Over the next few months, I’m going to chronicle a bit of my childhood and my upbringing. Not every week, but every so often I’ll add another piece. But before I saunter down this road, I want to make it clear that I loved my parents very much. Oh, we had our moments, and being the time period that I grew up in, some things will seem a little strange or maybe even unforgiving to some of the younger folks who read this, but it was a different time. As a society we’ve learned and changed a lot over the years about how we should be raising our children—some of it for the better, some of it perhaps a little too politically correct for my taste, and some of it that I just don’t understand or agree with at all.

So I’m going to tell a little bit of my story over time. I think it’s a good story, perhaps a little crazy here or there, but nothing earth shattering. It will give you some insight as to who I am, how I came to be the person I am today. You may agree with what I am writing or you may not, but most of you have never met me, and most of you probably never will, yet here you are reading my blog. Whether you visited through my twitter or facebook, or perhaps even bought one of my books, you are here… and I thank you for that.

I grew up in a time when we rode in cars with bench seats and without seatbelts or baby car seats. Station wagons with roll crank handles for the windows. Air conditioning? In a car? Are you serious??

It was a time with TV, but black and white TV. Color, at least in my house, came along later. And cable, well let’s just say that I was a teenager before we got that first wired, push button cable box. And programming signed off for the night, leaving a test pattern for your viewing pleasure.

Playing sports was all about winning and more importantly, learning from the pain you felt from losing—any trophy I had on my shelf was earned because of my ability to excel and not my ability to simply show up. When I lost, sure I felt bad, but then I was able to learn and grow from that experience. It made the eventual win much more meaningful. It taught me how to handle rejection and how important it is to work hard and not just expect things to be given to me.

We ate dinner as a family every night, with balanced meals that included meat and potatoes, bread and vegetables. We drank whole milk and ate eggs—no one was telling us to cut out any of the food groups, or to fast every other day… we simply exercised… outside in the fresh air.

All I can say about raising a family back in the ‘60s and ‘70s verses today is that overall, I turned out okay, as did my brother and sister, as well as the friends I grew up with. I’m healthy, well adjusted, and respectful to people. Now don’t misunderstand me, I see a lot of young people today that are being raised right, but I also see a lot where things could be better. And I don’t believe in the idea that just because you may be having a hard time economically, making it harder on you or your family, that it gives you permission to disrespect the rest of the world. But then again, what do I know? When I grew up it was a different time.

So, here we go—

My Childhood – Part One: The Parents

I was born in the last year of the sixth decade of the twentieth century. My parents were married the year before that, and for the most part held to the traditional roles of that time. My mother was a stay-at-home mom, but of course, back then it wasn’t referred to as being a stay-at-home mom. It was just what moms of the sixties and early seventies did. The fathers went to work and the mothers stayed home and raised the children.

I guess you could refer to me as a hell-raiser as I certainly did test my parent’s patience. Since my mother was the parent that was around the most, she carried out most of the disciplinary action. I was almost always getting myself into some kind of trouble, and she felt it was her duty to get me back on track. Her favorite weapon of choice during those times of discipline was the hairbrush. She claimed that she used the hairbrush instead of her hand, because her hand got sore when she needed to spank me harder than usual. She used her hands too, but if I needed a harder swat, the brush provided that extra oomph.

There were times, however, when she thought the crime severe enough for her to pull out the big guns, the ultimate weapon, which was a verbal promise of what was in store for me. She would stare me down and say, “You just wait until your father gets home, young man!” Those ten words would instill a fear in me that would cause an immediate turn around in my behavior.

Waiting for my father to dole out the punishment meant a swift smacking on the backside with the dreaded belt. I only had to have the belt strike my butt one time to understand that I needed to avoid any future encounters with that leather whipping torture device. My mother knew that, so the power for her was in those ten words. She knew it would straighten me right out.

Now, if you're starting to think that I was constantly getting beat with either a belt or a hairbrush—don't. These tools were only used in extreme situations that were usually brought on by myself. Also, keep in mind that it was the late sixties and spanking your child was not a reason to call out the National Guard back then.

My mother seemed to have this elaborate punishment system consisting of different levels depending on how bad the behavior was, according to her. If my brother and I were at odds, either verbally or physically, we would simply be grounded. If we hurt our younger sister in some way, we got spanked. If we mouthed off, we got the back of her hand across the mouth. If we continued to mouth off after the hand, we were also grounded. If we knowingly ruined or broke anything that belonged to either parent or the whole family, we were grounded. If we swore, the back of her hand across the mouth. No washing your mouth out with soap threats here, the hand was quicker than the eye. If we lied about anything, the brush made an appearance. If we combined crimes, such as ruining something and then lying about it, Dad was conference in, and the belt would make an appearance. The system must have worked, because none of us ended up in jail or in therapy.

As the oldest child, I think my parents were harder on me than on my brother and sister. But, I'm sure that if you asked either of them, each would say our parents were hardest on them. And, if they want to get a blog of their own, they can tell their story. Until then, we go with my version.

My mother kept me on a pretty tight leash as a kid. For a while, it seemed like anything that was in fashion or trendy went against Mom Company Policy. I couldn't grow my hair long when it was in style, I wore the more economical no-name brand sneakers instead of Converse or PF Flyers (Nike and Reebok have not always been the popular shoe, it just seems that way), and my bed time was always a little earlier than most of the kids I went to school with. As I grew into adulthood and had kids of my own, I had a better understanding as to why these Mom Company Policies were put into place. It’s not easy being a parent, but trying being a kid just entering Jr. High—as a pre-teen some of these policies could be devastating.

I was constantly getting phone calls from friends after I was already in bed. You can only explain it away, the next day in school, saying you went to bed early because you were not feeling well, just so many times. After awhile, they know you're lying. It's hard to get a reputation as a cool guy, if your mom keeps telling your friends to stop calling after eight, because that's when Joey goes to bed.

As I look back on it now, I know my mother meant well. It's not like she purposely would try to humiliate me—it just worked out that way. But, considering the alternative, I'm glad she was like she was. At least I knew she cared… At least I know that now. Back then, I wasn't so sure.

And then there was my father. Dad worked for the same company for over thirty years. Because it was blue collar shift work, his schedule was always changing. There are some people that would use that as an excuse not to spend time with their kids. That was never the case with my father. He always made time for us. He did like to go to the occasional clambake, and he bowled every Friday night, but that was the extent of his outside world contact. He spent most of his free time with us.

Even on bowling night, he never stayed out late drinking with the guys. Instead, he always stopped for pizza and came right home. It became sort of a tradition. Every Friday during bowling season, we'd eat pizza on the living room floor in front of the TV. He always had it home in time for Tarzan.

The only real time I ever knew my father to cut loose was when he was going to one of the clambake parties his company held each year. Those were the only occasions I can remember him ever coming home juiced. I guess it was one of the few places he felt he could break out of the "dad" mold and have a good time. No kids, no wife, just the guys. Every man needs to have a male bonding experience once in awhile (although, they would never think of labeling it as such back then). It's that, "boys will be boys", mentality. It's something all men carry into adulthood. The need to be with people who completely understand their thought process… other men.

Mom couldn't stand these rare outings. He really only attended once or twice a year. It wasn't the idea of him going that bothered her as much as the condition he would arrive home in. What bugged her was the fact that he was driving. My mother knew that his place of business provided a bus to and from the party, but my father always seemed to miss it. She suspected he wasn't even trying to make the bus.

He would come home trying to act as sober as he could. We'd all be in bed. Nobody was asleep, but we were all in bed. He would come in, go to the refrigerator, get a beer, and watch the tube. He would then tell my mother that all he drank was 7-Up, and now that he was home, he was going to enjoy a few beers. Good plan, dad. The only problem was that he had that, "the more I try to be quiet, the noisier I am" syndrome one develops when experiencing a slight buzz. My mother knew… she always knew.

It made for some interesting conversation between the two of them. You could hear a pin drop in our bedroom as we strained to hear what was going on. I'm sure they fought about other things at other times, but these were the only times we ever heard the festivities.

The next day it would be as if it never even happened. Business as usual in the Congel household. My mom and dad truly loved each other, and they loved us. It was important to both of them that we were insulated from any arguments or issues they might be going through. Whether that was as simple as a spirited night out that my father would have that my mother did not appreciate, or something heavier like a financial issue. We never had a clue if there was any kind of concern or rift between them. Ever.

My parents are both gone now, and it hurts me a little to know that the greatest appreciation and admiration I had for them as people, not just as my parents, but as individual people, didn’t happen until I was an adult, and they had passed on. When they were alive, I was too busy living life, raising my own kids, and getting over hard feelings from long ago issues. But I’ll save that until another time. 

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