Carl A. Farmer - Why Dont You Like Me Daddy?

Why Dont You Like
Me Daddy?

A memoir

Carl A. Farmer, MBA

AuthorHouse

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2012 Carl A. Farmer, MBA. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 8/2/12

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5424-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5425-7 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5423-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913585

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Bipolar disorder or bipolar affective disorder: Historically known as manic-depressive disorder. A psychiatric diagnosis that describes a category of mood.

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD): A type of anxiety disorder that can occur after you have experienced a traumatic event that involved the threat of injury or death.

My Parents Marjorie and Carl E. Farmer on their wedding day, 1956.

Contents

On that Easter Sunday in Indianapolis, Indiana, there wasnt a cloud in the sky. My father had purchased a brand-new white suit for me, and he was so proud of the way I looked in it. As usual, I was dressed and ready much earlier than the rest of the family; as a little boy I could not sit still. Our neighbor cleaned furnaces for a living, and his truck was parked in his driveway. Being the curious little boy I was back then, I needed to see what was in the back of that truck. Needless to say I climbed in and found all kinds of cool, black soot. When I came out, I was solid black from head to toe. I ran home terrified; my mother later said, You could only see the whites of your eyes. Boy, was I in trouble.

The thing I remember most about this situation was my fathers anger. He said, Get in the backyard right now! He unwound the garden hose and had me remove all my clothes. The water wasnt the worst of this experience; that was when my sisters rounded up the neighbor girls to take a look at their naked brother. I was embarrassed as the girls pointed at me and said, Look at his little willy! At least thats what I thought I heard. I swear this is the reason I cant pee in front of anyone to this day .

If things werent exciting enough that Easter Sunday, my mother wanted to change dresses because the one she had on was too hot. My father thought that was ridiculous and would only make us late for church. The next thing I knew, my father was standing in the kitchen over my mother, punching her in the face; her head sounded like a hollow pumpkin being tapped with a spoon. My mother was in the front yard in her brassiere and skirt, bleeding from her lip. The neighbors quickly came to her rescue and herded her into their home. My mother said that the neighbor, Gale, asked her to come to the window to look at what her husband was doing after that. He said, Looks like hes checking the oil in his car as though nothing happened.

What I later thought strange was my reaction to these abusive events; I was able to forget them almost instantly.

I played little league baseball every spring, and this made my father very proud. Hed always tell me, Youre going to make the major leagues one day you have natural ball movement. These were moments I treasured with my father.

My father worked as a quality control manager at Balkamp on the westside of Indianapolis and would wake up around four thirty A.M. every day most of his life. Hed fix himself coffee and read the newspaper, and sometimes hed fix us breakfast. He had odd jobs for all of us on weekends after breakfast. One of my many jobs was to pull weeds in our gravel driveway, and boy, were there a lot of weeds! Id come into the house and announce that Id finished my chore, and hed ask, Are you absolutely sure? Id say yes, and then it was time for his inspection. Hed look at the driveway and notice a couple weeds Id missed and start yelling, Youve got to be kidding me! What the hell have you been doing all this time? Youll never amount to shit. Youre going to be a trashman when you grow older because you cant do such a simple job as pulling weeds! If this hasnt been done correctly by the time I get back, Im gonna beat your ass, you little cocksucker.

Years later I made my dad proud by working one summer for Republic Waste Management driving a truck and picking up recycling bins. Id come full circle, but those insulting comments proved to be a breaking point for me later in life.

I attended Public School 103 in Indianapolis, Indiana, and was in seventh grade in August, 1970. That year a bully Ill name Mark Bamberger picked on me almost every day. My father found out and said, If you let him kick your butt, then Im going to kick your ass when you get home. If hes bigger than you, then you need to find an equalizera bat, stick, something.

That great advice darn near got me killed. One day, as class was letting out around lunchtime, Mark decided to knock my books out of my hands. I turned to Mark to mouth off something and boom! Before I knew it Mark had me up in the air with his arm around my neck, choking me to death. I remember my eyes felt like they were going to pop out and a lot of people trying to get him to let go. I was one of the smallest kids in my class; I think Mark might have been sixteen in the seventh grade, and he was a very muscular kid. The teachers tried to get him to release me, but they couldnt. My older sister busted through the crowd and began kicking Mark in the groin. They said Debbie! but my older sister saved my life. I didnt know what happened because I was out cold and woke up in the hospital. It was not long after this that my parents decided we needed to move somewhere less violent.

From top left to right Bobbie, Carl, Debbie, and Mom, Bottom left to right Ginny and Brian Farmer

In August, 1971 , my family moved to a three-bedroom ranch home on twenty-three acres of beautifully wooded land. It was very hilly, and you could not see even the nearest neighbors house. To get to our property you had to drive a half mile to the end of a gravel road. We purchased a horse, three chickens and a rooster; we named the horse Daisy. We were all excited about our fresh start in Spearsville, in Brown County, Indiana. Mom and Dad said, The reason we moved was because of the busing situation in Indianapolis, and that was what wed tell people when they asked us why wed moved.

I remember during our first week in Brown County how nice all the neighbors were. They stopped by to introduce themselves and to see if there was anything we needed. A farmer came by and asked my mother if any of us kids would like to help pick beans and tomatoes on his farm; hed pay us a dollar for every bushel we picked. We all said yes.