Gone Feral: Tracking My Dad Through the Wild by Novella Carpenter
Authors: Novella Carpenter
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UFO outside of the grocery store. It was purple, with lots of lights. When she was dying from emphysema my sister and I went to her bedside in the hospital. When she saw us her eyes lit up and she scribbled out a note and handed it to me. The note didn’t read “I love you” or “I’m at peace,” like it’s supposed to in the movies. It said, “Oxygen!” and she underlined the word. Dad never reconciled with her, and didn’t attend her funeral.
I’ve been told that I have Grandmother Jeanne’s eyes and eyebrows. Deep set, with thick, caterpillaring eyebrows. I wondered if it was odd for him to look at me: his estranged daughter with his estranged mother’s eyes.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread. My father and I were just repeating the mistakes of the past. I couldn’t see a way out of the cycle. I had come here to tell himabout my plans to have children. To resolve the issues I had with him before moving on to become a mother. But he wasn’t willing—or able. So perhaps it was with a touch of frustration that I picked a fight with my dad that morning, making it the first brawl in the history of our relationship at ages seventy-four and thirty-seven.
Somehow we got onto the topic of my mom.
“I would come home from a ten- to twelve-hour day,” he said, “and I’d come home to her hatred. No dinner. No praise. Just criticism,” Dad said, detailing why my mom didn’t work out as a good wife for him. I sat in the only chair in the house, by the window; Bill was outside, still asleep.
It was as if their split had happened just days before, his anger was so raw. It set me on edge, flutters of fear rippled down my stomach.
“So, you weren’t really interested in being a dad?” I asked. It was only after the words came out of my mouth that I felt a choking, blinding anger welling up in me—stored so long, now unleashed.
Suddenly Dad felt the need to sweep his particleboard floor. “Then she would call Rick, and say she wanted to learn how to cut down trees,” he said, ignoring my question. “She was so competitive.” He kept sweeping. “All she had to do was be a wife, raise you guys, make food, sew, whatever. She could do whatever she wanted, but she had to be competitive.”
From my mom’s account of life on the ranch, she hadn’t exactly been living a life of leisure. She chopped wood, kept the woodstove burning, milked the cow, fed the ducks and chickens, breast-fed us, and cleaned the house. That she wanted to help my dad log the land—no doubt for some much needed cash—seemed like a rather generous offer. But I was starting to notice that my dad, wild man that heprojected himself as—was just a traditionalist when it came to gender roles. He wanted my mom barefoot, pregnant, and subservient.
“Then she brought that cretin into our bed,” he snarled. The day of the big fight with the lemonade. My hazy memory of the fight was later explained to me—first by Dad when I was in my twenties. According to Dad, on a fall day in 1975 he had returned to the Rough House after a long absence. He did this often, just disappearing for weeks on end. Duward the carpenter was there and Dad flew into a rage. He and the woodworker had a face-off: Dad pulled a gun, Duward had just a two-by-four. The two men stood, almost touching chests. Finally Dad muttered, “It’s not worth it,” and lowered his gun. Duward turned and ran.
Then Dad came into the kitchen and Riana and I warded him away from Mom.
Mom met Duward when she started selling fresh cow milk to the neighbors—she had excess milk and wanted the money to buy building supplies so they could finish the house. Duward was one of her milk customers, and eventually became her boyfriend.
“You guys were home, and she brought that cretin into our bed,” he shrieked. “I was going to burn the house down,” he said. “Burn everything.”
Including us. I felt another wave of fear. The neighbor started firing his guns. Loud
I’ve been told that I have Grandmother Jeanne’s eyes and eyebrows. Deep set, with thick, caterpillaring eyebrows. I wondered if it was odd for him to look at me: his estranged daughter with his estranged mother’s eyes.
I awoke the next morning with a feeling of dread. My father and I were just repeating the mistakes of the past. I couldn’t see a way out of the cycle. I had come here to tell himabout my plans to have children. To resolve the issues I had with him before moving on to become a mother. But he wasn’t willing—or able. So perhaps it was with a touch of frustration that I picked a fight with my dad that morning, making it the first brawl in the history of our relationship at ages seventy-four and thirty-seven.
Somehow we got onto the topic of my mom.
“I would come home from a ten- to twelve-hour day,” he said, “and I’d come home to her hatred. No dinner. No praise. Just criticism,” Dad said, detailing why my mom didn’t work out as a good wife for him. I sat in the only chair in the house, by the window; Bill was outside, still asleep.
It was as if their split had happened just days before, his anger was so raw. It set me on edge, flutters of fear rippled down my stomach.
“So, you weren’t really interested in being a dad?” I asked. It was only after the words came out of my mouth that I felt a choking, blinding anger welling up in me—stored so long, now unleashed.
Suddenly Dad felt the need to sweep his particleboard floor. “Then she would call Rick, and say she wanted to learn how to cut down trees,” he said, ignoring my question. “She was so competitive.” He kept sweeping. “All she had to do was be a wife, raise you guys, make food, sew, whatever. She could do whatever she wanted, but she had to be competitive.”
From my mom’s account of life on the ranch, she hadn’t exactly been living a life of leisure. She chopped wood, kept the woodstove burning, milked the cow, fed the ducks and chickens, breast-fed us, and cleaned the house. That she wanted to help my dad log the land—no doubt for some much needed cash—seemed like a rather generous offer. But I was starting to notice that my dad, wild man that heprojected himself as—was just a traditionalist when it came to gender roles. He wanted my mom barefoot, pregnant, and subservient.
“Then she brought that cretin into our bed,” he snarled. The day of the big fight with the lemonade. My hazy memory of the fight was later explained to me—first by Dad when I was in my twenties. According to Dad, on a fall day in 1975 he had returned to the Rough House after a long absence. He did this often, just disappearing for weeks on end. Duward the carpenter was there and Dad flew into a rage. He and the woodworker had a face-off: Dad pulled a gun, Duward had just a two-by-four. The two men stood, almost touching chests. Finally Dad muttered, “It’s not worth it,” and lowered his gun. Duward turned and ran.
Then Dad came into the kitchen and Riana and I warded him away from Mom.
Mom met Duward when she started selling fresh cow milk to the neighbors—she had excess milk and wanted the money to buy building supplies so they could finish the house. Duward was one of her milk customers, and eventually became her boyfriend.
“You guys were home, and she brought that cretin into our bed,” he shrieked. “I was going to burn the house down,” he said. “Burn everything.”
Including us. I felt another wave of fear. The neighbor started firing his guns. Loud
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