What is neglect? What is abuse? What is the depth of someone’s anger? Crimes of passion…What does that mean? In the deep frost of a New Hampshire winter. After the death of a martyr and matriarch, Ruth Quinn; I uncovered some truth.
In February of 2012, a ghastly picture of my father appeared. On the not so yellowed and stained pages of…ancestry.com. Just sitting in cyberspace, a framework of devious and malignant persona appeared.
Sitting, squaw style, on a beat beyond recognition, futon, I became overcome with ‘open mouth’ syndrome.
Newspaper clippings from the day showcased my father’s fury! Yet, I denied every letter, every word, every sentence. No matter the amount of hurt my father inflicted on myself and others…during my time with him; I could not bring myself to believe he had stabbed his wife 35 times.
Yet, there is sat! Not just one newspaper article, not just two…several!
I started out in 1967 as a newborn near death due to kidney problems and…a budding angry, hateful person.
Of these facts? I do not deny.
Did I shoot out of my mother’s womb with complete disdain? Maybe not. However, the toil and trouble of misappropriated genes…would soon beset me.
In relationships, until recently, I abused women. Not physically! Not with observed premeditation! However, with a dark crevice buried deep inside…I discovered new and profound ways in which to keep love as distant…as…remorse.
How much of this complete and utter breakdown of faith in self…had been related to my upbringing?
Odd enough, I did not really sleep that night. Laying awake in a self-imposed punishment via deep sips of iced coffee and two Sudafed, I wanted to remain, induced by the scene of horror.
Every article I read on my father’s horrible deed…revealed nothing new. Estranged husband stabs wife to death and leaves child behind to witness.
What I wanted…needed to know…Were the answers to one or two simple questions…
Am I lovable? Will I end up an exact mold of the…Father?
My wife, bless her hungry heart and beautiful soul, knows/knew of my bouts with hate…and the female sex.
As a young adult often I would have been described as a…predator…a vulture. Only after one thing…sex!
Through a Higher Power and deep, deep, soul-searching, I unhitched my ride. Made the only decision I could…
‘Love now…or, never!’
However, no wheels turned back the hand of time. No sky parted…open…revealing…my revelations. An ambiance of, this and that amends…took time, meditation, awareness and the truest of love…I could find.
Waiting, walking, pacing, putting the dogs out…letting the dogs in.
Morning had finally arrived at our little house of misfits.
Similar to when I came out to my mother…decades and fistful of affairs, earlier; I sat across from the knock off dinner table/office desk. Stumbling down in her Winnie the Pooh pajama bottoms. Salt and pepper hair tussles like Cindy Lou Who. I gently pushed a mug of full strength coffee toward her chair.
Years earlier, when showing the rainbow to my mother…a similar situation occurred. However, at that time, it had been a six-pack of Coor’s light.
Would I be Megan’s ‘favorite’ mistake? Had I been not much different from the ‘Father’? Someone who continues to take little bits and pieces of love and…flushes it like shards of not remarkable mistakes?
No one with four paws or two feet…in our house…receives the morning light with vim and vigor.
And, even now, as I undertake the chore of retrieving my father’s court records, his hospitalization, his vain and repugnant behavior; I get chills.
Megan, my wife, laughed at me. And, my sincere and worried questions.
But back in the day? She seemed very perplexed: What do you mean? Your father did what? Well, that explains things…
‘You aren’t your father! He’s evil. No matter what…you’ve always kept me in mind!’
She was and still is…always on my side.
Yet, down deep with all the sin, transgressions; How could someone…something so alluring, want a killer’s daughter…in her life?
There have moments when Megan required my hand up. Times where her health seemed in question. Seconds in our married life to which…there had been no doubt…
I had been on her side.
And, here she sat, holding down my proverbial…fort.
Lo and behold. After over 30 years, love made sense. Love and it’s need. It’s wants.
Megan sat across from the table. More mystified by my need for reassurance…than, my father, and eventually, my mother’s misdeeds.
How fascinating…love, beauty and the freedom to be who you are meant to be…
On January 4th, 1963, Harold Bowley (my father) became the ward, patient, miscreant to the New Hampshire State Hospital.
On October 4th, this Honorable Court of Rockingham County, New Hampshire, order that the Superintendent of New Hampshire Hospital shall receive and hold one, Harold Bowley, who was charge with committing the crime of homicide, for observation…
it is the opinion that it will be dangerous that the said, Harold Bowley, should go at large…
Unfortunately this is only the beginning of my delving into the family history!