Making Beer Batter
My Reality Imagine Battered Mother
These sirens. My God, those sirens and would not stop. Ceci and I cry. Where is everybody? Can not just let these sirens. Red around the outside of the house. What is it and why not let them sirens.
Probably my first memory. My early years were in a neighborhood called "blackbottom" in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and Rossville, Georgia border. These sirens just never stop. Entering the house, the Uncle Bob has just shot! Hide, Uncle Boyd is being persecuted!
We moved when I was six years to an area called East Lake, about four miles away, just in Chattanooga. But terror was not out of the house, which was inside. My dad was a drunk of extreme violence. Doing things like throwing a my sisters on the ground and trampling her. He hit me so hard, I would lose my breath. I remember in about 7 years old, hiding my little sister Sissy in the woods or in the basement to try to protect it.
I remember my mother sometimes care for children up to 10 or 12 children, in addition to people to board extra income. I remember once, late at night, begging my father not to launch. I remember on several occasions, as he was battered, I would sneak into the kitchen to take an empty beer bottle to hit dad, but never had the courage. Battered women's agencies were not an option in those days.
I remember the first time I heard of the Atlanta Braves. I was in sixth grade at East Lake Elementary School, Mr. Bowlins class. He let the class watch the Braves Mets game in the game of the NL playoffs.
That summer, in one of my rare good memories of my father, he took my brother and I to a place called Nik-A Jack-for fishing. A man close to us was listening to a baseball game on radio. He said that the Atlanta Braves were playing the Reds. I remember that the Braves lost. I do not remember what possessed me, but the next night, I heard on the radio.
I was doing a beating almost every day at school. Dad and I Mom playing in us made me a coward. It only hurts a lot when he hit. I remember lying in the bedroom, with large radius low-set white, listening to the Braves, as father hit mother while she was trying to prepare dinner. She just kept getting back up, trying to make sure they are fed. I closed my eyes and pretend it was not happening. I became convinced that the Braves are the reality, my reality to pretend.
I absolutely loved baseball. My mom was interrupted old mop or broom handles, and when the father came home, I would go to the alley, which was filled with gravel and rocks hit. I always do account who went to the Braves. Funny, I do not remember ever losing.
I remember it seemed every time Hank Aaron came to bat, in my fantasy games, which always hit a home run. Maybe I caught on to something before steroids! As the rock clear the fence at the end of the alley, I make account that was Ernie Johnson or Milo Hamilton, the radio announcers: There is a drive, way back, that ball is going, going, gone! The hammer just hit another one! In fact, the Braves were 76-86 that year.
I spent hours in the front yard playing ball with some of the neighbors, John and Layne Things Archie. Sometimes, I heard my mother screaming. Of course, I've always been Phil Niekro. It seems he never lost, like always Aaron homered. The sounds of the house were not the reality was Aaron. He was my pretend reality.
I have it today has only been within two games of the Braves. The first was probably in 1973. The Braves beat the Reds, 11 to 7. I think there were 5 home runs, three for the Braves. I have to see Johnny Bench hit one, but my biggest dream came true: I think the hammer hit number 687, although I'm not sure exactly. Always I'll be very grateful to the boy scouts for that trip.
I read "I Had A Hammer" About two years ago. I've always felt that Hank Aaron was the greatest baseball player ever, not only by statistics, but he was the consummate gentleman. If you will ever read this book, you found out that Aaron was not perfect, but it was very, very honest. How he managed to break Babe Ruth's record, I never know. How, with all that hatred and fear of being killed?
I imagine that Aaron, being the true gentleman that is, would agree that America is blessed with many heroes. Military, Fire, Police, and many others. I wonder if you know what he meant to the children of single mothers and battered women?
But Henry Aaron was the hero of the sport. Not just for African-American community, but a thin white guy, which became reality in a house pretending it was a torture chamber.
My father accepted Christ, and he changed so dramatically. It's so amazing how adorable she became. Every day when I was in the army, he put the flag out, and welcome to it. I remember a year or two before he died, we were in a crowded waiting room of the ICU, as my mother was very ill. All seats were taken, and rose to give elderly black man to his seat. Before he had accepted Christ, was one of the biggest racist I know. The thought crosses my mind even today: "God, if only Hank could be here to witness this!"
The last check I wrote to my father tithe was for the church. He loved God, his church, his family, but learned to love, regardless of race. If changed, is there any way we can all? Us just elected our first African-American president.
My biggest dream is to one day to meet Hank Aaron. Probably would be foolish to do mourn 50 years old, but if this skinny white boy could never explain how important it was, maybe make it worthwhile for all Aaron HELL happened.
I remember a headline in the news sports Chattanooga Free Press: Red 8 3 Aaron. It will always be "The Hammer". Thank you, Hank, for being my true aim through the years in the "torture chamber."
About the Author
http://www.easysinglemotherpay.com is a site authority for single mothers and battered women. Victims of domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE. They will direct you to places where you can be helped.
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