Growing Up: Part 4 (Niagara Falls, NY)

“No man can order his life, for it comes flowing over him from behind . . .”  (George MacDonald)

My mom and dad were born and raised in Niagara Falls, New York and they have lived in Western New York their entire lives. The same can be said about three of my grandparents.

Dad’s Family

My father is a really nice guy. A few years ago, a stranger contacted me on Facebook and said that my dad was one of the nicest men she had ever met. When he was ten years old, he began learning how to play the guitar, and four years later he joined a rock band. After playing in bands for about a decade, the late nights got to be too much so he knew he needed to make a change. Events culminated in him surrendering his life to Christ at the age of twenty-four.

My dad has struggled with his weight for much of his life so he was not physically active while I was growing up. When I was in elementary school and bored sitting in class, I would, at times, imagine getting a message that he had a heart attack or passed away. I’m not sure where I got the idea, but I thought his weight problem would lead to an early death. Maybe I got the idea from his dad.

His dad, who had German, English, and Irish ancestry, worked as an architect helping to build airfields during World War II. While deployed he promised God that if he returned safely he would serve God faithfully. From what I’ve heard, he kept his promise, helping to design a church building and sharing stories of Jesus with others. In his mid-30s, he died suddenly from an aneurysm. My dad, who had an older and younger sister, was only seven years old. Fortunately, he has memories of a loving dad, who taught him how to tell time on a watch.

Although I never met my dad’s dad, he has had a deep influence on me. I am Leslie Norman Bridgeman III and he is the first. My mom wanted to carry on the tradition, but my dad wanted to name me something else. I am not fond of my name, but I especially didn’t like it when I was young. It didn’t help that I went to middle and high school with a girl named Leslie. Before I began ninth grade my mom called the high school office and asked them to change my name in their records to “Les” so I wouldn’t have to cringe hearing every teacher say “Leslie” while taking attendance. But then Les sounds like less, which is also more negative than positive. However, I have worked in a few international schools so I have learned that Australians pronounce my name as “Lez.” Oh well, at least my wife likes my name. She says it sounds old fashioned and regal.

As a widow, my grandmother with German and English roots, had to work while raising her three children. Fortunately, my grandfather had taken out a life insurance policy, which helped his family after his death. My grandmother never remarried, although she had the opportunity.

Mom’s Family

My mom is the oldest of four children. She is a fun-loving outgoing artist, who enjoys being physically active outdoors. She has been drawing and painting since she was young and her colorful murals are in homes and restaurants. Growing up she took us swimming, sledding, and ice skating. I’m not surprised that she now lives out in the country, goes for long walks, and milks cows. She also likes to play pranks on people, but also easily falls for pranks. When her younger brother, who is an investment banker, told her about a new investment called “Big Coin” she was ready to invest. Her playfulness makes her especially comfortable around children. She raised her three kids, helped to raise my two cousins, and babysits her grandchildren. But she’s also tough. One day I came home from school and she was knocking down one of the walls in our house by herself with a hammer.

Her childhood stories feature verbal fights between my grandmother and grandfather. Some of the conflicts were due to my grandfather’s drinking and gambling. Born in 1910, he was about twenty years older than my grandmother. He grew up without a father, joined the Army, and fought in World War II, earning the rank of lieutenant colonel. After a marriage that ended in divorce, he went to Lebanon and met my grandmother. They got married in Beirut in 1953, moved to the US, and lived in the house where he grew up. In total he lived in the same red-brick house on the corner of a busy intersection in Niagara Falls for about ninety years.

I knew my grandfather as a friendly man with white hair and big biceps. He often wore a tie and a buttoned sweater, even while sitting in his comfortable chair watching TV. He sold insurance in his basement office, played golf, and shoveled snow on blustery winter days. As a teenager I used to help him with yard work. “Hello Leslie,” he would say in a deep raspy voice then we would get to work. Once while cutting the hedges I cut through the cord so we got in his car and drove to a hardware store. Other than talking about the “female end” and “male end” of the cord, I don’t think we said much to each other.

Usually my grandmother gave us money and birthday cards, but on one occasion, my grandfather was the giver. The front of the card had a picture of a sailboat out on the open water. On the inside he wrote something like, “May this boat take you to ports around the world.” Little did he know that I would live in Singapore, Seoul, and two port cities in China. (Writing this has helped me realize that the oldest men in my life—dad and grandpa—both grew up without a father.)

My grandmother from Lebanon loved company and enjoyed cooking Middle-Eastern food. With her green eyes and light skin, she didn’t look Middle-Eastern, but when we walked into her home we immediately felt her Middle-Eastern hospitality: “Honey, come here, let me give you a hug” in her thick Arabic accent, followed by “Sit down, have something to eat.” She usually had tabbouleh, hummus, and sometimes kibbe. Then she would tell stories of her parents in Lebanon. “Honey, my father was a saint.” She would tell me how he worked as a French chef at a girls’ school and made homemade ice cream for his family. He was a saint because of how he put up with his nagging wife. My Lebanese grandmother also frequently talked about her plans or a decision then asked, “Honey, I don’t know what I should do? What do you think I should do?” I think indecisiveness was passed down from her to my mom to me.

After my grandfather passed away in 2005, my grandmother lived in the same house for a few more years. The last time I saw her was during one of our summer visits. She was crying as she drove away. I have wondered if she knew she wouldn’t see us again.

Conversion

As children my parents went to church with their families: Catholic (Mom) and Lutheran (Dad), but they became disinterested in the Christian faith. My dad stopped going to church when he was thirteen because he didn’t like the structured liturgy and rote responses.

In their twenties my parents had conversion experiences and their faith in Christ became deeply personal. Shortly after, they met in a small independent Pentecostal church. The pastor had a full-time job and didn’t have formal training in Bible or ministry. But he had a passion for ministry and held several services each week, which my parents faithfully attended. And my dad quickly found himself on stage playing his electric guitar in the church band.

Early Years

My parents did odd jobs including working in a home for troubled youth. One of the boys my mom was working with punched her in the stomach while she was pregnant with me. Perhaps I was traumatized before I was born. They cobbled together a living driving taxis. A couple years later my sister Elisabeth was born, then the baby Sarah arrived two days before my sixth birthday. We lived in rented houses in poor neighborhoods.

I remember rescuing Elisabeth when she was around three years old and I was five. She tripped at the top of our staircase and began sliding down headfirst. I reached out my hand and grabbed her ankle sparing her a painful fall. Sarah was the first baby I remember and I loved her. Somewhere there is a cassette tape of me singing to her when I was six years old, “Sarah, I love you, I love you. . .”

As a young boy I heard my dad playing the guitar at home and we listened to Christian music on our stereo. “Listen to this,” he would say as we lay on the floor close to the speaker, “listen to the bass” then we would play with the treble, bass, mid settings. He also frequently read the King James Bible to me while I repeatedly interrupted with the question, “What does that mean?”

In my early years my mom’s youngest sister Annette, whom we call Teet, spent a lot of time in our home and attended church with us. She is twelve years older than me and like an older sister. I think I developed the habit of breaking out into spontaneous singing from listening to her as a young child.

Thanks to my grandpa who used his connections, my dad got a steady job working for the city of Niagara Falls, driving a street cleaner and snow plow in the winter. My parents were able to buy their first home when I was eight. We lived in a small house on a street crowded with homes on both sides. My room was in the finished attic.

My parents were passionate about God and fervent in their faith, often talking about spiritual topics at home. My mom would pray early in the morning and my dad would pray and read his Bible when he came home from work. On the radio we only listened to Christian music or preachers. We rarely watched movies, but if we did they probably had John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart in the lead role. The few times we heard a swear word on T.V. my dad changed the channel.

Friends

When I was in third grade, a friend named Jim invited me to play on the Little League baseball team. I’m glad he did because I was a shy kid and playing sports gave me confidence. A few years later my Little League team won the city championship, which was televised. In total I played baseball for eight years, mostly at the positions of second base and shortstop. In elementary school, we spent a lot of time together, playing Wiffle ball, football, video games, and watching wrestling. Jim lived next to a golf course, so he also taught me how to play golf and how to “hop on” the course when other golfers weren’t around.

My next door neighbor, Scott, had a boa constrictor, dog, and cat. We watched movies and rode bikes together. The neighbor across the street, Duane, played hockey and had a street hockey goal so in the winter time we often played, pausing to let cars pass by. During a few cold days we went to a frozen creek, put on our ice skates and played hockey on the ice. I also played on a hockey team for a couple years because of Duane. Of course, I remember playing with other friends and doing many other things, such as collecting and trading baseball cards, learning skateboard tricks, talking about girls, and attending baseball games.

I’m grateful for these early childhood friends. I think I would have turned out quite differently without them.

Part 5

Part 3