What are our origins? From what location in space, time, and spirit were our lives launched? We all came from somewhere not of our present sense of self. For better or for worse, we all have our family and our ancestors. We have a shared culture and its history, which helps to define for us where we once were, where we are now, and where we hope to be someday. Our definitions are never complete, no matter how thorough we may be in our explorations of our past, for we are so much more than just our ancestors, our history, and even the movement of our self upon the face of this planet. Yet, to not attempt to look at our individual self, and the collective experience of mankind, is to bypass the most important foundational understanding of our humanity that is available to us. If we have no clue about where we came from, how in the HELL can we ever develop a good context for understanding our lives, and then conceive of an accurate representation for where we might want to go?
As I look at my life, and my family’s history, I am amazed by the chaos, the suffering and the love, erupting from The Mystery.
My father, Beryl Donald Paullin, was a product of the Great Depression, having been born in 1927. His Father, also named Beryl, was a Fire Chief, and respected within the North Portland community. He was also a horribly abusive alcoholic in his private life. He lived with his family in a house in North Portland, 7832 N Holmes, until his separation from his wife Elsie after WW II. I know little else about Grandpa Beryl (also known as Bruce), other than he served in the military during World War 1, and is buried in Willamette National Cemetery, as is my father.
\My father kept my sister Pam and I away from grandpa Beryl until we were teenagers, that is how much my father wanted to protect us from the oppressive presence of his father. While in our early teenage years, Pam and I did visit with Grandpa Beryl at his La Center home twice, and I visited him in the VA hospital prior to his death. In his later years, he was sober, and seemed like a pleasant enough man. I could tell by his stories that he ached to heal a wound, yet he could not find the words to express his remorse, and to make amends with the children that he had so horribly harmed.
Dad’s mother Elsie was the classic abused wife, suffering through physical and emotional problems while married to “that Brute”, as my father referred to him. I also know little about her, either, other than she had kidney disease, and she died of cancer shortly after my birth. John Edward was dad’s older brother. Ed preceded my father in death, having died in 2015. Uncle Ed was removed from his home and placed at their grandparents’ farm in Oregon City at 6 years of age, after nearly being beaten to death by their father. I later learned that Elsie secretly gave birth to a daughter at age 15, which she gave up for adoption. So my dad had an older sister that he never knew of, until very late in his life.
Gloria, or Susie as most people now know her, was his younger sister, and both Susie and my father suffered under horrible abusive conditions for most of their childhood, even after their older brother found his own measure of safety. Susie appears to have been under the control of both parents, exhibiting little self awareness or personal empowerment. Susie was demeaned by her mother, and often treated like she had diminished mental capacity, though she hung in with her mother, living with her until her mother’s death.
Even as a young adult, Susie acquiesced to her mother’s demand to hide an out of wedlock pregnancy to a married man, Loren H., teaching her to lie to the world about how the pregnancy occurred. Susie was instructed by her mother to tell the world that she had been gang-raped, just like her mother claimed that she was at 15 years of age. Susie’s out of wedlock daughter, Sharyn, was immediately given up for adoption, and baby Sharyn quickly found a wonderful family to love and care for her.. The horrible gang rape lie was to come back and haunt, and diminish, Sharyn fifty years later when she finally located her natural mother.
Susie, in a most convulsive expression of shared grief, was to marry Vern, her own mother’s alcoholic boyfriend who was over twenty years her senior, after her mother’s death, and bore a daughter Cindy. Vern was to die a mere seven years later due to the cumulative effects of his alcoholism prior to his marriage to Susie. Daughter Cindy still holds her ninety year old mother hostage to her own unique pain, accusing her mother of marrying an old man, and depriving Cindy of a father. They have been alienated for over eight years now.
Both my father and aunt Susie displayed some symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder early in their lives, as well as being products of the age of which they grew up. Over the years, Dad found a way to manage his life much more successfully than his sister Susie, however.
My father really loved his older brother Ed, through all of the years of his life, though he loved to challenge Ed about the mess that was always present in the yard on Ed’s farm. Ed loved to collect old and junk cars, much to the chagrin of his neighbors, friends, some family members, and the local police department. Sharon and I started witnessing their love beginning in 1995, when we all started sharing breakfasts, and family gatherings together for the first time.
In 1943, at 16 years of age, Dad enlisted in the Marines, as he wanted to serve his country, get away from his family of origin, as well as he thought of himself as a “dummy” ,with no faith in his ability to successfully finish high school at Benson Poly Tech. His mother promptly collared the local Marine Corp recruiter, and forced dad’s return home from the service. He re-enlisted in the Navy the moment he turned 18 years of age, and was assigned duty on two different warships, the West Virginia, and the Wisconsin, during his two years in the Navy. Upon his return from active duty in 1947, he returned home, where he threatened his dad with death if his dad ever laid a hand on his mother again. Dad moved on from that relationship with his mother and father, seeing each of them infrequently until their deaths…
He started college at the University of Portland, studying Psychology, Logic, Metaphysics, Philosophy of Mind, and other courses, from 1947-1952. He really wanted to understand the human mind at the deepest level, and his curious mind about other issues only left him in recent years running up to his death. But he had to delay his search for the truth about the broken human mind, as his now hyper-busy life got in the way of him finishing his studies of the human condition. Dad formed a great friendship and relationship with Father Delaney, who taught at the University of Portland, and in whose name the Delaney Institute was named. He struggled a bit with his school work, having to both work full time and go to school, but he did stay at it over a course of five years, which did not result in a degree.
Note: I was to later pick up my father’s mantle, and I have made my own attempts to finish the job that he had started, which was understanding the human mind. And, like my father, I rebel against the spiritual and philosophical authorities of the day, sometimes sharing with the readers of my blog and Facebook readers my insights.
Dad still had a fire in his heart, and an incredible desire to succeed. He worked harder than anybody around him, the sign of a classic “overachiever”. He endlessly drove himself, and he was going to overcome his upbringing, and prove to the world that he had higher value than the poor self-esteem that his verbally and physically abusive father had inculcated him with. His perfectionism and zealousness for order and efficiency was utilized to its best advantage in his future employment with the US Postal Service. That same attitude tended to, at times, challenge others, especially those that he attempted to help, or manage, as both a general manager with the Postal Service, and as a friend and family member.
A person with a passive/aggressive personality, like me, had the most difficulty with him. Those who were self-assured or had found their own voice, and engaged him directly, had the best relationship with him, and he really enjoyed engaging with others in stimulating, challenging discussions. Those who took the time to get to know Dad, also found a way to love him, in spite of his rough edges. But it was hard to get to know him because too many times he would lead with a derogatory remark, or insult, and bad first impressions rarely get changed.
Dad had several choices in his career, either as a policeman, fireman, or joining with the US Postal Service, of which he ultimately selected. He also began courting my Mother, Corinne Beatrice Henry, who happened to be quite a “looker”, and also quite a hard working young woman, as well. Mom worked at the original Fred Meyer store in downtown Portland, among many other jobs over the course of her own career. Mom’s parents were not impressed with my fathers’ parents for obvious reasons, and Dad had to overcome some real judgements to make inroads into that family. My Grandpa Henry made my father mow his yard before he would even let Dad take Mom out, as part of their desire to prove that Dad really wanted to move forward with her.
Dad married mother in June of 1950, and they lived in NW Portland for several years. Pamela came along in 1954, and Dad knew love in a way he never knew before. Pam was a precious prize, and Dad delighted in her presence, and her life, until his death. I came along in 1955, and Dad initially had trouble embracing who I was, as I had troubled early years, causing much disruption to the family lifestyle, because of health issues (the underlying truth is that Dad had trouble understanding the innate value that I had as a baby, and as a son). Dad had a house built in West Linn in 1955, and spent the next nine years there, investing thousands of hours of work turning his property into his own outdoor temple. He repeated the same process with his next two homes, as well, converting the landscapes into his own unique paradise.
First and foremost, Dad loved his older brother John Edward, his new family, eventually including all of his in-laws, and all the new friends that they developed through the Oakey Doaks square dancing group. These included, among several others, Bob and Dorothy Fero, John and Cleone Edwards (John worked with Dad at the Post Office), Dick and Eunice Jamison (Dick also worked with him at the Post Office), Joyce and Merlin Litson, Joe and Sue Constans, and Bob and Diane West, along with several others.
He carried a lifelong friend, Roland Mills, far into his adulthood, with Mom and Dad sharing many fond memories with Roland, and his first wife, Eloise. They attempted to continue their friendship with both parties after Roland and Eloise’s divorce in 1980. Dad’s dementia late in life kept him from being friendly with Roland, though he still recognized Roland and knew his name, but had lost the willingness or ability to share memories with him. In the very early years, my sister Pam and I shared some fond memories of staying at Roland and Eloise’s home while being babysat by their daughter Cindy, watching horror, science fiction, and Elvis Presley movies with her, and her brother Gary. Gary and Pam’s first deceased husband Jim Graham actually ended up working together for a while in the early 1990’s in the home real estate industry, resulting in the sale of the house to Sharon and I that we presently live in.
When dad was a young husband and father, he carried two jobs for a number of years because he did not like feeling in debt. Because Mom had to work, too, we spent much of our first years with baby sitters. I never nursed with my mother, and, as a baby, because I cried at night, I was wrapped in a blanket, and placed in the car in the garage in the evening so that my father could get sleep before arising at 2:30am for his first job every day. My father loved to play hard, and he had many stories of being a top flight beer drinker in the local tavern scene, while also becoming quite the accomplished shuffleboard player. He told a story that the owner of a tavern even served him a beer while he was in the bathroom. Yes, he became friendly with the suds during that time period.
My father’s love of the suds translated directly to me, where I learned, quite early, how wonderful the flavor of beer was, and how wonderfully intoxicating it’s effects were. He told the story of how when I was 5 years old, he left an open beer on the coffee table, and when he left the room for a moment, I lifted the beer up, and drank it all. Within 30 minutes, I fell off of the couch, and dad and I both knew that I had a new, but dangerous, friend. Dad took care to monitor his beer after that, and so did I. I would steal drinks off of his beer after that, until I learned how to steal whole beers later in childhood.
Dad carried a tarnished understanding of how to discipline his children, though he later claimed that he eventually came to realize that he was repeating his fathers’ abusive behavior, as far as physical discipline was concerned, and thus he stopped (I still got beat with a belt to age 14, though). His rebukes were quite powerful, and, at times, seemed to outnumber his praise and acknowledgement of us. Early on, Pam and I suffered under the abuse of his belt too many times to recall. But through all of that, I never lost my love for my father. He was my hero, albeit a broken one. He loved my mother deeply, though at times unskillfully. Fortunately for mother, dad never lifted a hand against her, though they both traded many barbs over the years. A lot of it was just the way they communicated, thinking that they were being funny, and a lot might have been veiled aggression. They shared much pride in their children, and being parents brought untold gifts, and meaning, to both of their lives, because of, and in spite of, all of the challenges and lessons that we presented to them as children, and then as adults, over the years.
Dad was an avid reader, but spiritual or religious readings were not a draw for him. The last time that I remember Dad being present in a church was to witness my baptism in 1987, which also corresponds to the last time I was in a fundamentalist church environment, as well. Dad avoided going to church, having never been convinced that church attendance had any relationship to a connection with God. He stated that if he ever walked into a church, it would probably fall onto him. His church was his love for nature, its beauty, the wildlife, hiking through woods and meadows, hiking the deserts in Arizona, the trails of the Columbia River Gorge, or any of thousands of places around America, and the world. His church was also his love of his wife, his family, including his brother and sister, and his in-laws, his love of his dear friends, his love of his dogs, of which he had many. He adored his dogs, and they supplied a constant supply of the unconditional love that his heart, and soul craved, and which his experience of his exterior life sometimes failed to supply him in sufficient amounts. He loved the homes in which he lived, and prepared the grounds of each of them carefully, as if making each one a sacred offering to his creator. His body of life was truly the temple of his living God.
He was the type of guy that, had he ever met Jesus Christ in person, if he noted lettuce in the Christ’s teeth, he would tell him about it. He liked to state that “heaven was not ready for him, and that the devil did not want him either, as he would try to take hell over and run it the way it should be run”. Dad lived his life “outside of the lines” so to speak, and he delighted in challenging other people’s assumptions, sensibilities and understandings.
Dad was an accomplished card player, square dancer, stamp collector, avid fisherman, hiker, camper, traveler, scout troop leader, general outdoors man, adventurer, humorist, wise man, and golfer, but retired early in life from hunting. As a young man he hunted with his father, though he grew to be repulsed by the idea of killing innocent creatures. One time while hiking in the Arizona desert with his dog Misty, they were confronted by a rattlesnake, and he had to draw his pistol and shoot the creature. He regretted having killed it, which shows how his love for all life had taken over his soul. He had a challenged understanding of cats, though, and was quick to punish wayward cats that strayed unto his property to assault and kill birds and squirrels.
Dad’s high point in his career was when he was promoted to Operations Manager of the Main Office of the US Postal Service, in Northwest Portland. His career there spanned 35 years, and he developed many friends, and a few enemies, along the way to his peak. He was respected by the Postmaster, though it was the Postmaster’s dissatisfaction with an aspect of dad’s personal life that encouraged dad to retire at 55 years of age. Dad’s next step would have been to become Postmaster over the entire Portland operation, and succeed Ben Luscher, had he not entered into an affair with Karen, the office nurse around 1980. Mother had a lifelong investment in my father staying married to her, and she took charge of a situation that would have discouraged most other people by informing the Postmaster of dad’s indiscretion. So my fathers’ official retirement date was 1982, and a whole new world opened up to mother and dad.
Dad traveled extensively with mother in retirement. They took their verbal “Punch and Judy Show” around the world, and around America. Eventually they settled upon their yearly snowbird excursions to Queens Valley, in Arizona, where they would park their travel trailer, and spend the winter in sunny southern Arizona. He lived the dream, and learned to make mom his best friend, and travel companion. Mother’s health had taken a downturn in 1978, when she learned that she had kidney disease. Dad would admonish her about her weight, thinking that if only she would lose her extra weight, her health would be better. Mom would do her best to comply, but, hey, that chocolate cake was just too hard to resist sometimes, and, anyway, she deserved it because she stayed so active. Dad had a habit of being disrespectful to my mother over the years, and the weight obsession my father had only added to all of our uneasiness with him.
There are some who thought that my father was a horse’s ass, but that is the view one sometimes gets when in second place, having been passed by his race horse of a mind. A man like my father, who lived a full life, could have his own book written about him, and not scratch the surface of all the people that he impacted, positively or negatively, and all of the experiences that he had, all of the humor that he shared, and all of the wisdom that he developed. My sister, my wife, and I wrote several pages of “Beryl-isms”, which are quotes directly from my father about life in general. I have presented a few of his “top 50” statements, which he repeated many times over the last few years of his life. In parenthesis, I have included a few of my replies to his common statements that I used to give back to dad as part of our “conversation”..
1). Don’t wait too long to retire. People think they need to work those extra years, they work that extra one or two years, thinking they need the money, and death takes over, and they never make it to retirement (well, Dad, I retired early, but we will have to wait and see if that has any beneficial effect on my longevity. Right now, my main goal is to try to outlive you, oh immortal one!).
2). Oh those rich people, all of that money, and they still have to die anyway! (and the rest of us, we have to die too, darn it!)
3). Why do you need to know, are you writing a book? (well, as a matter of fact I am!)
4). I really took the system, didn’t I? (after being retired and on pension for 35 years, contributing $22,742 to your pension, and getting over one million dollars back, I would say that you did!)
5). Come back again when you can’t stay so long (well, I am working on that one!)
6). Don’t you have something better to be doing? (yes, but you are the priority of the moment, so try to enjoy it with me)
7). Sure am glad that I am retired, or is it retarded? (um, I won’t touch that one)
8). I might be here, but I am not all here (then where is the rest of you?)
9). You know, having a dog like Rocky adds 7 years to my life (yes, but your dog took 7 years off of mine!)
10). (to any waitress) Say, you sure are looking good this evening. Would you like to come home with me and serve me my favorite meal? (argh! So embarrassing!)
11). I am not trying to be pretty, and I never will win any beauty contests (I can’t argue with you on that one)
12). The doctor needed a urine, stool, and semen sample, so I just left him my underwear (oh, boy, what a bad joke!)
13). You couldn’t hit a beach ball with a banjo! You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn! (comments made to me both as a youth when pitching or batting on little league baseball teams, and while playing golf with him as a child and as an adult)
14). When I get to Heaven, I am going to have a talk with the “Old Man” about my wife dying before me. Wives are supposed to outlive the husbands. Either I should have died first or we should have died at the same time (Maybe mom finished her work before you did. In what form would you have wanted a simultaneous death, like in a murder/suicide, or in a car wreck?)
15). Son will we all meet again in heaven? (are you sure that you really want to hang out with the same crowd for eternity?)
16). Heaven is not ready for me yet, and Hell is afraid that I will take it over, so that is why I am still here (maybe you are still here to provide a few more lessons for the living. I know that I sure am getting a crash course!).
17). I am in no hurry to die. Nobody I know has ever come back from the dead and told me what a great time that they are having after death. (yes, and wayward religions continue to capitalize on that mortal fear, ignore the fact that heaven is here and now, and do not effectively teach us how to die to ourselves and our fears and suffering to experience heaven in advance of bodily death)
18). I provided care for you all of those years when you were young, now its your turn to take care of this old man (I should have read the contract more carefully before my birth!)
19). You should always be best friends with your sister. Never let anything get in the way of that friendship, because she will find a way to love you to your death, as you should love her as well (Well, Dad, you sure have shown commitment to both your brother and your sister, especially over the last twenty years. Somehow you all endeared yourselves to each other. Thank you for being a success in that aspect of family love, and overcoming the chaos created by your parent’s relationship. I think that Pam and I are on a good course right now)
And on and on it could go. My dad was a great story teller, and fountainhead of wisdom, one-liners, humor, self and other deprecation, and sarcasm.
It was tough watching my father deteriorate, which began in earnest after his radiation treatment for prostate cancer in 2005. After mom died in 2009, Sharon and I had him over for dinner every evening. He was anxious, and suffered horribly from grief, and deteriorating cognitive health. I took him to the doctor’s office for treatment for depression, and the doctor ending up prescribing anti-depressants for me instead. He continued to threaten to kill himself, and I had to locate all of his guns, and empty them. In the process of emptying his rifle, I almost shot myself in the foot, sending a bullet through his bedroom floor.
Within three more years, late in 2012, Sharon insisted that Dad have his driving competency evaluated, as he appeared to no longer be capable of driving safely. When the doctor confirmed that Dad should no longer drive, my life as I knew it came to an end. The loss of his independence also became my own loss, as well. I became responsible for 100 percent of Dad’s life, health, nutrition, meals, baths, finances, home and lawn care, and spiritual support. Dad no longer managed his life, other than dressing himself, going to the bathroom (mostly), smoking his cigars, and eating the food placed in front of him
I found a way to love that man on deeper and more profound levels, as I continued to release my own expectations of how he should be, and how he should live. His sole concerns became his love for his dog, Rocky, and maintaining residence in his own home until his own death. He had lost all short term memory, and was basically unteachable the last 5 years of his life, though he maintained his dignity, his sense of self, his recognition of his family, and his love for his children, including my wife Sharon. At the beginning of 2016, I finally hired a support person to help me with Dad’s care, a loving young woman by the name of Madison. She helped for about 15 hours per week, which went a long way to take some of the burden off of Sharon and me.
When Rocky died in June of 2016, ten days after our own dog Ginger’s death, Dad’s final thread of love and companionship with his past was snapped. He asked me over 5000 times where Rocky had disappeared to, after his dog’s death. I watch my father call out 30 times or more, Every Day, to his deceased dog, Rocky, who died. We made up a sign for him, so that he can see, in writing, that his dog is dead, that it died of old age, and that he is ‘in heaven’. But, he never truly got it, because his short term memory was gone. At times, I felt compelled to set him straight, and tell him he is neglecting this moment, where Sharon White and i lived, and instead he was worshiping the dead,, where all of his grief and losses reside, but of course he quickly lost that. My heart broke for him, and for all of us
Our presences were just not quite enough to make all OK with Dad. But, we made him as comfortable as we could until his last days. He never took one medication, nor was I about to force one onto him. Dad’s final four years were a real labor of love for me, forcing me into early retirement from work, and the experience almost tanked me. But I learned how to love another human being unconditionally and completely, though the lesson plan exacted a price from me. I am only just now coming out from under the spells of anxiety and stress around the experience of care giving for my Dad, as well as being fully present for my friend Marty for the several months prior to his own death, which occurred five days prior to Dad’s death.
The last conversation that I had with my father was 6 hours before his death.
This is what we exchanged with each other:
Dad, you are still in bed, and its 2:30 in the afternoon, what’s up, it’s such a beautiful day outside.
You know son, I am always tired now, but I am about to get up.
Well, Dad, this might be the last sunny day in a long time, so why don’t you get up, and go out on the porch and have a cigar? I’ll put a chocolate bar on your table, and a drink for you.
I’ll get right up son. By the way, who is caring for me this evening?
Well, Dad, Madison is caring for you this evening.
Oh, poor Madison!
Dad, Madison benefits by being with you, as you do with her.
I will be with you beginning this Sunday morning, and I will be with you for the next three weeks as usual. You know we are planning one final trip to Hawaii with you, right?
Oh son, I am happy just staying at home. I have everything that I need here.
Well, OK dad. I am going to leave now, as I need to prepare for Marty’s funeral tomorrow.
When will I see you again, son?
Dad, it will be Sunday morning, OK?
OK, son, you know that I am dependent on you. Please take care of yourself.
Oh, dad, you know that I am dependent on you, too. You be careful too!
I love you, son.
I love you too, Dad.
I leave his room, not knowing this is to be our last exchange.
The next day, at 10:58am, as I stand in back of the hearse, as a pall bearer in Marty Crouch’s funeral, I prepare to receive Marty’s body to place into the hearse. I receive a call from Madison, which I cannot take, so I hand the phone to Sharon. Sharon is informed that my father is deceased. Sharon has to leave the service for our friend, and tend to my fathers’ body.
Oh, father, you really knew how to place your unique stamp on my life, didn’t you?
My father died on a Friday evening on September 15, 2017. Dad died in his own bedroom and when I saw his body late Saturday morning, he had the look of awe and wonder in his eyes and on his face. He had found his promised land, where loneliness, depression, and dementia disappears, and where ‘bums’ are converted back into the saints and angels that they always were, but were rarely recognized by others as having been so. It took nearly my entire life to release my own misunderstanding and judgement towards my father, and allow for him to express himself in the only way that he knew how to, while still providing a loving protection for him in his time of greatest need.
I know all too well the effects of getting the “bum’s rush”, which is the cultural response to my own social insecurities. I now try to celebrate the saint and angel that lives within me, and within all of humanity’s children, which continues to be released from within me as I release my past, looking for its own unique new expression in this strange new world. I thought that my life’s work was over when I became sober and had a series of spiritual healing experiences beginning in 1987, and continuing for six years afterward. Now I know that my real life’s work has only just begun.
Through my relationship with my parents, I witnessed very early in life how passive women such as my mother remain oppressed, and how dominating, ignorant men will attempt to exert excessive control over their wives. It took many years before my mother was able to stand up to my sometimes loud- mouthed, judgmental, aggressive, harsh, and insensitive father. It took me 61 years to face down completely my own internalized image of what a man is, as well. To finally see how completely that negative ‘male’ internal structure permeates human consciousness in general, and in my own unconscious mind, in all of its diverse, obvious and subtle forms, finally transformed me. My own repressed nature found the ability to communicate its message to me, and rather remarkably it has revealed itself in the form of the “divine feminine” and I refer to that activity as my second birth as a human being.
We who knew and loved you in all phases of your lives miss you both, Mom and Dad. Now being an “orphan” with no children of my own has opened new vistas of understanding for me. The self that I fashioned as a response to my upbringing has no value now. I unconsciously chose a less colorful persona as a direct response to my fathers’ flamboyance, and now I release that choice, to open the door to a new, more conscious way of being in this world. Who, or what, am I now? I am a mystery, even to myself. I need not be anxious, though the transition times from what I thought I was to who I am predestined to become can create anxiety. I am to be forever walking into the unknowable present moment. Living into the Truth of that which is now is the new story of my life. If there is only One Mind, it can only be experienced by a journey through the Unknown.
In retrospect, My father only appeared to cast a shadow over my life. It was up to me to find my own unique voice, in my search for my own truth, so that I could arise from my own self-imposed shadows, and be with him as a partner on love’s endless journey. Those who did not learn to love my father, missed out on one of my life’s most precious gifts, yet there are many other opportunities to bring light into our own lives. The healing journey that I had with my father could be considered miraculous by some, yet it is insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Yes, that healing will die with me, as I have no heirs. Yet, the love that we shared, as a family, will live forever in the mind and heart, of God. Happy Father’s Life, Dad, I will love you until the final day.
Corinne Beatrice Henry Paullin
I would like to write a bit about my mother, Corinne Beatrice Henry Paullin. She was one of the finest, most loving and reliable persons in my life. I never doubted her love or caring for me, or for our family. She loved her younger brother, Wayne, as much or more than any other sister. She was treasured by her own grandparents, who were relatively prosperous, as well as by her parents, who were lower in income. Mom’s grandpa was the first really old guy that I had ever met. I remember visiting him and his “new” wife (a nurse who married him and took all of his money) in Salem, and Mom requesting that I go over and kiss the old man, who was seated upon some sort of chair with a potty built into it. It is a kiss that I will never forget, the kiss of foreboding death. His funeral was to be the first that I attended, as well.
She worked at many jobs over the course of her working career. She started at the original Fred Meyer store in downtown Portland. She worked at National Insurance, General Tool, Grandma’s Cookies, The Oak Lodge Fire Department, and Murphy Logging, and a couple of other companies that I do not remember.
She usually defined for me what God’s love must look like, the unconditional love that a mother has for her newborn child, which was the love mom had for me. Mom offered nourishment of all varieties when I was young, feeding me, telling me stories, healing my childhood wounds by kissing them and applying bandages to them, holding me after horrible nightmares, and protecting me from over exuberant punishment when it was meted out. She always had her wisdom and knowledge of life, which she freely shared with me my entire life. I did not always follow her advice, at my own peril, because she was usually right about most things that were important enough for her to talk to me about. Mom was always mom to me, from birth until the day she died. I honor her for that and I respected and loved her presence in my life.
I took her for granted for all of my childhood, and into adulthood until the age of 31 for me. She always wanted the best for me, she tried to be a motivator, she tried to help me right my ship whenever it listed too severely and I will forever be grateful to her. We did not talk much over the years, even though we spent so much time together, especially from the year 1995 on, when Sharon and I moved into my parent’s neighborhood. Beginning with Mom and Dad’s fiftieth wedding anniversary in 2000, and extending through 2009, Sharon, Pam, Aunt Susie, and I shared in most of the vacations that were taken, due to the need to be more present for our aging parents.
Suffice it to say, my mother was severely overshadowed by my father’s exuberance and outrageous nature, though she did not seem to mind most of the time. My lack of elucidation on my mother’s story shows aspects of my own poor communication style, and aspects of Toxic Masculinity that directed me to not pay more conscious attention to her as a human being, and create better stories about her and her life.
I was never really very clear about mothers’ religious persuasions, as she did not speak too much on those matters. She wanted me to take her to New Hope Christian Church fairly late in her life, but I was so done with that perspective that I never volunteered to take her there. She did watch and listen with interest as i wandered through the years on my own search for life’s meaning and significance. I think that she was almost entertained and amused by some of my relationships with the various teachings, teachers, ministers, and spiritual advisors. It was apparent that she was most impressed by my relationship with the 12 steps of alcoholics anonymous, however, as that is where she saw I gained the most understanding and stability in life.
Going through all of the photographs of my mother has caused me to think also about many aspects of my own life: what a great gift that life is, what a great debt of gratitude I owe my mother, and father, for what is the greatest opportunity in our known universe, which is to live on this planet. I am so fortunate to have been born into a family with a mother who always tried her hardest to do the best job she could do, whether it be raising children, working in any of her numerous jobs, enjoying friendships, or just living life to its fullest.
By hearing some of the talk of friends who have called since mom’s death, I have heard some wonderful, funny, and fascinating things about my mother that I never got to experience personally. She was, at times, an enigma to me, but I could always count on her to be there for me, no matter what was going on in my life. I tried to return the favor later in life, but I could never repay her for all the good she brought me.
I just enjoyed sitting with her, talking or quiet, and sharing time. My mother always seemed to need to be on the move, however, so those shared periods were short in time, though frequent in later years. Every time we sat down, and the conversation started to turn “serious”, especially about death, dying, or emotionally laden issues, she would just pop up from the chair, and state:
“Macy’s is having a great sale today. I gotta go now!”
And, with a smile, off she would go.
I still feel inadequate, and not up to the task, of fully representing the beauty and the humanity of the person I called mom, and that the rest of the world called Corinne. I do know that she loved life, and her friends and family, and always sought the best for all that she knew. She loved the outdoors, and that was reflected by many years of camping and travel trailering. She loved hiking, and logged thousands of miles hiking and Volkswalking through the years, through many states and countries. She loved to dance when younger, and enjoyed many years of square dancing, and many friendships that ensued from that activity. She also loved her golfing, and had many friendships that she enjoyed from that activity.
She loved her children, though, and that is what I remember the most, and will for the rest of my life miss the most, about mom. I made the mistake of assuming that Mom was always going to be with me, and I delayed some important conversations with her, and missed opportunities to truly get to know her better. It is the curse of being a child that we never get to know our parents as well as we could. My parents”friends had a much greater opportunity for that privilege. Mom certainly had many great friendships over the years, and some of the longest would be perhaps, with Eloise Mills. She loved so many of her friendships that were developed through square dancing. The loss to death of a long-time friend Betty Rolf late in Mother’s life was particularly hard, and I know that the parade of death of so many of her friends was harsh for her, prior to her own passing.
Mom tried hard, though, at everything that .she attempted. It was tough watching her in the later years, as she gradually lost so much to the ravages of her disease process. Losing her knees, losing her smile when her face was tore open from a fall, losing her balance frequently and falling, bruising herself horribly, yet she was a determined woman, and was not defined by those limitations, but instead by what she continued to accomplish in life. She played golf almost to the end.
Her continued participation in water aerobics, though, may well have been the source of the MERSA infection that cost her her life, taking an unhealed wound to the pool. On her last healthy day she still made it to her volunteer job with the Portland Visitor’s Center, a job that she had worked at for years and enjoyed immensely, along with the friendships she developed there. It was an amazing, excruciatingly rapid decent unto death from that Monday afternoon return from her job. I so wanted to be a better son, and help her towards healing, if possible, her last week, but my insouciance around her dying process humbled me, and left me grieving at levels I have never even before touched. Being part of the family decision making process around turning off my mother’s life support machines left me devastated and depressed.
I will only make a brief reference to my sister Pam. Before I learned how to talk, she thought that I was the best. She is eighteen months older than I am, and seemed to enjoy playing with me until I learned how to talk, then her attachment to me lessened somewhat. One of my early memories with Pam is that I had a doll named Percy. One day I picked up the phone, and started talking to Percy. I swore that Percy talked back to me, while Pam stood next to me. In retrospect, it may well have been the operator, or purely my imagination. Also, the poor girl had to share a bedroom with me for my first two or three years, which I am sure did not go a long way to making her too happy with me.
We fought frequently through the childhood years, and more than twenty times we got into wrestling matches and knock-out, drag-out fights. Our last memorable fight gathered attention from the neighbors when we were teenagers, when Pam was fourteen, and me twelve years old at the time. There were lots of screaming, yelling, and cussing, with the occasional body slam and slap to the side of the head. No one was ever injured, other than any onlookers’ sensibilities. She and I were both considered very smart youngsters, yet we were both pretty messed up in the heads, for sure.
Beatrice and Wayne Kenneth Henry
I would now like to speak about my maternal grandparents, who were my second set of parents. My first memory is of being at my grandparents’ home, and probably dates around the summer of 1957. And, it was my Uncle Wayne talking to me that I remembered. I was still in a diaper at the time (my mother said that I wore diapers until I was at least 2 years old). Of course, I was not speaking then (yes, I was an extremely late developer), but I still remember having some vague thoughts, and I understood the verbal question given to me in this memory, though no words seemed to form in my mind, just “picture impressions” . I actually remember my uncle asking me if I had messed up in my diaper, while I walked/staggered up a path to the porch of my grandparents’ home.
My maternal grandparents were the most important people, spiritually, in my life, while also being my second set of parents. My first memory is of being at my grandparent’s home, and it probably dates to around the summer of 1957. My Uncle Wayne was talking to me, and I was still in a diaper (my mother said that I wore diapers until I was at least 2 years old). I was not speaking yet, as I was an extremely late developer. I still remember having some vague thoughts, and I understood the verbal question given to me in this memory, though no words seemed to form in my mind, just “picture impressions” . I remember my uncle asking if I had messed up in my diaper, while I walked/staggered up a path to the porch of my grandparent’s home.
I spent many a weekend at my grandparents’ home over the years (and when I turned 15 I lived there for 3 straight months painting their home, and hanging out with local teenage girls). My parents were very liberal in allowing me to spend as much time with my grandparents as they could tolerate. The biggest issue in the early years was that my sister and I fought quite a bit, so Grandma would try to keep the peace where possible, and sometimes limit our time at their house accordingly, or just allow one of us at a time to stay.
Grandma was a fine seamstress, and she would make us pajamas every Christmas. When my cousin Brian finally came of age 3 (he was 5 years younger than I), Grandma would make Brian and I pajamas of the same material. I loved my cousin Brian, and found myself being rather protective of him, especially when playing outside with my grandmothers’ neighbors’ kids. Brian seemed a little slow, and too gentle of spirit, and I somehow perceived that he might need my extra protection while engaging with the neighbor kids. Even in adulthood, where he experiences life threatening alcoholism, I feel as though he could use a little extra help, but he has had no interest in my style of sobriety. He nearly died of the complications of the delirium tremors while undergoing a colonoscopy in February of 2018, and quit drinking alcohol for a brief period, only to resume drinking at the same rate as before his near death experience.
Grandma had a record player in her living room. It was the old style console type player, and she would occasionally play some of her music while we were there. I think that her favorite musician was Johnny Ray, the world famous singer of the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, who was Grandma’s beloved nephew and her sister Hazel’s number one son. Grandma had a picture of Johnny in her living room, and I don’t think that there was anybody in the world that Grandma admired more. And, Johnny is directly responsible for my life, as he saved my mother from drowning when mom was eleven years old.
Around 1980, just prior to Johnny’s death, we all went to a club in northwest Portland, called Darcelles, where Johnny performed (yes, Johnny was gay). I do not remember too much about Johnny, or his performance, but his show was well attended, and I had to try to look through a ceiling support column in order to see him. Grandma did not see Johnny much, because he had chosen to live in England after he became famous in the 1950’s. But, Johnny made a point of visiting with Grandma whenever he came to town, and we have some nice photographs of his family visits.
My grandmother belonged to the Order Of the Eastern Star, Daughters Of the American Revolution, and was an active church goer, as well. I remember when she was elected the Grand Matron, and of course Grandpa became the Grand Patron, and attending “installment” ceremonies and other events that she was required to attend. She was so respected and loved (and my Grandpa, as well) that I was quite impressed, having never seen such love exchanged between non family members before. She never proselytized, nor did my grandpa.
My grandparents, and my mother and uncle, lived in Salem until around 1940, when they then moved up to Portland. They were both descendants of the great pioneer movements of the 1800’s, with Grandma being a direct descendant of George Gay. Gay participated in the Champoeg Meetings that created a provisional government in what would become the U.S. state of Oregon. George was one of the first settlers in the Willamette Valley near Salem. He arrived in the Willamette Valley in1830, after a shipwreck on the northern California coast in 1829, and surviving a challenging journey north from the wreck. His name is on the obelisk monument at Champoeg Park. Much of our family’s ancestral possessions are on display in museums on the premises of Champoeg Park, as well.
Grandma showed to me that she had some serious identity issues. She was ashamed of her Native American heritage, and recoiled whenever somebody hinted that she might have some ancestry there (she did, of course, as she was the granddaughter of George Gay and an Indian bride). A side story to this is that in 1995, Sharon and I brought Grandma to our house to die, after she was discharged from the hospital for lymphoma. While in an altered state, she found herself surrounded by Indians doing a ceremony around her. She was quite upset about it, even though it showed to us a probable internal healing action by her true self.
Grandpa had quite a challenging life, as far as his physical health went. While in the military he contracted malaria, while accompanying the troops on an exercise in Cuba. He is said to have developed sleeping sickness as a result, as well, and carried symptoms of this throughout his life. He had vision problems as well, and he went through a period of his life when he was almost blind. He contracted diabetes fairly late in life, and I remember him injecting insulin near mealtimes. I also remember him describing in great detail the tests that were run for diabetes. He would have to drink a quart of syrupy liquid, and then another a short time later, and have his blood sugar checked. This would occur a couple more times. The diagnosis as a result of these “distasteful” tests was that he had diabetes, and he would have to change his food choices in order to protect his health, in addition to injecting insulin into his body a couple times a day. But, the damage had already begun, and Grandpa was starting to have some of the blood circulation problems typical of a diabetic.
I do not remember much of Grandpa’s work career, other than he was a security guard at Safeway for a period of time. Grandpa was not the big communicator, but when he did speak, he usually spoke very lovingly, gently, and encouragingly, towards all of the grandchildren. I really grew to love my grandpa’s style over the years, and I deeply respected him. He had his quirks, like all of us do. He had quite a habit of being a smoker, especially later in life. His shirts and his favorite chair were decorated with burn holes from the cinders that dropped from his burning cigarettes, which seemed to happen quite regularly. He was usually napping at the time when it happened, so the cinders would burn nice sized holes in his chair before he would become aware of the situation. My father would razz him about it, accusing him of attempting to prematurely cremate himself.
My grandpa was a proud Mason, and would eventually introduce me into the movement after I became sober in 1987. Grandpa’s health was poor once he was into his seventies. One time, he was hospitalized, and died on the operating table during a surgical procedure. Grandpa told me that the “Hand Of The Lord” was just being extended to him, and he was reaching back to it, with a newfound incredible peace of mind, and all of his body pain dissolved, when he was jerked back into his body on the operating table. He was SO DISAPPOINTED to have to come back into this world. When we got together to visit with each other, we would give each other hope because of each of our unique spiritual experiences, his of the “greeting with the Lord” and me with my opening to the spiritual energies of the universe subsequent to my recovery from drug addiction and alcoholism.
When grandpa’s health continued to deteriorate, he wanted me to “give him a pill” so that he could leave this world, as he had no fear of death, knowing that peace and perfection and love awaited him. It broke my heart when our family could not support his dying days in his own home. Late in 1989 the family placed him in a disgusting nursing home, as my grandmother was not strong enough to help him with his wheelchair existence, which came in the end days. My parents and aunt and uncle did not have the time or money to provide home support, so he languished in the nursing home. It is because of my distress and heartbreak around these issues that my wife Sharon and I stepped up and provided care for my grandmother at the end of her life in 1995, until her final placement at the Hopewell House her final week of life. My father also directly benefited from my desire to help deteriorating and dying family members, and I was able to help my father finish his life in his own home.
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