I only have three Lemp’s left to talk about. My mother and father and myself. I had very little contact with my parents that I can recall. The only time I went to visit my mother she rejected me. Saying “you’re not my Herman, my Herman is dead”. I never tried to visit her again. To this day I am bothered by that. I am not bothered that she did not recognize me. I am bothered by the fact that I used it as an excuse to stick my head in the sand and act in a selfish and cowardly way. For years I felt sorry for myself. I felt as though I was abandoned. Then it dawned on me that I was doing the same thing. She was a victim of circumstance. Just like my brothers, sisters, and I.
I only remember seeing my father once when I was a ward at the Thibedeau’s. He showed up with David and Harry, in a dump truck with signage that proclaimed that he was “Thee Olde Yankee Gardener” of Schenectady N.Y. It was very awkward. We all stood around and tried to make small talk. My father appeared to be very uncomfortable and seemed to be on the verge of tears throughout the short visit. Little did any of us know that we would never see him again.
Mrs. Thibedeau was a real good influence on me while I was in her charge, but the day she blurted out “your father is dead, he has hung himself.” that could probably have been done without six kids and as many adults standing around.
I handled this news the same way I handled my mother’s situation. I felt sorry for myself instead of having feelings for the true victims in this tragedy. In retrospect there is no doubt in my mind that my mother Leah and father Herman were the real victims in this saga.
I will be the first to admit that the do-gooders can at times be nauseating with some of their vacuous demands. But their constant demands have raised our society’s social and moral awareness. And I do believe that my parent’s dilemma would be handled completely different in this day and age. At age 71, I’m not as remorseful as I was for so many years but to me “it’s just in time to be too late”!
As you can surmise, my skimpy narrative does not come remotely close to relating what really transpired.
I have stated many times in past blogs that I was coerced into this format by my children. They chided me for not sharing my side of the family’s history with them. So two years ago on Thanksgiving morning they ganged up on me and made me promise to write a blog. This blog would shed some light on my background, the family history, and to them my whacky way of seeing things in general. So, I vowed to myself that there would be no fabrications. Whatever I would relate would be true according to my recall. I have stuck steadfast to this principal.
So I have omitted things that I have heard about my parents and siblings. Many of the things I heard would seem to make sense and others not so much. So I have just filed those thoughts as hearsay.
That concludes what little bit I have to say about my immediate side of the Lemp family. For my kids sake I will now bore you with a little bit about me.
His Nibs
On the previously mentioned Thanksgiving, I referred to my son as his nibs. My kids rolled their eyes and grinned at each other. Thinking my different little sayings were figments of my imagination. That and very little knowledge of my past lead my kids into prodding me into this undertaking.
I was born in Lynn Mass. on May 4, 1941. The family lived at the time somewhere near the Saugus River in Saugus Mass. Just a few minutes due northeast of Boston.
I have no recollection of living there. And have no idea where any of my siblings were born. And to reflect on one of my biggest weaknesses I cannot recall their birthdates.
My next memories were of Georgetown, of which I have referred to in the past blogs. The next place I recall was the statehouse in Boston. For some reason the person who took us there thought two little petrified boys would be impressed that the building had a golden dome. To this day I cringe when ever I see that edifice or hear it mentioned.
Why we were taken there is beyond me. We ended up in the New England Home for Little wanderers. It claims to function differently today. But back in the 1940’s it was a very depressing orphanage. We were there for less than a year. But it seemed much longer as it was a very scary place. The inhabitants where all bullies, older, bigger and pissed off at their plight. Everyday there was unpleasant and I’ll leave it at that.
Just before I turned six, Noel and I were placed in the foster home of Helen Thibedeau. In the Ryal side section of Beverly Mass. It is thirty miles northeast of Boston and borders on Salem and Danvers Mass. This turned out to be a step in the right direction for me.
That fall I was enrolled into the Ryal side grammar school. This was another cultural shock for me because my experiences at the orphanage made me tentative about accepting the schoolhouse experience.
Thus I experienced the long lost practice of holding a student back. I was ashamed to take my report card home to Mrs.Thibedeau. For years I would poke fun at my self by saying I flunked because I could not color between the lines. When the fact of the matter is the school system took my reluctance to join in or communicate as stupidity. When in reality it was inferiority and fear. The next six years at that school I made a great many lifetime friends. But I was never a good student. The people who ran the school and the people who ran the Emmanuel Congregational church across the street offended me as much as they were offended by having to deal with a lowly state ward. It was not until my last year there that I finally got a teacher who made me eager to learn. What first attracted me to her was the amazing fact that she could stand up with out tipping over. But as it turned out, as sexy as she was, she actually was a great teacher.
The following year I went to Memorial Junior High school in North Beverly Mass. The only thing of note from that period was that we were the first graduating class from that new school. Like the Ryal side school it is no longer open. Ryal side has been converted to elderly housing and the Memorial school is now some sort of professional building. I cannot imagine a person in his dotage going back to live in the same room where he had attended the first grade.
In 1957, I started my first year at Beverly High School and was a part time clerk at the First National store in Danvers square. The job was at the insistence of a man named Dooley. Mr. Dooley was the state ward councilor in charge of me. In my mind if he was not the biggest asshole I ever met, he was certainly a contender. I understand what he was trying to do. Get me to pay room and board. Of which I had no qualms about. I was well aware that the state had spent a lot of money on me over the last twelve years. What I did not like was his slovenly, smarmy, holier than thou attitude.
I spent three years going to high school working thirty hours a week and idling away what few hours were left in the week at Murray’s Pool room. So it’s safe to say I did not have a distinguished record at Beverly High.
Mr. Dooley made it very clear to me that the day I graduated I would be persona non grata as far as the state was concerned. I joined the National Guard and was on a bus to basic training the day after graduation. I served in the guard for eight years some active and some inactive. The country at the time was between Korea and before Vietnam. So no matter what you got involved in, you did not qualify for veteran’s status. Some things I got involved with I can expound on, other things I can not, even if I wanted to.
When I got out I worked at Parker Bros. who manufactured board games, most notably Monopoly. I hated that job and returned to First National stores. The rest of my history can be obtained by talking to either one of my two ex-brides. I still love them both and think they deserve some kind of award for putting up with the likes of me.
The little tales of my past and future blogs should fill in the blanks I may have left in this blog about the Thornton’s and Lemp’s
In my next blog I plan to tell a little tale that took place during my junior high school days. I plan to call it “The great Pigeon caper”!
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