Do You Hit Your Kids?

 

Woody's intrigued by the sentiment expressed here.
When people say "I was spanked/hit as a kid, and I turned out alright, I wanna ask: Compared to what? How do you know?
There seems to be the implication that, unless the "memerist' had been beaten as a child, he (presumably) would NOT have developed the "psychological condition known as 'respect for others'."
Does does it mean that if "your" parents had NOT beaten "you, you'd" now have NO 'respect' for others?
I don't know how "I turned out," or even if I did, but I was beaten when I was young. A lot.
My mother laid into me at every opportunity, hard, with her open hand to my face, mainly. Slaps. Any occasion on which I disappointed expectations or did any damage to anything, I caught hell for it, got slapped.
I got slapped around if I came home with grass-stains on my pants. I got slapped around if I broke a plate. I got slapped around for bad grades. I got slapped around for breaking a tooth (which were ALL things I got slapped around for).
I made a game of it, eventually.
I had no way to not be struck, if the mood took her, so I made it a point, eventually, to take it without showing any emotion. Stoically.
She required me to stand and take it. I couldn't raise a hand to deflect a blow. I had to just endure it.
This went on for about 8 years, starting right after I recovered from polio, and continuing until I was old enough to spend most of my life away from the house, at age 16 or so.
I know now she was driven effectively crazy by the effects of the steroids she was taking for a serious, debilitating medical condition. It was prednisone, which now has a bad reputation, but then was in wide use. Knowing about it LATER made my eventually being able to understand easier, but it had no effect on my experience at the time.
She could wail on me with all the crazed ferocity she could muster, and I took it, without so much as a flinch or a whimper. I would NOT weep.
It took a long time to get past that one.
And, though I cared for her carefully and lovingly as she was dying, I didn't weep at her death, either.

This Be the Verse, by Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, yer mum and dad.
They do not mean to, but they do.
They take all the faults they had,
And add some special, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By folks on old-style hats and coats
Who half the time were sloppy stern
And half at one another's throats.

Life hands on misery to man;
It deepens like the ocean's shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Don't Pray For Me: A brief phenomenology

---Prayer, as with any sort of meditative act, is not engaged in for the benefit of any external object or person, izzit?
---Zen meditation, as I understand it, is to empty oneself of all external attachments.
---"Prayer," the way it's commonly understood by most Murkins, involves begging for some sort of theosophical interference or indulgence
---Prayer the way monks and so forth do it is a kind of mantric chant which induces endorphins and calms their souls.
---Right now, I don't need any of that. And I appreciate the thought.
---But don't pray for me.
---Buy me a beer. Roll me a joint. Get us some burgers. Spot me $50. Gimme a ride to the welfare office...
---That'd be GREAT! Thanks...

In The Vecinidad..."Black Mesa, San Ildefonso Pueblo"

Image made by Kent Hansen, the Second of February, 2014, from his house in La Mesilla NM.
The mammoth object in the distance is known locally as "Black Mesa." It is on and is sacred to the people of San Ildefonso pueblo. In their legends, it is the only earthly remains of an Ogre which preyed on the people until the "Sacred Twins" were born, who were devoured by the Ogre, but killed it from within. It is the Ogre's black heart, still decaying...Fruitful for all sorts of hermeneutics. It is where the famed potters of the pueblo mine the clay for their distinctive, black pottery. Here's the link.
There is a geological term of the formation which I once knew, but have forgotten and cannot find.
This vista was obstructed from my family's place in Nambe, but is only about 10 miles, as the raven rambles, and it's shape is part of my geographical DNA.

The Happy Couple, My Parents, On The Day of Their Wedding: Jan 31, 1943

Ladies and Gentlemen, the happy couple: Ensign John O. ("Jack") Konopak and his bride, the former Joan Pace. She passed in 2000, he in 2001. Today would be their 71st Anniversary. R.I.P. 

These were my folks on their wedding day, waiting for a train to Santa Fe: Jan 31, 1943. Ensign John O. ("Jack") Konopak and his new bride, Joan (Pace, until a few hours before). He was on his way to his ship, the USS Litchfield, home-ported in Pearl Harbor. She would accompany him as far as San Francisco. While he was gone, she finished her bachelors degree at the University of Chicago. They had full, busy lives. Grand kids, and job fulfillment. Momma passed in 2000, Daddy in 2001. Cigarettes killed them both. Their kids (4) and their friends (hundreds) miss 'em both... (Coincidentally, today is also the 20th Anniversary of my quitting tobacco, altogether.)

Throw-back Thursday: Jauary 9, 2014

The Konopak sibs, circa 1986, at Pop's retirement. From the left: Pete, Joanie, Cary, and moi...

The Konopak Family, Nambe homestead, circa 1962. From the left: Joanie, Pete, Cary, me, Mom and Pop...

"A Little Dab'll Do Ya..."

Lookin' good is an adolescent pre-occupation which diminishes, but never entirely disappears with age. I don't have enough hair left on top to swaddle a flea, so hair products are of only academic interest to me.
In my youth, there were three basic kinds of masculine hair management products.
There was "Tiger Sweat" and it's imitators, which was basically pink, semi-soft paste-wax that was used to prop up the prow of "flat-tops." If you stuck a wick in it, and lit it, it'd probably last as loing as an Advent candle.
There was Brylcreme ("A little dab'll do ya...They love to get their fingers in your hair," so the jingle claimed) which was basically the consistency of hand lotion and held hair in place with oil, and was probably, mostly, glycerin. It left an oily residue on the pillow case and a slick like a hemorrhaging tanker in the swimming pools of my youth
And there was Vitalis, which was basically pure alcohol and caused hair to freeze into a stiff helmet-like condition. It was also (allegedly) passably potable, if passed through a loaf of bread.
I was reminded of this by a conversation with G Al Awlaki Meyer and a recent, inadvertent, trip down an unfamiliar aisle in the local grocery where once there had been baking products, but now held "personal" items.
Just for the memory banks...

Better with Age: Mistel, de Nuevo mexico

An old Santa Fe acquaintance posted this on Facebook With the admonition that, since it takes about two weeks to "mature, you need to start, basically, yesterday.
"Chimaja root" is also known as arrowroot, the same as is found in babies' teething crackers.
She writes:

Back in the 1970s and 80s when the Christmas eve walk along Canyon Road and the Acequia Madre area was much more locally oriented, the house owners used to set up little tables and provide biscochitos and tiny cups of warm mistela. I loved that tradition, but when I came back several years later, after moving to Montana, I was apalled at the "tourista" feeling of the stroll and found that the house owners didn't even come outside any more. I still do a traditional New Mexico Christmas up here and make both sangria (Corky Lusk's recipe) and occasionally mistela. I'm attaching a photo that shows you how to make it, but you need to start soon as it takes two weeks to "cure." I think its worth it and that you will enjoy it as a special traditional treat.

Bueno! Salud y pesetas y amor y tiempo para gustarlos.


Ahorita, La Noche Antes de Chreesmas!

"La Noche Antes de Chreesmas! "

T'was the night before Christmas and all through the casa
Not a creature was stirring, Caramba! Que Pasa?
Los Ninos were all tucked away in their camas,
(Some in long underwear, some in pajamas.)
While mama worked late in her little cocina,
El Viejo was down at the corner cantina
Living it up with amigosone a gavacho!
Todos MUY contento y PO-quito borracho!
Stockings were hung con mucho cuidado,
In hopes that El Santa would feel obligado
To bring all the children, both buenos Y malos,
A nice batch of dulces y otros regalos.
Then, outside in the yard, there arose such a grito
That I jumped to my feet like a frightened cabrito.
I ran to the window and looked out afuera,
and who in the world do you think? Quien es era?
St.Nick in a sleigh and a big red sombrero
Came dashing along like a crazy bombero!
And pulling his sleigh, instead of venados,
Were eight little burros approaching valados.
I watched as they came, and this quaint little hombre
Was shouting and whistling and calling by nombre:
" Ay, Pancho! Ay, Pepe! Ay, Cuca! Ay, Beto!
Ay, Chato! Ay, Chopo! Muraca y Nieto!"
Then standing erect with his hand on his pecho,
He flew to the top of our very own techo.
With his round little belly, like a bowl of jalea,
He struggled to squeeze down our old chiminea.
Then, huffing and puffing, at last in our sala,
With soot smeared all over his red suit de gala,
He filled all the stockings with lovely regalos,
For none of the ninos had been very malos.
Then, chuckling aloud, seeming muy contento,
He turned like a flash and was gone como el viento,
And I heard him exclaim-Ese, this is verdad
"Merry Chreesmas, A todos, Feliz Navidad!"