Tag: Les Green

J is for Just large enough, and Jupiter

My father painted, right on the ceiling in my room, the solar system!


When we were growing up, we lived on the first floor of a small two-story house, which was owned by my maternal grandmother; my paternal grandparents lived upstairs. On our floor was the master bedroom and kitchen in the back; the parlor, bathroom, and another bedroom in the middle; and the living room in the front.

I had two younger sisters, so they eventually slept in bunk beds in the second bedroom. To make a room for me, my father built a wall in the parlor that ran from the kitchen entrance about 2/3 of the way into the room, then another wall at a 90-degree angle from the first, leaving about an entrance to my room the size of a standard door, though I did not actually HAVE a door. Then he built a solid piece of wood – think one large shelf – held up by the two new walls and the existing wall to serve as the frame for my “bed”. On top of that was actually a foam mattress.

I did have room for my stuff under the bed, including a very low dresser. Around the corner was my bookcase, filled with my Golden Book Encyclopedias, my World Almanac, and other books.

In one of those books was a description of the solar system, and it gave relative sizes of the sun and the planets. The sun was a beach ball, Jupiter was a grapefruit; I forget the rest. So my father painted, right on the ceiling in my room, the solar system! This huge sun, and the various planets, including their known moons at the time. I specifically remember that according to the book: Jupiter had 12, Saturn 9, Neptune 5, Uranus and Mars 2 apiece, Earth and Pluto, 1 each.

And since the walls my father built didn’t go to the ceiling – there was a single ceiling light that illuminated the parlor, now essentially a hallway, and my room – anyone coming to visit us who came into the kitchen or bathroom was likely to see at least this massive star on the ceiling.

Incidentally, my father painted on the walls a lot. In my sisters’ room, there was a very good Tinker Bell and the head of Felix the Cat. In the living room, on one wall, was a stark snowy mountain scene. On the other was a marketplace in Europe done in the style, as I think back on it, of Monet.


Oh, yeah, Jupiter, named after the Roman god. It now has over 50 satellites; some may actually be asteroids, pulled in by the planet’s massive gravitational force. It appears that Jupiter has lost a stripe fairly recently, having something to do with dissipating gases. From a NASA Voyager recording, you can actually hear Jupiter. The planet 11 times the size of Earth was, on September 20, 2010, only 368 million miles away, as close as it will get for 12 years.

Finally,

Jupiter’s Two Largest Storms Nearly Collide, storms larger than the diameter of the planet Earth (Credit & Copyright: Travis Rector (U. Alaska), Chad Trujillo (Caltech), et al., Gemini Obs., AURA, NSF)

ABC Wednesday – Round 7

G is for Green Wedding

My father and sister sang at our wedding reception. I think I did too.


When I married Carol Powell on May 15, 1999, it was not only a blending of families, it was a mixing of family sizes. My family is very small, while hers is ginormous. Since both of my parents were only children, and all of my grandparents, by that point, were deceased, this was pretty much it on my side of the ledger: (L-R) my niece Rebecca, her mother/my sister Leslie, Carol, me, my mother Trudy, my late father Les, my niece Alexandria, and her mother/my sister Marcia.

Whereas my new wife had LOTS of relatives. My mother-in-law had seven siblings, my father-in-law two. My wife had three brothers and over 30 first cousins. I, of course, had no first cousins since I had no uncles or aunts.

So when they wanted a picture of my side of the family, you might wonder: who ARE all of these people? Most of these are direct descendants of my late great aunt Charlotte, the little woman in the front right of this photo above.

My mother’s mother Gert had three siblings that reached adulthood, but only one, Ernest, who married Charlotte, had children while my mother was growing up. So even though they were a decade or more younger than my mother, my mother’s first cousins by Ernest, who died back in the 1950s, and Charlotte, were the closest child relatives she had. And even though they lived in Queens, New York City, Charlotte’s grandkids were the closest child relatives my sisters and I had, besides each other, likewise 10 years or more younger than we were. Charlotte, BTW, was the sister-in-law of Professor Irwin Corey.

So the folks in the photo are one of Charlotte’s sons (and spouse) near the center of the photo, two of her granddaughters (plus a spouse), and a couple of her great-grandkids, along with the folks in the first picture. Whereas the picture on my wife’s side was a virtual mob scene by comparison.

This is the Yates side of the family that showed up at my niece Rebecca’s wedding to Rico in 2005. There was some difficulty between the bride’s mother and the groom’s mother, who wondered why the first cousin of the bride’s grandmother should be indicated in the program. As I described here, ultimately the extended family was listed, though the bride’s uncle, i.e., I, was inadvertently left off.


Oh, at Carol’s and my reception, my father and sister sang. I think I sang one song with them, Rebecca probably performed a number or two, and even niece Alex sang Yellow Submarine with her young cousins. Leslie also sang at the wedding.

I’ve been thinking a lot about weddings because my daughter is going to be in her first one this coming month, the Pakistani event of her babysitter, which will be an elaborate affair. More on that after the fact. If you’re also planning to tie the know with your soulmate soon, you’re probably already trying to find those tungsten wedding rings for him.

The website of niece Rebecca’s band, Siren’s Crush.

ABC Wednesday – Round 7

D is for Dad’s Death

Les Green was the first black registered auctioneer in the state of North Carolina.

Rescuing a bird

Hmm. I said to myself, “Self, do I really want to do this?” I had a whole ‘nother blog post planned for today. but it IS the anniversary of the death of my father, Les Green. Moreover, it’s the 10th anniversary this very day. You know how those round numbers often hold special significance.

Top picture: Oui, c’est moi de l’enfant.

I wrote about the circumstances of his death five years ago. Here’s the peculiar thing: I misremembered the date that he told us he had prostate cancer! I wrote that he informed us in January 1998, when in fact it was January 1997, during the same trip we had the conversation about spanking.

How could I forget that detail? Easy: as I said before, he was SO cavalier about it. It was as though he were discussing twisting his ankle. No big deal.

And I suppose maybe that’s what he thought. As the Mayo Clinic put it, “Prostate cancer that is detected early — when it’s still confined to the prostate gland — has a better chance of successful treatment.”

In many ways, my dad was pretty remarkable. He graduated from high school – barely, by all accounts – went into the Army in 1945 and 1946. Eventually, he had a number of different jobs, from florist and sign painter to a vice-president of a large construction company. He was rather the epitome of the “self-made man.”

He also played guitar, largely self-taught, and sang. He billed himself locally (Binghamton, NY) as the “Lonesome and Lonely Traveller”. He described himself as a “singer of folk songs”, rather than as a “folk singer”, because his repertoire was not limited to the one genre. Eventually, my sister Leslie and I performed with him as the Green Family Singers for a time.


My back, my dad to the left, at my Grandma Williams’ funeral.

One insight into my father’s behavior involves cigarette smoking. For years, he smoked Winstons; he used to send my sister Leslie and me to O’Leary’s, the store at the corner, to buy them. When I was a teenager, he developed emphysema
and quit smoking. When the disease went away, he returned to smoking, to my transparent dismay. Then a few years later, he just stopped smoking. But he said that he didn’t quit; he preferred the notion that he just didn’t happen to have one for almost 30 years.

Did I ever tell you how my parents met? He delivered flowers as a teenager, and he was supposed to make a delivery to 13 Maple Avenue, but went instead to 13 Maple Street, on the opposite side of town. Apparently, my mother was smitten by this guy bringing flowers, even if they weren’t for her, and he was likewise taken by her.

When he made waffles, he made a big production about how to suss out their doneness. He told tall tales about cooking for George Washington and other historical figures. Whatever leftovers were in the fridge he could turn into a quite delicious concoction he called “gouly-goop”, undoubtedly a variation on the word goulash, though I don’t think I knew that at the time.

My father was very much involved in the civil rights movement in the area. After the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., there was violence in a lot of American cities, but not in Binghamton, in no small part because my father helped keep the peace.

Les Green was gregarious and personable, but not always at home, which is probably why I ended sending him a pair of letters. Still, I believe that it made things much better between us afterward.

My father always had a plan to get rich. Some of his ideas were workable. Did you know that Les Green was the first black registered auctioneer in the state of North Carolina? But he had, by my mother’s estimation, about 39 different businesses from the time he moved to North Carolina until the time he died in 2000, selling everything from prepaid phone cards to home alarm systems, many of them arguably pyramid schemes. All of his kids rolled their eyes when he signed all three of us – at $700 a pop! – to be distributors of one of his products, without our knowledge. He was lousy at keeping track of money.

He kept asking me – I’m smart, I work at a Small Business Development Center – to find him a way to get rich quickly via the Internet. I kept telling him that he ought to go to his local SBDC, so THEY could tell him the deficiencies of his more quixotic plans.

Probably the best time I ever had with my father, certainly, as an adult, was when I went to the ASBDC conference in Savannah, GA in the fall of 1998. He drove down from Charlotte, NC, and just hung out around town with me and three of my female colleagues, with whom he shamelessly flirted, as was his wont.


At Carol’s and my wedding reception, May 1999. Dad did the floral arrangements.

We have a small tribe, and his death made me the alpha male. Heck, with the exception of my niece’s husband, the ONLY male, and has been an interesting evolution in my life. My sisters often send me Father’s Day cards, which initially took me by surprise.

His death at the age of 73, now a decade ago, sometimes seems surreal. I’m STILL looking for an audiotape that my father made a few months before he died where he claimed that he was going to explain to the family what was going on with him, a dialogue with his doctor. I heard a snippet of it when I was down in Charlotte a month after he died, I set it aside, and then it disappeared.


I’m sure this was disjointed and rambling, but such was the relationship I had with my father. I should mention, though, that I love and miss my dad.

ABC Wednesday – Round 7

Two Letters

I’m thinking to myself, “You talk about me at work?”

When I was 22 or 23, I wrote my father a really nasty letter. I no longer recall what prompted this, though I’m sure he ticked me off in some way. Nor do I recall what was in it, except I’m sure there was something pointed about his spanking policy. I suppose my goal was to engage him, even angrily.

The results: he didn’t talk to me for six months. Any communication that took place went through my mother. But I should not have been surprised. My father’s modus operandi when angry was often to become like this black cloud, and he’d just shut down. One didn’t always know WHY he was upset, but you usually knew THAT he was upset. I was pained by this, and I hated having my mother in the middle of this triangulation.

So I wrote him another letter. I described how great he was, how much I appreciated him coming to school every semester to sing to my classmates. How much I liked singing with my sister Leslie and with him. How much I enjoyed going to minor league baseball games and exhibition pro football games with him. How much I really enjoyed playing cards – pinochle and bid whist in particular – with him. How much I enjoyed him cooking waffles on Saturday mornings, and spaghetti Saturday nights, especially during those six years he worked nights at IBM and we didn’t see him that much during the week. My father made a great spaghetti sauce; the secret is that he cooked it for hours.

Then my father started talking with me as though nothing had happened. For 50 years, we never spoke about the letters.

Now, I’m not recommending this. But I do think that it allowed me to vent my frustration with him and my love for him in a way my sisters did not have the opportunity to do. I talked with sister Leslie at length around her birthday, and she agrees with the theory. There were things she and our sister Marcia never said to him.

Not that there aren’t issues I still wish I could ask him about, such as his genealogy or his time in Europe after World War II. But I don’t think I had unstated FEELINGS left unsaid.

The bottom line is, ultimately, I think it helped our relationship. I remember one day when I needed to catch a plane back to Albany from Charlotte, NC. For some reason, peat – the stuff you burn – came up in discussion, and I, as was (is) my wont, went to the dictionary or encyclopedia to look it up. He said that he tells people at work that I’m prone to do that, in a way that made it seemed like a good thing. And I’m thinking to myself, “You talk about me at work?” I was floored. Pleased, but very surprised. He’d often given me the impression in the past that me, buried in some reference book, was somehow, for lack of a better word, nerdy.

Sidebar: if you wanted to get a ride from him to take you to the airport or train station, you needed to lie to him about the departure time. In fact, that particular day in question, if the rules of flight now were in place then, I’d have missed my plane altogether, rather than running through the airport and just catching the flight.

The Spanking Policy

I got spanked a number of times, and usually I had no idea why.

Today is my sister Leslie’s birthday. Happy birthday, Leslie!
She is the middle child, and I’m the oldest, by sixteen and a half months. I have no recollection of my life without her.

Here’s one of those family stories, the telling of which will make more sense in a couple of weeks, I hope.

The worst spanking I ever received directly involved her. I tell this tale not to embarrass her – after all, it WAS a half-century ago – but to indicate how much that incident has imprinted on my whole life.

When I was four or five years old, Leslie marked up the piano with some crayons. My father went to Leslie and asked her who marked the piano, and she said that Roger did. So my father got the strap that hung in the kitchen – this brown leather thing about a foot long that barbers used to sharpen their razors – and started wailing on me. One of the things he was looking for from me was an apology, yet even in the midst of my pain, I was unable to do so. “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” I sobbed.

Eventually, and these are pretty much in the words of my father, recounting the incident years later, he figured that I was either really stupid or I was actually innocent. Finally, he requestioned Leslie, who finally confessed, and he started wailing on her.

So, what had I learned from this?

1) Leslie was his favorite, even after Marcia was born. None of us alive – my mother, my sisters – dispute this fact, and at some point, Marcia and I became OK with it. But for years, it ticked me off that he took her word for what happened, but didn’t even ASK me, disbelieving me until he had to believe me.

2) Despite the discomfort, one ought not to admit to things one did not do.

3) Sometimes the innocent do get punished. This is a huge reason for my antipathy for the death penalty; sometimes the authorities get it wrong. (That’s not the only reason, but an important one.)

4) I just don’t believe in corporal punishment.

In January 1997, Leslie and I were visiting the folks in Charlotte, NC. My father was brooding all day; my father’s brooding practically had a physical manifestation. When we were younger, we referred to him – but not to his face, thank you – as The Black Cloud.

Finally, that evening, when I was taking a 1 a.m. train back to Albany, not so incidentally, he opens up. He believed that my sister Marcia, who was in her 30s, was not being very respectful to her/my mother; that 19-year-old Becky, who was also visiting, was not being very respectful to her mother, Leslie; that Alexandria, who had just turned six, was not being very respectful to her mother, Marcia – OK, we could discuss all of that – and that none of them were too big to use the strap on.

I’m pretty sure I bit my lip.

Leslie, always the diplomat when it came to dealing with my father, thanked him for sharing, and said some more affirming things before indicating that she would not be doing any spanking. I followed Leslie’s lead (though I had no child at the time), and Marcia did the same. Then our mother launched into this discussion of the family finances, appropriate at some point, but not right then. My father shut down, and said maybe two words – “Good night” – the rest of the evening.

So, no, I don’t spank Lydia; Carol doesn’t either. This is not merely a knee-jerk liberal parenting mantra on my part. This is because, and the sisters and I have talked about this at length, I got spanked a number of times, and the only reason I can recall to this day WHY I got spanked was the aforementioned piano incident, for which I ought not to have been spanked. I can’t think of a good reason Leslie got spanked, except for that same event. There WAS a time when Marcia was 10 when she talked back to my father, and Leslie and I independently thought, “Ooo, she’s dead!” But he didn’t spank her; maybe he mellowed a bit with the third child.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child.” I’ll risk it.

Ramblin' with Roger
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