The Playroom

Nana's cellar made a perfect playroom.

Divided into three parts, one finished and two not, it was always cool and furnished with cots and chairs, a piano, several tables, and dim lighting. The finished space was enormous and ideal for any manner of childhood games. You could run the length of it in a game of tag, practice dancing on the smooth tiled floor, play shuffleboard. You could safely make noise and disturb no one. Between the spaces there was a bar reached by a crawlway - here there were glasses and crystal decanters, containers of swizzle sticks, jars of olives and onions, neatly stacked six packs of Canada Dry Ginger Ale and enough liquor to float a boat. My grandfather had partied here, well and often, entertaining who knew what crowd of aquaintances and associates with poker games and bourbon, stag films and even strippers. Nana never came down here except to do laundry, claiming the place had a bad feel to it. Unpleasant memories, my daddy said with a wrinkle of his nose and a queer look of distaste, Best forgotten.

I didn't know then about the nights my grandfather had come home falling down drunk, had no idea of the infidelities, the backroom deals and the gambling. He was well known and admired by many, feared by some, and respected by most. He had friends in influential places and was partial to keeping everyone under his thumb and controlled by his decisions. My grandmother had never been known to openly disagree with him, never as much as raised her voice to him, and my mother maintained a subservient nearly timid demeanor with him. He had put his family second to work and friends, had little use for children or animals, and was all in all, a brute of a man with a nasty temper and a need to be obeyed. Only my daddy in his role of heir apparent seemed able to meet any of his expectations or earn his trust - it was the price of not having a son to take over, my daddy had been heard to tell close friends, and a burden.

From time to time I considered my mother being raised by a man who had little use for her, a raging alcoholic who offered no kindness, no acceptance, no love - a man who taunted her with reminders of her illegitimate half sister and spared no criticism of her appearance, her choices, her friends, her abilities. He withheld praise and affection, barely acknowledging her existence and making no secret of his disappointment in her. It hadn't been easy being his wife or daughter, my daddy confided to me years later, he had been a hard man to his family, cold, cruel and thoughtless.
You might think about what that did to your mother, he once suggested to me gently, It could help.

It didn't then and doesn't now. Passed down or taught, learned or imitated, hate is hate. Understanding it may make it more clear but it brings no forgiveness and no forgetting.