As my Dad's battle with Cancer neared an unfortunate end, a trip was planned to Beaver Dam, WI, where my aunt, uncle and Grandmother lived. At the time, I thought it was another of the common trips to that town we made to visit those folks. Some things my Mom did and said, however, brought the hammer down that this trip was different. Not exactly the same social gathering.
I didn't know that Dad was terminally ill at this point. Before we headed Northwest, my Mom took me to the drug store to stock up on comic books.
I would need to spend some time by myself on this particular go-round. Reading was a good way to while away some of that weekend.
The trouble was I couldn't find the kind of stuff I normally got at this stop. No Batman, Daredevil, or other costumed heroes were in the racks. None of the silly Harvey or Gold Key cartoon comedy that I could often entertain myself with. My mom was frustrated, so I did what I could and chose what I thought would be the best options.
The two issues I remember were a copy of Marvel Presents, which was a special monthly used to introduce a character. This one was gunslinger Caleb Hammer. The other was a jumbo sized "Dollar Comic" of G.I. Combat . That's right, war stories for kiddos. I actually enjoyed the cinematic nature of that book, to be honest. There may have been one or two more, or a Mad Magazine thrown in there, too. So I did some heavy newsprint page turning that weekend.
If Mom meant to help me occupy myself and my own time, it worked. If she meant to distract, the plan failed.
Family members were wandering in and out of rooms, cheeks wet with tears, emotions on full display in full ugly color, more vivid than the pages of the comics I was reading.
Something was awful wrong. Something which I had a vague notion of, but I buried it, until this particular day arrived: January, 1980.
At that age, I didn't know how to empathize easily, how to hold those in pain, especially as confused as I was. Everyone's behavior was a dance of mysterious grief, so I elected to perform an act of obliviousness to the suffering. I hate myself for that now, even though my mom's intent was to shield me from that emotional struggle filling my aunt's house that weekend.
Knowledge was being shared, and the best way to avoid being educated as to what it was, was to act like I had no clue what was going on. Which I really didn't completely. Not yet.
A 9 year old really does battle with himself in situations like that. So I read until my eyes were so tired that I had no relief for them, but to sleep.
After all, tomorrow might be different.
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