The Blight of Ted Sikora

November 23, 2014

The narcissist

After he came home from the war,  I did not call my father  ‘daddy’ .  I called him ‘Ted’ , like everyone else.  This really pissed him off , to the point where he and my mother cornered me in the hall one night and he started to take out his penis in my presence.   My mother intervened.

There was never a time in my life when I could call him daddy.  He wanted me to , but I  just couldn’t.   I didn’t call him Ted either.  I figured out a way to not call him anything.

He had one major fault , or gap,  or coma in his personality.   He was a narcissist and was incapable of love for anyone but himself.    Like a bald guy  doing a comb over ,  he hid this.  In fact he was a master at it.    He used religion and money.  He always said he left his family “for the highest reasons” namely his adherence to the dogma of the Roman Catholic Church.  He toed the line, believing he was living a perfect life.  He had been excommunicated for “living in sin” so he moved out of the house. He did it for God.

Unlike most veterans, he would not talk about the War.   This added an aura of mysterious virtue to him.  He had lived through something so horrible that he was sparing us the knowledge of this unspeakable unknown.  My nephew Chris suggested that he might have committed some atrocity in the war he was ashamed and guilty of.   I never thought of that.   My father was,  after all ,   supremely virtuous.

When I was six, about to start first grade, he left home for good.  He did something extraordinarily generous.  He gave me a dollar bill for ice cream.  I thought “What’s this ?  I’m trading my father for ice-cream ?”  I never got another nickel from him until he got rich.

At the same time I got married, my father got rich.  A Jewish golf friend had tipped him off about Mexican Telephone,  selling for eleven cents a share.  He bought a ton of it and it eventually went to $75 a share.   All of sudden , he had thousands of dollars to throw around,  though he spent nothing on himself.  He thought this was a magnificent virtue.  A self denying rich guy.

He used his money to buy the favor of Lynne’s kids.   And to punish any perceived insults.  He bought some of Lynne’s six kids cars and houses,  except for Carrey,  the retarded one.  He did not court her affection.

Eventually the sugar daddy took over and eliminated all of Lynne’s authority and respect as a mother.  She fell into alcoholism and four packs a day of Marlboros.  By 1990 she looked like she was dying.  I suppose she got a reprieve when my father moved to Florida in 1995 ,  but by then she was a broken person.  Her cocaine addled,  womanizing husband , whom my father admired as a hard working family man,  died in 1998, and some of the children were leaving home.

But there was still violence there.  The horrible Christmas of 2000 I was there when Susan , the second youngest , broke Carrey’s collar bone.  By this time Carrey had two boys of her own living there.  She would go out drinking and partying,   leaving Lynne with the kids and contributing nothing to the household.  The situation got tense and Carrey started regularly beating up her mother.

I kept encouraging Lynne to get them all out of her house, over the objections of my father and Amy.  They wanted to have Lynne committed to a mental hospital and wanted my cooperation.  I told them I would fight it to the end and they backed off.   Soon, the boys became teenagers and they too started beating up my sister.

Somehow, by 2009, Lynne performed the daunting feat of getting them all out of there.   She had about a year and a half of wonderful peace and quiet in which she regained her original personality as a sweet and life loving person.  Then in 2011, she was stricken , literally knocked down, by lung cancer.  She lived another suffering two years, then died the most courageous death I have ever seen,  with not a single complaint.

Daddy comes home from the war . . . 

The first time I saw my father with conscious eyes was just after my second birthday , October 1945. He had returned from the war where he had received a million dollar wound and spent the last ten months in a hospital in England.

It was a cold reunion. No hugs, no embraces. It was very quiet. He was still in his mohair army uniform with a campaign hat. I wanted a drink of water. He lifted me to the water fountain, burning me with his cigarette as he did so. He was indifferent to my pain. I did not cry. My mother came and looked at the burn , but offered no solace.

I knew instantly that I was entering a new world of pain and fear. My mother and I had stayed for a year with her parents and my uncles on my grandaddy’s farm near Lorreto Kentucky. I still remember the warmth and affection and the sweet smell of wood smoke. All that was gone forever.

My father entered my life like a blight. Like Dutch Elm disease, I had sprouted, but the blight would forever keep me a sapling.

Tiny castles

We moved to a little shotgun house on Christy Street in Louisville. It was emotionally cold and business like inside, but the world outside was warm and fascinating. That’s where I wanted to be.

I have to wonder, when my father was sent to Europe in October 1944, a sergeant in command of a Sherman tank,   if she didn’t secretly wish he would never come back.  It would have solved a lot of problems for her. She would have been a widow with a war child, an honorable situation.   She certainly didn’t seem glad to see him when he returned.

And I would forever stare at the world, from my tiny castle,  like looking at Christmas toys through a plate glass window, there but ungraspable.

I loved the neighborhood on Christy Street. The summer before I turned four and my sister was born was halcyon.   There were a dozen kids my age, white and black, girls and boys playing on the sidewalk.  If I had penny I could ride my tricycle a couple blocks up the street to a corner grocery and buy a piece of candy.   One day I resolved to undertake a great adventure.  I would ride my tricycle all the way around the block.  I had never been there before.  I don’t know how I even got the concept ‘around the block’  but I knew if I kept making left turns   I’d get back where I started.  And it was wonderful.  I saw Atherton High School, the largest building I had ever seen it was shadier,  with prettier  houses  and cars and things on the sidewalk.  When I got back I felt triumphant.  Now I knew I could venture into the unknown alone and return with a new shred of life to hang on to.

When I was in the backyard alone, I had an imaginary friend, ‘Joe Printin’   to talk to.  He was a fine little fella, my size, but with the wisdom of a grown up.   He didn’t say much.  He lived in the house on the left and he would sometimes come out in his back yard.   The next door neighbor on the right ,   Mr. Trout, would give me the eyes of fish he had caught in the Ohio River.  They were large and round and I played with them like marbles while my mothers radio played  Dear Hearts and Gentle People .   I was left to my own devices,  and the halcyon summer of 1947 was the last I would ever have.

Don’t look at the sky . . . 

While my sister Lynne was being born, I was sent to my Granddaddy’s farm .  They had moved to Indiana, just across the Ohio.  I must have remembered my grandparent’s from the Kentucky days.  I was comfortable with them.   But my uncle Carl, who still lived there on his parents farm ,  was a trickster.  He took me on a horse, an animal I had never seen in my conscious life, to go after the cows.  First we had to retrieve the  axe he had left in the woods.  He parked the horse and got off, leaving me alone on this unknown animal.  The horse stood still and Carl got back on.   Then we had to go by the pond to get the horse a drink.  “Don’t go in the river !”  I cried.  The horse waded in belly deep as I shivered,  then put its neck and head down to the water.  I thought I was sliding into the river, the dark and muddy Ohio of death.

“I wish I’d never come !”  I cried, while uncle Carl chuckled. When we got the cows in, uncle Carl opened the gate to the front yard full of thick green grass and a huge bull with a brass ring in its nose.  Uncle Carl insisted I ride the bull.   I declined, over and over again.  This was a great adventure that left me unsure whether I ever wanted to have another one or not.

Later, after it got pitch dark,  my grandfather, grandmother, Carl and I were standing on the back porch by the cistern looking at the sky.    A  constellation of shooting stars came across the sky, almost overhead.  They made a perfect bow and arrow.   “It’s a sign”  uncle Carl said.   “Maybe its the end of the world”  said Mawmaw.   She was right.

Whiskey winds . . . 

We moved to an old bungalow in South Louisville that was built on what had been farmland.  It was an ugly neighborhood.  My father had little or no aesthetic sense.  And it was cheap , $7000 with a mortgage of seven dollars a month.    Bernheim Lane ran from Seventh and Algonquin Parkway a quarter mile to the railroad track where steam locomotives delivered corn to the Seagram distillery just south.  A black neighborhood was just across Seventh Street.  The ‘yellow projects’ ,  the poorest in the city, were just north on the other side of Algonquin Parkway.

It was grim,  but rich with vacant lots, the Pepsi Bottling Company with its  football field size front lawn , the Gordon potato chip factory that put on a spectacular parade every Derby Day  and pretty girls threw bags of potato chips and prizes from the polished red delivery trucks.   There was a hobo jungle and Salvation Army hotel for the bums by the tracks,  a trailer lot,  the lively Red Brick Tavern on the corner where girls dressed for Saturday night got out of cars that had to be parked all the way down Bernheim to in front of our house.   Crowds of Negroes would walk down Bernheim on Sunday to a baseball game played on Seagram’s huge vacant lot and dump.   In the spring, I’d stand on the front porch while the three hundred foot tall smokestacks billowed smoke from the cooking of the sour mash.  The south wind carried this to my front porch with its intoxicating aroma.  I was getting high, though I didn’t know it.

There was a White Castle on the corner and an auto parts store and two gas stations.  The Red Bull Tavern with nine cent Falls city beer on the other corner where the Salvation Army bums would drift after they had   their supper and sermon.  Three small groceries,  Eisenmingers,  Reynolds, and Pattersons,  which stayed open till midnight,  within a stones throw.  A tiny barbershop with a barber who had just gotten out of the insane asylum .  I thought he would cut off my ear, but he was a nice guy.  This  part of Louisville  was full of industries, both heavy and light.  American Standard cranked out porcelain toilets just up Seventh Street.  Across the street there was a place that fabricated sheet metal and the Desensi Statuary Company cranked out cement statues of the Virgin Mary.  Right next store, a factory pounded out rubber gaskets.

Saint Ann’s Catholic Church and the Harmony Babtist Church were just across the alley behind our house. They served the poorest of the poor, the unwashed and ignorant from the Yellow Projects.

It was a vibrant,  complex and dangerous environment.  You could get robbed or beat up if you ventured into the wrong places.

Haunted by God . . .

Just after my father left and disappeared for a year, I started first grade.  I was a skinny and frail looking kid.   The bullys ganged up on me everyday.  I tried to pay them off with pennies.   My father had taught me to be humble and turn the other cheek, so I didn’t fight back.  I had to run this gauntlet every day.

My mother had started taking us to the Harmony Baptist Church across the alley.  The preachers were obsessed with the end of the world.  The moon would turn to blood, the sun would turn black, there would be hideous monsters and battles in the sky. This was going to happen any day.

I was reading the newspaper by the time I was seven.  I read everything I could find in the house.  Stacks of old Reader’s Digest, an old one volume encyclopedia, old books about the San Francisco earthquake.  I was terrified of the atomic bomb and learned what the Russian bombers looked like.  In those days armadas of planes, entire fleets of dozens of planes would fly high in the sky over my house,  but I could tell they were ours.  I could hear the rumbling thunder of the artillery at Fort Knox every afternoon.  I was always on the lookout for doomsday.  I lived in mute terror.

One afternoon after school a gang of a dozen boys taunted me at the bus stop.  I shit my pants on the way home.   No one noticed.  My mother would cook supper, then hunker down over the heat register with her head between her knees.

I was an artful dodger.   Something about me attracted the aggression of other boys,   but there was also something that prevented them from actually hurting me.  Maybe all they wanted was my humiliation.  They never got that.  The atom bomb and the imminent end of the world were my deepest fear.

During this time my father had sequestered himself in some unknown place.  I hardly thought of him.  I spent as much time as possible alone, reading or exploring my ugly but interesting neighborhood.  My mother was unavailable and my sister was a toddler.

In second grade the class took a field trip to the circus downtown.  It was dark and cold when we got out.  I was by myself and got on the wrong bus to go home.  I rode for a long time on an empty bus,  then realized I was lost.  The bus driver ended up taking me directly to my house.  My mother said she considered me a grown up at age eight.

When my father did start coming around again,  the situation always devolved into religious arguments with my mother.  It was like the holy wars of England , he being an ever-increasing devout Catholic and she be a dyed in the wool Protestant.  They would battle over whether  the Queen of England deserved respect , drinking beer and fishing on Sunday.  One time I tried to get them to stop fighting.  My father screamed for me to go to my room.   He was a take it and leave it father.  He would take us to fun places some times,  but he was emotionally detached from our little family.   He got the cherries and my mother got the pits.

My mother died betrayed , as I am sure many Christians do.  For they are taught that miracles belong to them.  My mother was betrayed by her husband, for God , and as she lay dying, she,  as Jesus,  felt betrayed by God.  Her last word was  ”  Walt ? “.

I hate religion;   it has haunted me my whole life.   My father died last year.    I learned he had disinherited me.  To survive emotionally I had to demolish my father along with his Roman god.  At least I have that malpa off my back .

Playing Doctor . . . 

About age eight,   my mother caught me and little redheaded Annie playing doctor in the attic.  She was furious and threatened to send me to Ormsby Village,  the much dreaded reform school in Louisville.  Not only that but if I ever did anything like that again, she would reveal it to my grandaddy’s Patriarchal visage.  Then I would surely go to Hell.   After that I stayed as far away from girls as I could.  I became a neurotic mess, hiding in the basement building scores of model airplanes.  Maybe it was for the best.  The other boys in my neighborhood had gotten their girls pregnant, dropped out of school,  and were supporting a wife and kids by the time they were sixteen.  Although I eventually married and had kids of my own, it wasn’t until I was in my sixties that I achieved a degree of sexual ease.

Don’t Appease the Rich   . . . 

After he had inherited a sizable chunk from Grampa,  My father , Thaddeus Stevens Sikora,  decided to retire.  Then , about the time I married, he made a small fortune in the stock market.  A Jewish golfing buddy gave him a tip on Mexican Telephone which quickly went from eleven cents a share to $75.00.  The richer my father got,  the more arrogant .  His success proved to him that he was by far the most brilliant person in the family.  Add that to being by far the most virtuous, and that’s an impressive package.

So he lived like a plebeian king.  He took Lynne’s daughters on wondrous trips as he done with Lynne and me.  Lynne, who was already very sick, sat and watched as her father bought and won away her children’s love for her.  It was, after all, the only life Ted Sikora had.  So Lynne was betrayed by her father and by her husband who was jetting around the country begetting children in various cities.   She got a modicum of relief when Donnie died in his easy chair one night of cancer, heart disease and leprosy.  His fingers had been eroding many years.

But her home was still a violent hell.  He children took over where Don left off.  Teddy and Amy were in Florida by now.  They were sort of like business partners.   My father gave Amy the money and she spent it.  Soon, they were conspiring to have Lynne ‘committed’.  I do not know how many of her other children supported that idea.   I suspect all of them.  I know they felt like she was spending their father’s money.   They were taught by both my father and her husband to treat her as a non person of no value.   Of course none of these things were crimes nor misdemeanors.    It is not against any law to destroy your daughter emotionally for your own gain.

Those kids sure loved their sugar daddy.  Like my father , Don got the cherries while Lynne got the pits.  Her home, without Don in it, became increasingly more abusive and violent.  At the last stage, her grand boys were beating her up.

to be continued . . .

Terri : Thanks for wandering by here today , Seraphim !

Seraphim : My pleasure , lovely lady . . .

Terri : Seraphim , you are are not exactly a singer songwriter , or balladeer ,

just how would you describe yourself ?

Seraphim : I am a wandering minstrel , period .

Terri : Oooooh , gross !

Seraphim : A thousand pardons lovely lass , I am what I am .

Terri : Your ballads cover a wide range of subject matter . . .

Seraphim : Yes Terri ,

I treat of many things .

Of things seen and Unseen ,

known and Unknown

from Kuubla Khans pleasure dome ,

to the decay of Rome ,

to the Ganges where the dead do float

And King Arthor ‘s castle moat

You stare into my timeless gaze

into eternity ablaze

with the light of fires

and daunting desires

that nere burn on history ‘s page.

For , you had better know it ,

I am an oral poet . . .

Terri : Oh , Seraphim that was lovely ! What is that instrument you were playing ?

Seraphim :

It twas a Chinese lute

from a Shanghiah house

of ill repute, where there was :

A man named MacGruder

who met a lewd nude from Bermuda .

This lewd nude was crude

and exceedingly rude

but MacGruder was ruder

He screwed ‘er . . .

Terri : I ‘m going to pretend I did n’t hear that Seraphim . Remember , my audience is liberal , but quite prim . Do you always sing instead of speak ? You are kind of a walking opera !

Seraphim :

Yes , lovely girl :

It is my nature to tweet

and sing like Bluebirds sweet

or the thrush on Autumn’s way

Dost sway with the indolent hay

and grass ,

where I fain

would roll your ass

Sweet , nubile lass

of radio land . . .

Terri :

Thou hast deigned to make a pass ,

you are beyond the bounds of crass

Depart from me , thou cur

to thy hellish home sir !

The Pragmatic Bank

June 25, 2014

Pragmatic Bank


The Pragmatic Elite

never eat and never sleep ,


Hiring others

to tend their sheep ,


And hold tight the chair

that Dewey and James once shared ,


Where neither truth nor proof

shall come to light .


And the sheep shall be taught

to worship the quark ,


And deposit their money

in a pragmatic bank .

Untouchable Child

June 24, 2014


Conceived of gold

& water

and blasted

in the shards

of the alter

a cypher and reminder

of the terrible disaster

that plundered their lives

of joy

And left a boy free

to roam & smell

the loam

And taste the clover

& smoke tobacca

& cigars that

hung from


While bumble bees

tasted cherry


Too terrified to ride

that bull with the

ring in his nose

As the horse bent its neck to drink

out of what I thought was an ocean

and I would slide in anon ,

never to be seen again

I wish I ‘d never come ! “

I cried . . .

To my Uncle Carl

who liked to poke my side ,

but held me tight

And that night there was a sign

in the sky

in stars , in a black sky ,

a bow & arrow flew by

And Mawmaw took afright

and Uncle Carl said “ it’s all right “

Jackhammer Blues

June 24, 2014

Living in New York

aint soo bad

the people are friendly

and dont seem sad

But when you try

to sleep at night

you ‘ wake up

with a headache

from the jackhammer bite


I got the blues

I got the New York City

Mutherfuckin ‘



Jackhamma jackhamma hamma all night long

The cops is eat in’ pizza down at Bravos

Park Avenue is nice

But you will pay the price

When you come down with

them New york City

mutherfuckin ‘



Solitary Refinement

June 24, 2014

These last days of solitude

I had abhored

Five years of wars

& hard labors

have their reward

These last days of solitude

spent in confinement

result in refinement

These last days of solitude

I will remember

where I started

and the path

that led me to

the garden  . . .

Comedy Tickets

June 24, 2014


Where theres a way

theres a will

& where theres a will

theres a way

I heard the man in Dallas



we won the war

now we ‘re the whore

In the Fith Dimension

this is trite

soo we need to

get it right

That girl

had her derby screwed

on tight

The cost of comedy tickets

is outta sight !


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