The Saga Continues...

Dad and his family, 1937

Three of the Brown boys, my sister and my cousin, plucking chickens.

Dad, age 18, high school graduation, 1923.

There were not many opportunities open to my dad at that age.  He could have stayed in the area and done odd jobs.  He opted to hop the train and travel the country.

I can’t imagine hopping on a freight train and traversing the United States.  If I don’t have a bed and a flushable toilet, I ain’t goin’.

He had great stories to tell of his experiences.  As a child I listened to these tales. They always made me admire and envy my father’s travels.  His tales of travel have stayed with me all my life. They also had a great deal of influence on my desire to travel as much as I can before I die. 

He rode the rails for a number of years.  The Great Depression hit and there were no jobs anywhere.  Why not ride the rails and see the country?  He told stories of arriving in some town, looking for any kind of work available.  He would offer to chop wood, clean the yard, or any sort of handy man jobs for food or a bed in the barn.

Those years were much more innocent.  People were not as afraid of strangers as we are today.  People didn’t lock their doors, offered people rides in their cars and didn’t think about getting the shit knocked out of them or killed because they showed kindness to another.

As the Great Depression wound down, dad went back to Ramsey.  He found a job as an apprentice bricklayer.  He successfully completed his apprenticeship and became a journeyman.

Dad was always very proud of his work.  If we were near a building on which he worked he would point out those sections he built  During that era architecture was considered an art form with designs  rather than a plain brick wall. He worked as a bricklayer from then until he was until he was almost 70.

My father and his siblings remained close throughout their lives. No one on the Brown side was big on hugging, toughing, kissing.  I barely remember seeing my mother and father ever hug or kiss.

Reflecting on my father’s age, generation, where and how he was raised, I can appreciate his narrow views on so many things.  Appreciating his views don’t help in understanding them and his attitude toward homosexuals.  I was his son.

How can someone wish his offspring dead? Does religion brainwash people that completely? I guess it does. 

CHAPTER FIVE - MOM AND HER FAMILY

                                                      Dad, mom, Camilla and me, 1952.

My mother was the middle of three children.  She was born in 04 July 1917.  

Her mother was a Turrentine.  It is still a large family with clans in the South and the North.  Prior to the Civil War some brothers moved from Alabama to Illinois.  Some stayed in Alabama and Tennessee. Some relatives had fought for the Confederacy, some for the Yankees during the War between the States.

Uncle Elmo Turrentine, Grandma Pizzo, Uncle George, Granny Turrentine and mom, about 1940.

Mom’s father was a Baptist minister.  His family was a large clan who had been in Illinois for a long time.  I only met my real grandfather once when I was about 13 years old.

Mom and I were walking down the street where he lived.  He and his second wife of many years were sitting on their front porch.  Mom decided that I should meet him. It was a quick introduction without much substance,

Sometime around 1922 my grandmother met a Sicilian immigrant.  

I’ve attempted to learn some details about Sam’s trip to the States from Sicily.  I guess he was an illegal stowaway and entered the US without papers (WOP).

<--Grandpa Pizzo, sometime around  1915

                                     Grandpa Sam, grandma and Camilla, 1946. -->

I don’t know all the details, but apparently my grandmother divorced my grandfather and married Sam.  They had a child out of wedlock in 1925.  OH MY GAWD!

My mother and her family then moved to the Ramsey area.  They lived in a small, three-room farm house in the country about seven miles from town.  They had forty acres where they raised pigs and chickens and planted a few crops.

Grandpa, Sam, was the only Sicilian (WOP) in the area.  The county was almost entirely comprised of German immigrants.  Now that there was a WOP (without papers) in the area, he was hired to do the shit jobs that no one else was willing to do.  Sam and his family were the outcasts in the county.  Sam was also Catholic in a county full of Lutherans.  As long as I knew Grandpa, his English was always spoken with a really heavy accent. 

Since mom was the daughter of the WOP she was given lots of grief and bullying.  She stopped going to school when she was in the fourth grade to stay at home and help on the farm.

Mom’s older sister died from medical complications when she was in her early 20s.  Her younger, half-brother spent his life drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, fucking and getting married.

Uncle George, 1930                                Pizzo’s and Browns

My grandparents kept him and his family for years.  I thought Uncle George was kind of cool.  When we visited he was always around to hang out.  I also remember the two-holer outhouse. George and his wife would go out together and sit with the door open. We could go out and chat with them while they were doing their business. I can’t imagine that now. I have difficulty peeing in a public restroom.

Years later mom would tell me that having a half-brother, born out of wedlock was an embarrassment. Mom and her older sister didn’t look anything like their half-brother. They weren’t WOPs yet they were treated as WOPs by the local German population.

Sam had a brother and extended family in St. Louis, Missouri. When we all got together, there were the quiet, undemonstrative Browns and the vivacious, touchy, kissy, huggy and loud Pizzos.

As a kid I remember visiting the Pizzo family in St. Louis. I was scared of them. The aunts, uncles, cousins and their Sicilian neighbors would all gather around us, hugging, kissing, arms and hands flying all over the place.  These behaviors were just too weird for me.

The picture above is a shot from one of our visits when I was about six years old. A basement filled with lively, demonstrative  Sicilians, Poles and quiet Browns.

As the years have passed, I have become more demonstrative and love to hug and kiss friends. It has been a long time coming transition, but I have today that I don enjoy being able to hug and kiss without fear.

More Brown History

Now as an adult I see them in the market at $28.00 a pound and realize that I should have eaten them as a child. Ah, hindsight!

Grandma and grandpa Brown, around 1940

I’ve accomplished quite a lot doing genealogy research. I can’t find much about the Brown side of the family.  I can’t get past great-grandfather Brown being born in North Carolina in 1832. Trying to find information on John Brown in an area filled with Browns is not the easiest thing to accomplish.

His wife, my great-grandmother is another story. I can go back as far as 1767 when my great-great-great grandfather immigrated from Ireland.  He fought in the Revolutionary War wit

h Colonel Lock’s NC Regiment.  He is buried with a Revolutionary War grave marker.

He and his family settled in the hills of Pike County, Kentucky. I like to think that they were Moon-shiners.  It makes for a fun story.  When I found the Gannon Family Cemetery in Pike County, Kentucky, I was thrilled. It is located on coal mine property and I had to get permission to visit.  The cemetery is located near Bent Branch and Meat Hook, Kentucky. I’ve been able to read and identify 77 grave stones and have re-engraved my great-great grandparents stones. They should be readable for another 50 years.

My father had been born in the house where I lived until I was five and we moved to Denver.  My father was the third of six children.  They lived in a three-room house with an outhouse.  They raised chickens and had their own garden.

Dad claimed that he had a great childhood.  His mother was filled with love and she was free with showing it. He loved and enjoyed his siblings. They all remained close until the end.

His aunts, uncles and cousins were all within walking distance and they all shared close bonds and memories. In hindsight, I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention to the stories when I was younger. I don’t remember meeting many from that generation. I guess I was just to young.

The Brown family home, Daisy, Grandma Brown, dad, 1908

I can’t imagine living with eight people in a three-room house.

My father was born in 1905, the third child of my grandparents.  I understand that his childhood was fraught with the embarrassment of being the child of the town drunk.  His mother held the family together doing laundry and watching other children.

Dad was one of four boys and two girls.  During the early 1900s in a small town, life revolved around doing chores, going to school and playing.  Dad and his brothers were typical “boys.”  They ran everywhere, played baseball and stickball.  They collected eggs in the hen house every day, worked in the garden, and when they got old enough they slaughtered and plucked the chickens for dinner.  My grandfather took the boys hunting where they would shoot squirrels, rabbit, quail, pheasant and anything else they could eat.

Dad graduated from high school in 1923.  He and a younger brother traveled around the area playing baseball for a few years.  They were both pretty good players. I guess they even got close to being picked up by the St. Louis baseball team.

The Brown Family History

Chapter Four -THE BROWN FAMLY HISTORY

My paternal grandfather’s family arrived in Ramsey in 1857 from Kentucky when my grandfather was three years old.  He was one of eight children. His father did farm labor as well as his own small farming enterprise. After my great-grandparents moved to IL with their children in 1857 they settled into the small town routine. Great-grandfather Brown died at age 44 from measles, leaving his wife a widow with eight children to raise.

I guess she did a pretty good job on her own.  Other than my granddad, all of her children were successful and happy.  Granddad did have some good offspring, so maybe he was successful as well.  Maybe it was because of grandma.  I hear she was a saint.

I never met my paternal grandparents. Grandpa died in 1943, six years before I was born.  According to my dad, grandpa was the town drunk and could barely hold a job.  My grandmother died in June 1949, six months before I was born.  According to everyone with whom I have spoken, Grandma was a saint.  All of the neighborhood children loved going to the Brown house.  Aunt Frank (grandma) as she was known, always had food and good times for the neighborhood children. I wish I could have known her. She sounds amazing, filled with love and willing to share that love with whomever 

crossed her threshold.

Great-grandma Brown (Gannon), 1910

Great-grandma Brown (left) raised her eight children alone after my great-granddad died in 1872.  All of her children, with the exception of my grandfather, were all successful and contributing members of the community.

My grandparents married in 1895 and started their family with my first uncle being born in 1899.  My granddad’s siblings all stayed in the same town, raised their families and died there.  They were all pillars of the town society with the exception of my granddad.  The town drunk always holds a place in the town’s history, but not always in a positive light.

My father was always embarrassed by the fact that his father was the town drunk. He never got over that embarrassment. He was an avid

abolishenist and believed that alcohol was indeed the spirit of the devil.

Dad spoke about loving his father and saying that he was a good provider.  They never went hungry and always had clothes. I think a lot of that was because his aunts and uncles helped and my grandmother was resourceful in keeping the garden and chickens healthy.

Grandpa took the boys hunting so they could have other meat on the table and would never go hungry. The idea of eating squirrel and quail don’t appeal to me, but then again, I’ve been raised in a different time. I still love biscuits and gravy, bacon and fried eggs and fried chicken. My one regret is that I never ate morel mushrooms. The family would go mushrooming every year and return home with these things they picked off dead logs. Mom would sauté (fry) them in bacon grease, then make a cream gravy and serve them.  As a child I wasn’t eating those things!

The early years...

My father loved Colorado.  He had visited a number of times before he married my mother.  He had siblings living there so he would go there during the year to work. After he married my mother and before my sister and I were born, mom and dad would travel to Denver to spend the summers where dad could work and make more money.

They had been married for five years before my sister was born and thirteen years by the time I came along.came along.

Mom and dad around 1940.

According to dad, this was probably the closest my mother’s mouth ever got to dad’s crotch.  He liked to tell me that oral sex was dirty because the penis and vagina are dirty.  I later found out that wasn’t a 

true statement. I’m really glad I found out.

 Mom and dad, 1939

Dad was 38 year old when my sister was born; mom was 25.  When I arrived in 1949, dad was 45 and mom 33.  Dad was kinda old for a newborn, mom, not so much.

I understand that I was “planned” and they were thrilled when I finally came along.  I’ve been told that my sister was also thrilled when they brought her little brother home on Christmas Day, 1949.  That changed before too many years passed.  My sister, Camilla in 1944.

  Me, age three, 1953, all dressed up as "butch" as can be in my OshGosh overalls.

1953 again, more like what is to come.

Home was in a smaller town, Ramsey (population 800) about 17 miles south of where I was born.  There was not much there.  The town started out as a water and coal stop for the Illinois Central Railroad.  Other than the railroad business, everything else was based on farming.  The town had a couple of general stores, two service stations, a Chevrolet dealership, barber shop, pool hall, bait shop and a couple of diners.

Of course there were the churches, mostly protestant, although there was one Catholic Church, a funeral home and the elementary school (1^st-8^th) and the high school. There was even a movie theater (The Roxie) but it closed in the 1960s.

During more recent visits to Ramsey I’ve found that the population has increased by 400. I’s assuming the reason is that the offspring don’t leave the family.  There is nothing in the town to draw new inhabitants. There is now one service station/store, one grocery market, one diner, a bank, no more Chevrolet dealership, no more pool hall.

There are quite a few wealthy farmers in the area, but most of the population survives on some sort of governmental  assistance.

The Beginning - My Life

Chapter three -THE BEGINNING

I was born in a small town in Illinois in December of 1949, just before Christmas.  I spent the first five years of my life in an even smaller town in Illinois. I was the second child of Jim and Henrietta Brown.  My one sibling was eight years old at the time. She was excited when I was brought home.  That didn’t last very long.  I was told my parents wanted more children. My mother must have had difficulty carrying a pregnancy to term. They were thrilled when I was born. I don’t know if they tried having another after me.  I don’t remember anything that may have indicated another pregnancy.  In hindsight, I’m really happy they didn’t have more children. They really fucked up the two they had. Thank God, they didn’t have more to fuck up.

My father was 32 years old when he married my mother in 1937.  She was 20.  I’m not sure why my father waited so long before he married.  Maybe it was the economy after the depression or maybe it was because my father hadn’t met a woman who would tolerate his rigid views. 

After my father graduated from high school in 1923 he did some odd jobs in the town. He kept busy, but had no direction.  His older brother lived in Moscow, Idaho so dad hopped a freight train and rode the rails to Idaho.  He spent time with his older brother and his wife for a while, finding odd jobs to help with the expenses. I’m not sure what happened, but my father did mention that his sister-on-law was the meanest woman in the world.  He left Idaho.

He and his younger brother spent time riding the rails around the country for a number of years.  They always found odd jobs to make a bit of money, which they sent to the folks in Ramsey.

I’m not real sure about what he did during the intervening years although his stories about riding the rails were always entertaining.

Sometime during this period of uncertainty, he started apprenticing as a brickmason. After he made journeyman he must have believed that he could care for a wife and family. He met my mother in 1932.  

According to my father’s second cousin, dad was rabidly anti-catholic. She said that he would expound on the evils of Catholicism.  When he met my mother, who was raised Catholic he made a 180 degree change in his opinions. I know she was not putting out so he converted to Catholicism so he could marry her and get some. He married her in 1937.  In 1937 he was 32 years old and I’m sure horny as hell.

Mom had her own issues. Her mother had an affair with a young Sicilian immigrant while she was still married to her husband. Her husband, my grandfather, was a Baptist minister. My mother’s half-brother was born out of wedlock (oh! the shame). My grandmother then divorced my grandfather and married her Sicilian lover.

Grandma’s Sicilian lover, Sam, was the only grandfather I ever knew. He was a warm and gentle soul who always saw the good in people although he was treated like shit by the German immigrants in the area. When they needed someone to do the shit work they always called Sammy. He always did the work because he had a family for which he needed to care.

I met my real grandfather once when I was 12 years old. I was not positively impressed. He came across as a real asshole.

My mother seemed to assume the guilt she believed my grandmother should have felt. I still can’t understand that.  I’m well educated and insightful, but still can’t comprehend my mother’s guilt.

My mother’s half-brother, George, had his own issues.  He was married at least four times of which I know.  Something like nine children. He never held a job long enough to care for his children.  He was always dependent upon my grandparents to care for him and his families. I believe my mother was always jealous of how my grandparents always took care of George and his family at the expense of her family.

More about this inequality later.

Me Today

Chapter Two - Me Today

As an old queen of 64 years, I believe that I’ve lived a good life.  It’s been a journey of ups and downs.  Over these many years I’ve wasted time brooding about “poor” me.  I still vacillate between being “ok and not being ok.

Overall, I do believe that I am a good man. I’m generally not into blowing my own horn, but I have done a lot of good in my life. When I worked in the clinic for Sexually Transmitted Disease, I didn’t condemn or judge our clientele. I tried to make them feel welcome and happy that they were seeking our help.  As a school nurse I tried to help many youngsters through abusive home lives, incest at home, social and psychological difficulties, helping with their health care needs and frequently just offering a hug or a shoulder on which to cry.

Since I’ve been working in an Operating Room I’ve tried to offer consolation and care, empathy, held a lot of hands, been there when people died and provided good health care in the operating room atmosphere. I’ve also volunteered my time, skills and love traveling to third world countries to provide surgical services to those in need.

When I’m feeling good about myself I don’t mind being gay.  When something happens that brings me down, I still fall back on being queer and how bad a person I am.

I think, “if I was straight, I wouldn’t be having these problems.”

I know it makes no sense, but emotions are difficult to control.  A life of questioning one’s worth as a human being; even after acceptance, occasionally brings doubt.  Am I a good person?  Am I a bad person?  

Does being gay make me bad?  My father said” yes”, religion says “yes”, much of society in America says “yes.”

I truly don’t believe that I’m “bad;” that I’m any bigger a sinner than others in our society, but constantly being told by society that I am “bad” takes its toll.

What follows is my tale.  It starts from my earliest memories to today.

Let's pick and choose what we believe...

I’m not great with history but a few names come to mind. John the Baptist, St. Paul, Galileo, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, and more contemporary, Thomas Edison, Alexander Graham Bell, Henry Ford, Albert Einstein, and Steve Jobs. They were all rebellious and stubborn, some were homosexual or bisexual, some were drunks and gluttons and I would venture to bet that most of them were disobedient to their parents considering their successes, insights and willingness to work outside of the norm.

As with most religious groups, these people are picking and choosing those biblical passages and lessons that best fit their agendas. I cannot deny that I am doing the same thing.  My hope here is to offer a differing perception and interpretation of the same passages.

As a Registered Nurse I was recently confronted with a situation. I was traveling with a mission group that provides surgery to patients in third world countries.  Without our interventions these people would not have the opportunity to feel better and improve their health status. Although the charity is not faith-based, many of the volunteers are practicing Roman Catholics or other fervent believers. Although I was raised in the Catholic faith, I have been questioning many of the tenets of the faith.

This recent situation involved a patient who needed her gallbladder removed.  At the same time she wanted her tubes tied (artificial contraception). She had seven children already. The policy of the charity is to not be involved with artificial contraception.  The surgeon wished to proceed with the surgery for the benefit and wishes of the patient. Personally I believe that I was more responsible to the patient and her wishes than a policy with which I have some moral opinion differences.

A fellow volunteer stated that she could not be involved with the procedure because if she was a part of this voluntary sterilization she would be committing a mortal sin.  I can appreciate her beliefs and opinions. Following logical thought, being a part of this sterilization procedure involved committing a mortal sin.  Therefore, by my involvement with this voluntary sterilization, I was committing a mortal sin.

All right, one can commit a mortal sin and seek absolution from it by going to confession. Absolution by a priest in confession does not erase the sin, but offers the soul a better chance at achieving eternal salvation and eternity in paradise with God. This topic will receive more attention later.

By my fellow volunteer stating that she would be committing a mortal sin by being involved with this voluntary sterilization, she infers that I will be committing a mortal sin by participating in it.  Again, I can appreciate her faith and beliefs, but I have a problem with her believing that I have committed a mortal sin and will therefore be damned to hell.  As much as I adore this woman I find it disconcerting that she can know how I will be judged by the Almighty God.

 Now that I’ve ranted and raved, it’s time to begin my diary.