would grow frustrated, when I
needed his help, because I knew he would grumble. He would come home from work,
expect his dinner waiting, and complain about the lunch made for him that day. I was afraid to ask him for
anything. The chain on my bike was loose and would fall off the sprocket. It
took me forever to figure out how to tighten it myself, but I did it. I learned
to manage on my own. My brothers grew older, got
their driver’s license, and were blamed for every mark, dent, or scratch on the
car. Later, I got my license, and refused to drive Dad’s car. I was not going
to be blamed for anything that happened. I walked or biked, and gave Dad no
excuse to yell at me.
Christmas was always bad. Dad
would be drunk on Christmas day and have no patience for small boys enjoying
their new toys. There would be more fighting than laughter from my parents. When
my brothers and I were older and slept late on Christmas morning, Dad would
come to our room, drunk as usual, and wake us, expecting us to get up and open
our gifts. We would tell him to go sleep it off. Perhaps he wanted to make up
for the times he lost when we were smaller. One night, when I was a teen, he
was sitting at the kitchen table drunk. He seemed very depressed. I figured it
best I went to bed. As I lay trying to sleep, I heard the distinct sound of his
shotgun being loaded. I snuck from my room and saw him going out the door with
his gun. I reached him, I grabbed the barrel, 'Dad, no! Let me have the gun. Go
to bed.' Luckily, he did as he was told.
I learned a lot of things from
my Dad: how not to treat a wife, to make my own lunch, help with cooking and
cleaning, and give my children love. He didn’t do it by example; he did it by
making me aware of what is wrong. His drinking caused a lot of trouble, but all
three of his boys came out of it better people. Dad passed away in the early ‘90’s.
Mom, a strong and beautiful woman, was freed from his abuse. My brothers and I
all said, 'Now mom can be free to enjoy her life.' I don’t hate my Dad. He was my
Dad; he gave me life. I can’t hate him for that. However, I am disappointed he
never experienced the good things a family can provide. Dad, I love you. One day we will be able to meet
again. I will hug you and forgive you.
Moral Lesson
No
matter how terrible your situation may be, try to learn from it.
About the Author: Isaac Oluyi is a motivational
teacher, entrepreneur and entrepreneurship educator. He is happily married with
children. He can be reached with 08060792979 or via isaacoluyi@gmail.com
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