The Boxer

Hey, all.  I have had a couple of inquiries about why I don't post anymore, so here goes:  back by popular demand. I know it's odd to be publishing a post about my father at Mother's Day, but we Underwoods are like that, always bucking the trend. If I feel inspired, I might post about my mother on Father's Day. 

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains

-          From “The Boxer”, by Simon & Garfunkel

Near the end of my dad's life, when he was living in a nursing home, confined to his bed because he couldn't walk, unable to watch TV because he couldn't hear or see well, I asked him, "What do you think about all day long?"  He thought for a minute, then laughed.  With Dad a laugh was never a laugh.  It was a verbal ejaculation of bitterness, or anger, or pain.  Only rarely did mirth enter the picture. "I think about the past," he replied, "and I wonder why I never made anything of myself." I couldn't understand his answer at the time, because to me he seemed successful enough.  He had put himself through college, got married, became a homeowner, had a career as a corporate accountant, and raised three kids. What else could he have hoped for?  I asked him that question.  He answered with his eyes closed, something he did when he was trying to express himself clearly. "I never could figure out why, if I was so much smarter than everybody else, I never got anywhere."

And it's true.  He was smart.  Maybe not smarter than everybody else, but smart, smart enough to have been successful.  So why not?  Because of his natural preference to be alone? Because of that big chip he used to carry on his shoulder? Because of his thinly disguised disdain for those who had it easier than he did? <Insert mirthless laugh.>

My dad was not a people person.  He held himself apart from others, only opening up to those who passed muster with him, and they were a very select few. Dad had plenty of reason to feel separate from the rest of the herd.  He was born with a limb deformity - his right arm was missing below the elbow.  He was born in East St. Louis, Illinois, August 29, 1922, the last of three children, to Lucille and Reed Underwood, or Mom Cil and Pop, as we knew them.  His sister, Audrey, was the oldest, a scholar and a pretty girl, who always seemed too refined to have come from that family.  Next came Bob, the apple of his mother's eye, a good looking guy to whom everything came easy, except perhaps an honest living. So when little Billy came along, handicapped and sickly, the family was less than enthusiastic. My father’s full name was Roy William, named after one of Pop’s brothers-in-law, but in his family it was common to go by one’s middle name, so most people who knew him personally called him Bill.  Only professional acquaintances called him Roy.

The Underwood women ca 1920: Mom Behr, top left, Mom Cil, top right, and baby Audrey, held by her great grandmother Mary Ann Zolman

Left to right:  Billy, Bob, Audrey

Aaron Reed Underwood as a young man

Dad spent a good part of his younger years indoors.  When he was about five years old he got rheumatic fever and nearly died. He was sick for almost a year, at one point almost completely paralyzed, but recovered in time to start first grade.  The next summer he got hit by a car, and again wound up indoors for the entire summer. While confined he spent his time drawing and entertaining himself by making up stories. His maternal grandmother, whom everyone knew as Mom Behr, was his constant companion during that time, and he developed a close relationship with her that lasted until she died.  What he did not learn during his years of confinement was how to get along with other kids.  His brother, Bob, who was only two years his senior, could have been a companion, but the two of them never got along. Dad always suspected that Bob resented the attention Dad got, and perhaps he was right. Eventually, Dad did learn how to behave around other kids, but he always seemed to be happier on his own.

Maybe it was because he had to overcome a handicap, but Dad developed three defining qualities at a young age: the first was a strong sense of fair play; the second was a fierce competitiveness; and the last was self-discipline. He had a reputation in school as a troublemaker, because he did not shy away from a fight (actually, I think he relished a fight). He got picked on a lot during first and second grades, partly because of his arm, but also because his mother refused to cut his hair.  He was the only boy in his class with a Buster Brown haircut, for two years straight.  So he did get into a number of fights to prove he wasn’t a one-armed sissy; but in his later school years many of his fights were to protect smaller kids who were being bullied. I think that having had to defend himself from being picked on gave him an empathy for anyone else who suffered similarly. Later in life he continued to stand up for fairness – back in the early 60’s he hired a guy in the office who was openly homosexual, which was strictly taboo in those days. Dad did not approve of homosexuality, he wasn’t that enlightened; but he told Earl that whatever he did in his personal time was his own business, and the two of them ended up working well together. Earl even came over to the house for barbecues and Thanksgivings, and although Mom always kept a watchful eye on him (one could never be too careful around those types), they did swap recipes.

Can you pick him out of a lineup? The Little Tough Guy

As for competitiveness, Dad was driven to prove himself.  I think he needed to prove he could do anything a fully able person could do, and then some. He played baseball, and was a pitcher, just as Pop had been back in the days when he played in the Kitty league.  He learned to box.  He played football. He could shoot a rifle, and I was told he was an excellent marksman. He played chess. He handicapped horses.  None of this is remarkable in and of itself, but the fact that fifty years later he could recall in exact detail, not only the fact that he pitched a shutout against a good team, but how he did it, or the strategy he used to beat a champion at a game of chess, is a clear indication that winning is what mattered to him, perhaps more than anything else.  But it was not just winning that he was after.  Winning had to be on his terms. He was once told that he could obtain a scholarship if he would apply to college as disabled and be fitted for a prosthesis for his arm, but he flatly rejected the opportunity.  He was just fine as he was, by God, and would do it without any artificial limb.

The 4F Boys  - Southern Illinois Normal University, Carbondale, Spring '43, Dad lower right

Dad learned early on that if you wanted to defeat your foes you had to be patient.  Giving in to your rage might be momentarily satisfactory, but tipping off your hand like that was not the way to win.  His first enemy in life was his brother, Bob.  As a child Bob’s attitude toward dad was one of deep resentment, if not outright hatred.  In later years Dad recounted the time Bob encouraged him to dive into deep water, despite not knowing how to swim, convincing Dad that he’d be there to help him swim back to shallow water once he surfaced. When Dad came up Bob was nowhere to be found. That was how Dad learned to swim. Perhaps it’s because Dad required so much attention from their mother that otherwise would have been lavished upon Bob, or maybe Bob was just a born bully.  Who knows? Regardless, Bob seemed to enjoy picking on Dad and starting fights with him.  He would tease or goad Dad to the point where Dad would finally haul off and hit Bob, at which point Bob would proceed to beat the crap out of Dad.  When Mom Cil intervened, Bob would declare, “Billy threw the first punch!” The beatings finally ceased when Dad, a little older and more able to hold  his own in a fight,  developed the practice of catching Bob unawares and attacking him out of the blue.  Later on in life, when he worked in a corporate job, he had the discipline to quietly and patiently plot revenge on bosses and coworkers who wronged him, such as the time he “inadvertently” left incriminating evidence against a boss in a folder that was turned over to Internal Audit. A hot temper is something all of us Underwood’s carry around with us, and Dad was no exception. But he developed the self-control to channel his anger into exacting revenge. He probably should’ve thanked Bob for that.

The Siblings Clockwise: Audrey, Bob, Bill

Dad’s family was working class, and not overly pious, so Dad was worldly wise from an early age. Mom Behr's second husband, known to us only as Mac, once took Dad to a speakeasy in St. Louis, though he made Dad swear never to tell his parents. Dad's father, Pop, used to make home brew during Prohibition, and assigned Dad the task of capping the bottles.  When one of them blew, spraying beer all over the cellar stairs, Pop would remark drily, "There's another one you didn't get right." Pop loved horses, and in fact had left home at sixteen, traveled by riverboat down to New Orleans, and got a job exercising horses at Fair Grounds Race Track.  Pop instilled his love of horses and horse racing in Dad, and often on weekends would take Dad to the racetracks in East St. Louis, where he knew the trainers.  When Dad was in high school, a problem arose in the family. Mom Behr had started losing a lot of money at the racetrack. Mom Cil & Pop's solution was to send Dad to the track with her to keep her in check.  That's where he learned to handicap the horses, and soon he and Mom Behr began winning.  Building on that experience, Dad was able to get a job working for a bookie.  At the time bookies were widespread in East St. Louis, operating quite openly, and Dad soon was calculating odds and payouts.  It was a great gig, and was quite lucrative, $60 a week for a recent high school grad back before WWII.  However, he lost the job when the city shut down the book joints. Dad retained his love of horses and horse racing his entire life, and had his own handicapping method, which he was glad to explain at great length.  He usually did fairly well with it, and when we got old enough to go to the races he enjoyed giving pointers at the track, but became quite annoyed if one of us placed a bet because we liked the horse's name, or worse yet, if we bet the favorite to show.    

Mom Behr & Mac, ca. 1940's

Mom Cil & Pop, Happily Ever After, or "Take the damn picture, will ya?" '48-'50

 One of the biggest disappointments of Dad’s life was not being able to fight in WWII.  He was drafted, but could not pass the physical, and consistently ranked 4-F.  This was hard on him, because all his other buddies got accepted, and he knew he was as good as they were, if not better. He dropped out of college after the spring of ’43, and took a job at a marine valve company. He started as an inventory clerk, and within a few months got promoted to expediter. Unfortunately, that job required him to work in the foundry, and by the time summer rolled around he was suffering daily from heat exhaustion. That was when Management transferred him to the cost accounting department, where he was able to work in an office. By the time the plant closed in ‘45, Dad had found his career, and soon enrolled in St. Louis University to get his degree in Accounting.

The Accountant - Gaylord Container, St. Louis, 1950's

It was in 1945 that my parents met. They were polar opposites in so many ways, coming from completely different backgrounds and having completely different personalities.  My mother came from a long line of hard-working, industrious German farmers, so she was practical and no-nonsense.  On the other hand, she was full of life, and possessed what seemed to my father an almost naïve optimism. She laughed easily, expressed herself openly, sang when she was happy, and even bounced a little when she walked, as if she were going to take flight with every step.  She must have seemed to Dad like a giant ray of sunshine. A more stunning contrast to his own cold and cheerless family could not have been imagined.  He told her he planned to marry her on their very first date. They were married two years later. 

Em & Bill, late 40's

Dad never thought he would make a good father, and was not in favor of starting a family.  And it’s true that as a father he remained somewhat aloof from us kids, uncomfortable with showing affection.  This is not to say he ignored us, quite the contrary. When my sister and I were toddlers, he would read to us out of his Accounting textbooks in his deep, sonorous voice. Reading us stories about standard costing or the double declining balance depreciation method usually put us to sleep quickly.  He spent a lot of time teaching my brother the skills of being a boy, but he was also willing to share this instruction with us girls.  I remember being taught how to box, how to throw a baseball, how to hold a bat and how to put a spin on a football.  I had no aptitude for sports, so my interest and his usually waned after a few minutes, but he tried.  When we got older he taught us card games - pitch, poker, gin rummy, and pinochle. One year he bought us a small pool table, and taught us how to play. He was always proud of my scholastic achievements in school, and we would often take walks together in the evenings, during which we would talk.  He never spoke down to me, but rather spoke as he would to an adult. He told me about his past experiences, gave me career advice (which I ignored), talked about things he'd read.  I enjoyed our talks and was flattered that he treated me as an equal, but realized later that he was incapable of conducting a conversation on a child's level.

Taking the kids to the track, Fla, early 60's

Although he was uncomfortable showing affection to us kids, he and my mother had a warm relationship, and often sat together in the evenings watching TV. I remember he always gave her a hug and a kiss when he came home from work.  Despite his tough exterior, he was a romantic – sentimental even. But only with Mom.  Everyone else? Back off.

  

Growing up we never talked about his disability.  He made it clear he did not like to talk about it, though he never explicitly said so. As young children, of course, we asked how he lost his arm.  For years I believed his story that it had been bitten off by a crocodile, which in my mind looked just like the crocodile in Walt Disney's Peter Pan. Dad rarely asked for help.  He could tie his shoelaces using his left hand and his right elbow.  He could button his shirts one handed, tie his ties, pull on his socks, zip up his pants, and fasten his belt.  He even drove a stick shift for a while, with the gear shift lever on the right side of the steering column. The crook of his right arm was all he needed to shift gears, although it usually meant leaning forward over the steering wheel to reach the shift lever. He could work on his own cars, perform tune ups, change the oil, and change tires.  Because of his ability to do just about everything a fully able person could do, he had very little tolerance for those who, with both hands, could not dress neatly or work hard. 

As I said, Dad was not a sociable person.  He was generally uninterested in talking or listening, and often said he was quite happy to be with someone who monopolized the conversation because it relieved him of the necessity of speaking.  He would frequently lapse into long silences punctuated only by grunts here and there at a pause in the conversation. If questioned directly, after two or three repetitions of the question and perhaps the waving of a hand in front of his face, he would shake himself out of his reverie with a slightly startled, “Huh?  What was that?” He did, however, carry on conversations with himself, usually muttered below his breath.  Sometimes he would be rehearsing what he could’ve said, or should’ve said, in some altercation.  I remember once riding in the car with him, listening to the radio, looking out the window and suddenly hearing, sotto voce, “Somebody’s gonna get hurt.” I slowly turned my head his way to determine if he were speaking to me, all the while keeping my face expressionless (I wouldn’t have wanted that somebody to be me). Of course he wasn’t talking to me.  He was rehashing some scene in his head, probably thinking how much better that line would have sounded than what he actually had said.

I realize that the person I have just described is not a particularly likable person. And yet, I think all of us in the family loved him.  Dad always lived up to his responsibilities as a husband and as a father, whether or not it came naturally to him.  When my mother began to suffer dementia in her early sixties, Dad took care of her on his own for several years, and only resorted to a nursing home when the physical demands of her care became too much for him to manage. As for us kids, he was there for us as much as he could be, and we have fond memories. I do wish he could have found a way to lower the bar for himself and derive satisfaction from what he actually did accomplish, but that wouldn't have been him. He wasn't wired for happiness. Looking back on his family’s history, I think he was actually pretty lucky.  But that is a story for another day.