THE TWISTING, WINDING ROAD
Looking out over the Puget Sound, I stared out at the low hanging clouds that drifted over the water. I had received some unexpected revelations from my daughter, which in turn caused me to reflect on my life. The seven-bedroom home above the Sound was a lifetime away from the simple four-room frame house and the life that mother and I had shared there so many years ago. Along that twisting, winding road, I had traveled to this point in my life where I was a widower now faced with explaining the past. But perhaps, as they say, I should start from the beginning.
I grew up poor in a small town in Kansas, the only child of the church secretary, a position that offered just enough money to support both of us. Widowed at a young age, she was a pious woman whose life revolved around the church and my upbringing. The frame house that we lived in was a two-bedroom, one bath home on a corner lot just a block from our church. My earliest memories were of me sitting in the front row of the church while mother played the piano for every service. We lived very modestly, and in many ways, it was mother and I against the world. It was always just the two of us as we continually struggled financially every day. As soon as I was old enough, I took on various odd jobs to supplement our meager income. We were effectively alone depending on each other.
Not that mother did not have any suitors. I remember many times an admirer would try to win mother over, only to be rejected outright. She had only one purpose in life: to raise me as best she could. Any suggestion by a friend that she needed to find a husband was ignored. Her favorite line to curb these suggestions was that I was the only man she needed in her life.
A simple beauty, mother was shapely, but thin, had light brown hair bordering on blonde, and a smile that would light up any room. She always seemed younger than her actual age, and her modest demeanor would never allow her to wear any type of revealing clothes. I never saw her in anything other than a dress that hung to her knees, or a full robe loosely fit so that it that covered up her entire figure. There was never any hint of sexuality or immodesty. Her dresses never showed any hint of cleavage.
Fiercely determined to raise me in accordance with the commandments of the church, she would tolerate no transgressions on my part. Although she was only 5'3" tall, she could easily intimidate me with a single glance. Even as I grew to my eventual 5'7" height, any hint of anger in her eyes would quiet any rebellion that I might harbor. I was expected to attend every church service, and no deviation from the teachings of the church would be permitted.
Until my late teens, I knew very little about my father. I knew that he had gone to seminary school where he met mother, and that both his parents were now deceased. As I grew old enough to be aware, I began to ask mother about my grandparents. She explained that she was orphaned and that we had no other relatives. I accepted that explanation and never pried any further into that arena.
As mother was very religious, our lives were intertwined around our church. We attended every service, and I always sat on the front row just across where mother played the piano. Our daily routines always revolved around the church, prayer, and the congregation. Every step along the way was her reminding me that of the importance of me walking the righteous path. And for the most part, I obeyed mother.
As much as I tried to obey mother's wishes, boys will be boys. In the summer of 1961, I turned eighteen and began to stray just a little from the righteous path. I had acquired a full-time job at a local grocery store to contribute to our living expenses, out of which mother allowed me to retain a small allowance. Like any other eighteen-year-old, Saturday nights were always the time for a night out with my friends and drinking a little beer. I tried to hide this activity from mother, but I knew she always suspected. My only physical contact with any girl was Susan Wright, one of the local "easy" girls. In the back seat of a friend's car, I had a brief liaison with her one night that was over almost as quickly as it began. I instantly felt the guilt of straying from the teachings of the church and decided that the best course of action was complete abstinence until after marriage.
Mother insisted a 10:30 p.m. curfew on weekends, a rule to which I faithfully adhered. When I returned, she would always be in her room with the door closed, prompting me to go straight to my room to keep mother from smelling the beer on my breath. I always knew that mother was quite aware of my arrival, but I still crept into the darkened house as quietly as I could.
The single bathroom that we shared was between our bedrooms, with the doorway leading to the hallway. Either one of us could simply step out of our room, take a couple of steps, and turn into the bathroom. Although somewhat small, one of the unique features of our house was an oversized claw-foot tub, with the old-fashioned shower curtain around the top. It was wider that most claw-foot tubs, almost three foot in width. It seemed to be a small luxury that we somehow acquired.
This routine changed in a dramatic way one Saturday night. As usual, I quietly entered the darkened house and went to my room. The night was a little warm, and I completely disrobed and laid down on my bed. Once on my bed, I realized that my need to urinate was very strong. I quietly got up and walked to my door. Opening it just slightly, I saw that mother's door was closed. Thinking that I could quickly step into the bathroom, I decided I could do so nude. It seemed so simple in my eighteen-year-old mind. Stepping quietly into the hallway, I turned into the bathroom and quietly shut the door. I finished quickly, walked back to the bathroom door, and opened it.
As I opened door, I suddenly collided with mother who was apparently reaching for the knob at the same time. As she reached for the knob, my opening the door caused her to lose her balance and she fell into me. Trying not to knock mother down, I shifted my weight backwards and began to stumble back towards the tub. Instinctually, mother had grabbed my shoulders to keep from falling, which resulted in our both falling through the shower curtain into the tub. The last thing I remember was slamming my head into the side of the tub. Then, nothing existed but empty darkness.
As I began to regain consciousness, I remember hearing mother's voice saying my name over and over. Suddenly, the fog in my brain lifted, and I realized that mother had fallen on top of me and that the shower curtain had likewise fallen on her. The shower curtain had formed an effective net that trapped both of us under it.
"PAUL, ARE YOU OKAY?" mother asked anxiously. "PAUL!!"
"Yes ma'am" I replied groggily. "I'm fine. My head hurts but I think that is all."
Then the recriminations began. In a stern whisper, she said "GREGORY PAUL THORTON, HAVE YOU BEEN DRINKING??!!! I SMELL BEER ON YOUR BREATH!!"
"No ma'am, I mean yes ma'am" I replied. "Just a couple", I continued.
