"The Brady Bunch and the Bucket" Submission #12

Mom's fling with Elmo Shuey lasted a few months at most and the flame seemed to die out as quickly as it heated up. It didn't take mom long to track down her next love interest.

Jack Gibson was a local businessman in Madrid. He owned a nice little tavern on Highway 17 called "Jack and Jenny's." Jenny was Jack's wife until her untimely death a few months before he and mom began seeing each other.

Jack was on the shorter side with thinning black hair and a very pronounced "beer belly." His stomach resembled the midsection of an expectant mother in her 38th week of pregnancy... evidence that, over the years, he consumed as much beer as he served.

Jack seemed to have an ever-present grin on his face as well as a thick wad of bills in his pocket. He was a generous man, frequently peeling off bills and liberally distributing them to Bruce and me. I could be bought. I liked him.

He had two kids. Phillip was a grade ahead of me at school and Jackie was my elder by two years. I had seen them at school but really didn't know them too well.

Phillip seemed pretty cool. He enjoyed sports as much as I did and that gave us a real point of connection. He always had this humble attitude and a charming self-deprecating humor. He was always quick to compliment my accomplishments, which was great for my ego. I decided that he was okay to keep around.

Jackie, on the other hand, gave me a bad vibe. I'm not really sure what it was, but I felt immediately that if mom and Jack's relationship lasted any length of time, we were going to butt heads before long. My prophecy proved to be true... over and over.

I'm certainly not laying the blame on Jackie for our squabbles. I accept part of the blame... maybe even most of the blame. Suffice it to say that we had a very turbulent relationship. More on that later.

The site of their wedding was the famed "Little Brown Church" in Nashua, Iowa. It was a simple ceremony attended by only two witnesses, Liz and Dave Lepovitz, friends of Jack. I don't recall being offended that the kids didn't get to attend. I was too busy trying to figure out how this new "Brady Bunch" type family unit was going to work.

Home sweet home!

Our new family members moved in with us. I guess it was a better arrangement than moving into the apartment above the bar where the Gibson's had lived.

The three boys had one room, Jackie had another and the newlyweds chose the "freezer." What is the "freezer" you ask? Well, it was a room, never intended to be a bedroom. 

It had continuous windows that ran the full perimeter of the room and it hadn't a single heating vent. It was more like a three seasons porch. I guess it served okay as a bedroom during the warmer months but during the winter, it might be better utilized as a meat locker.

To make matters worse, the new couple, craving their privacy, kept the door securely closed at ALL times, which prevented any warmth from the heated portion of the house to trickle into the "freezer." I swear, if you walked into their room on a cold winter morning, you could literally see your breath!

What really made this arrangement utterly disgusting was "the bucket." Mom and Jack slept in the raw. I apologize for the disturbing visual created by my last sentence. Anyway... when nature called during the over-night hours, rather than throwing on a robe to cover all their nakedness and venturing out of their love nest to the Jack & Jill bathroom between the kids' room, they chose to simply squat over their metal bucket instead. <Shiver>

Again... my apologies.

But actually... overall... things weren't that bad. I even found myself getting along with Jackie. Mom and Jack appeared to be thoroughly enjoying wedded bliss. They were constantly smooching and when they weren't tangled up in a lip-lock, they cooed and made goo-goo eyes at each other. The way they acted when Jack was leaving for work was simply unbelievable. You would have thought he was about to set sail for some distant battlefield, never to return!

The Brady Bunch.

Wedded bliss.

Romantic passion.

The calm before the storm... 

"Five Finger Discounts" Submission #11

As my smoking habit increased, I knew that I couldn't continue to pilfer my mom's smokes from the cigarette drawer. Eventually, she would become suspicious. I had to find another source and it didn't take long.

About two blocks east on 21st Street and across Highway 17 was Elwell's Grocery Store. Sam and I frequented Elwell's quite a bit during the summer months whether we had scrounged up a few coins and wanted a pop or an ice cream or if we just wanted to duck into the air-conditioned store and escape the wilting, humid Midwest heat.

It was during one of those trips to Elwells that we made a very important discovery. Through the doors, past the cash registers, to the third aisle and a quick right. That is where they kept the ice cream treats.

As I rummaged through the freezer, mentally tasting all of the possibilities, I glanced up at Sam. He had a mischievous smile on his face as he stared at the rack that butted up against the ice cream freezer. I followed the path of his vision and cast my eyes upon the backside of dozens of cartons of cigarettes.

Hidden in the third aisle of a not-so-busy grocery store, Sam and I opened the backs of cigarette
cartons and began stuffing packs into our pockets, down our pants and in our socks. Wearing our stylish, early 70's bell-bottomed pants afforded cover for the packs that bulged from our socks.

Phase one complete, we now commenced with phase two; getting the stolen goods inconspicuously out the door. For affect and to not cause suspicion, we brought a single popsicle to the check-out stand and nervously completed the transaction. So far, so good.

We walked out the door, crossed the highway and headed west on 21st Street in total silence. About a block from our house we began to breathe again. We did it! Simple! We could do this again! And we did... many times.

We wanted cigarettes. We didn't have any. By stealing them, we obtained them. Shoplifting was a means to an end. But after a few rather large heists, we had enough cigarettes to last us weeks... maybe months. But we continued our thievery.

We began to steal a variety of items... candy, toys, tape... TAPE? Our shoplifting was no longer a means to an end, we now were stealing for recreation... just for the fun and the challenge of it. If we ended up with something useful... great! If we pilfered something that we didn't really want... no biggie because we got away with it. We got away with it... for awhile.

We fancied ourselves as seasoned criminals at this point. We didn't walk into the store with trembling legs and sweaty palms anymore.

We casually strode into Elwell's one hot summer day. I made an immediate right down aisle one and Sam continued straight ahead. Our game plan was to make this sticky, muggy day more enjoyable. I went for the water balloons, Sam headed for the ice cream freezer..

I slowly walked up to the turning rack that had all the cheap toys hanging on it. I began to turn the rack like a carousel, eyeing the merchandise... green plastic army men, super balls, plastic dolls. I casually glanced over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching me. Play money, water color paint set... HERE IT IS... water balloons!

I pulled them off the rack and acted like I was looking at them as I kept my head still but rotated my eyeballs to the left and then to the right. The coast was clear and so I quickly stuffed them down my pants. Mission accomplished.

I found Sam still studying his choices at the ice cream freezer. I paced around a bit, looking at various items with feigned interest as my patience grew thin with Sam and his indecisiveness.

"C'mon Sam! Hurry it up!" I whispered impatiently.

"Take it easy! I can't decide what I want." He retorted.

"Look," I said sarcastically, "It's easy!"

I walked up to the freezer, spotted an orange sherbet push-up, grabbed it and shoved it down my pants. In my impatience, I forgot rule number one from shoplifting 101... look before you conceal.

I uttered a quick prayer before I lifted up my eyes... as though God was really going to honor such a prayer. As I scanned my perimeter, my eyes met the gaze of the store's assistant manager... standing about 20 feet from me. I quickly glanced away and then back at him. He was still staring at me.

"I'll meet you outside," I nervously told Sam as I set out for the door at a brisk pace. I could feel the assistant manager's hot stare as I walked past, afraid to make eye contact with him again.

Once outside, I quickly pulled the ice cream from my pants and hurled it onto the store's roof. Before I could grab the balloons, he was on my heels. He told me to stop right there and I froze, overwhelmed with fear.

He proceeded to inform me that he witnessed my theft. Further, he revealed that they had been watching Sam and I for awhile... suspecting that we were the ones tearing open the backs of the cigarette cartons.

I mounted my verbal defense but was less than convincing. Sam joined us as I bluffed that he could search me. He told me that he was sure I had enough time to ditch my stolen goods. He was only half right.

"I'm not going to search you." He said "But I NEVER want to see you two in this store again! Do you understand me?!?"

Any words just caught in my throat as my heart was pounding out of my chest. So I just nodded.

I was scared to death. This was an adult and he was mad! When I was a kid, children seemed to have a healthy fear and reverence for adults. Not so much today. Kids today would likely laugh in the adult's face. That fear and reverence seems to have all but disappeared somewhere along the way.

Having been thoroughly frightened and humiliated, Sam and I made our way across the parking lot. We were still too scared to talk. With every step, I felt the balloons sliding further and further down my pant leg until they finally fell out the bottom.

I didn't want to leave evidence on the ground and at the same time, I didn't want to stoop down and pick them up in plain sight of the assistant manager. So I started kicking them casually as I walked. Eventually, I glanced back at the store and saw that he was no longer watching us. I picked them up and stuffed them into my pocket.

So traumatized was I for getting caught shoplifting that I couldn't even enjoy making water balloons. I never even opened the pack. I tossed them into our backyard incinerator and lit a match to them. Evidence gone!

I learned my lesson. No more stealing! At least not at Elwell's. I never stepped foot in that store again... until it was bought out by a new owner and became "Dunne's Sure Save" some years later.

But... I did continue to take advantage of the lax supervision of most other business establishments in Madrid. My "lesson," though traumatic, was short-lived.

"Smokers" Submission #10

Mom had smoked pretty heavily for as long as I could remember. Three or four packs a day. She would buy cartons of cigarettes at a time. We had a kitchen drawer designated for her stash.

I can remember playing with all of those packs of cigarettes on our kitchen floor... building little structures with them and then bombing them from afar with the leftover packs. Or setting them up in bowling pin formation and then in shuffle-board fashion, hurling a pack to see how many I could knock over. Taught myself how to keep a bowling score this way.

Looking back... that sure was an odd plaything for a child. But then again... much of my childhood could be accurately labeled as "odd."

She smoked Winston 100's. Gold and red pack.

"Winston taste good like a cigarette should" the advertising jingle would joyfully proclaim. So, at the age of 11, I decided to see if they were right.

This decision to take my first puff was the culmination of years of curiosity about smoking. Many, if not most of the adults around me smoked. Mom and dad smoked. Most of their friends smoked. My two oldest brothers smoked. Society, in general, seemed to encourage the habit.

With a drawer full, surely mom wouldn't miss a single pack. So I tucked a pack into my pants pocket and headed out the back door.

Not wanting to experience this "coming of age" event alone, I tracked down the one friend I knew would partake in the great smoking experiment with me, Sam Smiley. We knew better than to ask his brother, Rod, the "good son."

Hidden safely in the recesses of our backyard shed, Sam and I puffed, sputtered and coughed our way through several cigarettes. We did our best to maintain our new found "coolness" but in reality, our first experience inhaling the tar and nicotine made us sick. But not sick enough to keep us from doing it again and again and again.

We smoked in my basement, under the railroad bridge, in cornfields, at the elementary school yard and anywhere else where we thought we could get away with it. If mom didn't miss that first pack I took from her cigarette drawer, she wouldn't miss a second and a third and a fourth pack.

One day, Sam and I were walking over the viaduct on Highway 17, above the railroad tracks that ran east and west through town, when we decided to duck under the bridge and have a smoke.

With style and grace, we took long hits and practiced blowing smoke rings. Sam, the kid with bizarre talents, quickly mastered the art of smoke rings and then graduated to blowing two rings at a time out of both sides of his mouth. No joke! He had the ability to seal his lips in the middle while holding small openings on either side of his mouth as he looked like he was grinning, awkwardly. He'd then tap quickly on both cheeks at the same time as small smoke rings shot out. I tried and tried to do it with no success. I was unable and envious.

We both sat on cement blocks as I had finished my cigarette and stomped it out in the dirt. Meanwhile, Sam was still in the process of sucking his last few lungs full of smoke.

With no time to react, we both froze as somebody strode quickly down the hill and interrupted our little party. It was a cop. One of Madrid's finest. He made up half of the mighty Madrid police force.

Luckily for me, my cigarette had been extinguished. But Sam... well, the best he could do was stick the cigarette under his right thigh as he innocently folded his hands in his lap. Yes... his cigarette was still lit.

The cop figured we were up to no good. No shock there.

In a monotone voice, not unlike Sergeant Joe Friday from the old "Dragnet" TV show, he questioned us brilliantly as he probed about our unseemly and likely, illegal activity. He skillfully inquired as to why we were there and what we were doing. We, with equal brilliance, responded with "I dunno" and "Nuthin'."

And... Sam's cigarette continued to smolder under his right thigh with his blue denim jeans serving as the only barrier protecting his tender skin.

Frustrated by the fact that he didn't actually catch us committing a crime and no doubt craving a malt from Farley's Dairy Sweet, the officer gave us a final stern look as he turned to go. Unfortunately, at that exact moment, Sam's pain tolerance exceeded it's maximum capacity as the cigarette's ember burned through the pants and began working on the bare skin of his leg.

"YEOW!!!" Sam screamed as he jumped up, slapping the back of his leg, while he awkwardly ran in place.

"Now.... we are busted for sure!" I thought. But much to my surprise, the bored cop told us to go home and tell our parents what we were caught doing. Yeah right!

After assuring him that we'd do just that, he left.... and we laughed.

This smoking thing turned out not to be just a brief phase nor did I limit my smoking to conventional tobacco. This had marked only the beginning and as the habit took hold, the more drastic measures I took to support my craving...

"Of Faith and Family" Submission #9

Any influence that faith or religion had on my life and my behavior up to this point began to slowly fade.

Here is the back story to that...

During her freshman year of high school, in 1961, my sister, Barbara, was invited to church by a girlfriend. That single invitation to church started a chain reaction that would mightily impact the Munson family for generations to come.

Breaking ground in the cabbage patch

Community Bible Church was a rather small but growing assembly of believers, who took seriously the command to evangelize the world, beginning with those around them. The church was built on a former cabbage patch on the corner of Norwalk and Alondra Boulevards in Norwalk, California back in 1952.

At some point in her attending church, Barbara made a decision to become a Christian, a commitment that she didn't take lightly and Christianity was introduced to our family.

Barb's new found faith compelled her to share her new world with her brothers. One by one, they made their way to see what had made such a profound difference in Barb's life.

The first church service of Community Bible Church

I don't know how often or how long Butch attended but it was brief. Even though I know he went, I have no actual recollection of it. But as with the whole family, his ties and association with the church would remain. In fact, Butch was married at Community Bible Church in 1969.

Bob's Army picture - about 1970

I do remember Bob going and his involvement in the church was steady throughout his high school years, even leading the congregation in singing on occasion. He was active with the youth group and really seemed to embrace this new way of life. But the evidence of that faith seemed to disappear when Bob returned from his tour of duty in Korea with the Army. A lot of things changed when he came back from overseas.



Barb and Bill stayed with the stuff pretty faithfully. Especially Bill. When we moved back to Iowa after dad's passing, Bill lasted only a few months before he headed back to live in California. He had his heart set on two things; becoming a minister and landing the pastor's daughter as his bride. Both dreams eventually became a reality.

Me, Barb, Bill and Butch in 2013. Brother Bob... looking down from heaven.

I clearly recall my first experience at the church. I was four or five years old and Barb had brought me with her one Sunday evening. We sat on the second row, on the right side, facing the pulpit.

I soaked in my surroundings and everything that was happening around me. The wooden pews were hard and uncomfortable. The church building had huge wooden arches supporting the roof. There was a side door leading to the outside to my immediate right and a picture of a long haired, bearded man hung on the wall, next to the door.

The skinny talker man - Pastor RG Osborne

I even listened to the tall skinny man up front as he talked and sometimes yelled at us for nearly an
hour. He was a very serious man and seemed to have a recurring theme throughout his talk. He kept talking about someone named "Jesus" and that I needed to get to know him because he was coming back soon. Back from where? I didn't know but my wheels were turning.



When the man quit talking and told us to bow our heads, I disobeyed because my eyes were fixed on the picture next to the side door. I was pretty sure I had figured it out. The long haired man in the picture must be that "Jesus" guy the preacher kept talking about.

When the service ended and the congregants started filtering out of the sanctuary, I stayed put, still staring at that picture with an occasional glance at the side door.

When Barb told me it was time to go home, I shared with her what I had figured out. "This picture is Jesus and the talker said he was coming back. I don't know why everyone is leaving before he gets here. I think he might be coming through this side door and so I want to be the first one to see him when he comes."

Barb, me and Butch - 2014

I was crushed when Barb explained to me that Jesus probably wasn't coming back that night. I felt
deceived by the skinny man with the white shirt and black tie. I guess the silver lining was that now I knew what he looked like. I would be sure to recognize him once he did decide to come back.

With the influence of Barb and Bill, I was pretty regular with my church attendance up until the point of my dad's death. With a steady diet of teaching from the good book, I had a decent grasp on right and wrong. I was far from perfect but I wasn't a bad kid.

When we moved to Iowa, I recall attending church a handful of times but found it overwhelmingly dull and boring. That, coupled with the fact that Bill had moved back to California, I quit attending church.

Brother Bill - 2013

If there is one thing that Bill has done a remarkable job of over the course of my life, particularly my pre-adult years, it has been his loving ability to hold me accountable for my spiritual life. When my allocation of time on this earth is about spent and I evaluate who had the most significant, earthly impact on my existence, there will be no hesitation, it's not even close... it will be my blessed brother Bill... with an assist from Barb and the Community Bible Church of Norwalk, California.

However, at that point in my life, Bill's influence could not be felt from 1,700 miles away.

I had emotionally separated myself from my mom and had drifted from my religious roots. Those two facts spelled trouble and that trouble began to manifest itself.

"Grandma Always Liked You Best" Submission #8

In later years, when I asked my mom the catalyst for her decision to move us back to Iowa after my father's death, she confirmed that it was because her mother wanted her to come "home."

Her mother? Bessie Harris. Grandma Harris. Mother of nine... and in the process of outliving most of her nine children.

Grandma Harris came to live with us in Madrid shortly after we relocated to Iowa. I guess she was a pretty good woman but I was never particularly close to her. This was due, in part, to the fact that she clearly favored my cousin, Bruce, over me... a fact that she barely attempted to conceal.

Mom said that Elsie, mom's sister and Bruce's mom, was also Grandma's favorite daughter. That favoritism seemed to trickle down to Bruce.

A couple anecdotal pieces of evidence to this "favoritism:"

One day, as Sam Smiley and I were killing time at his house, I inadvertently found fifty cents under the seat cushions in his living room. Sam and I split the treasure and immediately made plans to run downtown and spend it before it burned a hole in our pocket.

I went home and filled my mom in on what we had found and declared my intentions to immediately spend my quarter downtown. Grandma Harris sat and listened intently before nonchalantly sauntering toward her bedroom. She attempted to secretly motion Bruce to follow her but I saw her and correctly assumed what was taking place.

I peeked through the crack in the doorway to her bedroom and witnessed her rummaging through her coin purse as Bruce eagerly stuck out his hand. I watched as she pulled out a quarter and then a dime. Thirty-five cents!

Grandma Harris not only wanted Bruce to have anything and everything that I had... she wanted him to have more!

This certainly wasn't an egregious crime on her part but it was an event not unlike many events where her actions clearly revealed her bias.

Even though Grandma Harris had been slowed by a stroke a couple years earlier, she was still as strong as an ox at 84 years of age. We used to arm wrestle with her and never even came close to beating her.

She was a bible-toting, God-fearing woman but she also had a temper that could clear a room in an instant. She was very feisty!

One day, I did something to get her dander up and she came at me. I leaped from my chair with the intent of escaping due to my superior speed and agility. Grandma was a step behind me with her shoe cocked above her head, looking for an opportunity for a right hook across the side of my head.

She cornered me in the dining room where I used the table as a barrier between me and this senior assassin. We both slowly circled the table as we pondered our next move. She faked left and I bit. With head down, I ran to my right only to look up as we met near the doorway into the kitchen where Bruce was taking a pot pie out of the oven.

With nowhere to go and being mocked with that "Now I got You!" look from our resident seasoned citizen, I did the only thing I could do as I saw that well worn sole of her shoe rapidly approaching the side of my head... I ducked.

Unfortunately for Bruce, who was attempting to tip-toe past the commotion with his dinner in hand, he didn't duck.

Bruce ended up on the ground with the steaming ingredients from a just cooked, chicken pot pie all over him and around him. Grandma Harris immediately diverted her attention from me to Bruce as she profusely apologized for her bad aim.

I took that opportunity to head out the front door and into safety.

My cousin (brother) Bruce passed away in 2013. He was 57 and another victim of cancer.

Bruce's memorial service. My brothers Butch and Bill... tossing Bruce's ashes into the Des Moines River.

Grandma Harris passed away at the ripe old age of 91. She outlived six of her nine children. At the time of this writing, my mom is the single surviving child of Bessie Harris. On January 15, 2015... mom will turn... 91.

Mom at Bruce's memorial - September 2013

  

"Detached" Submission #7

Madrid, Iowa - Late 1969, Early 1970

The passing of my father had introduced me to death. Human death. I had pets die, but not family members. This tragedy brought to my realization that anyone could die and that thought began to haunt me.

My fear, anxiety and loneliness began to overwhelm me. These thoughts and emotions metastasized into a genuine fear that my mom would soon die and I would be left totally alone.

I was so scared, that I would sometimes creep into my mom's room and lie down beside her so that I could keep an eye on her at night. My dad died when I was away from him and I figured if I was with my mom... she wouldn't die.

I remember one night, not long after we had moved to Madrid, that I crawled into bed next to my mom and began to talk to her. At some point, I left to use the bathroom, returning only a couple minutes later. I resumed my conversation but quickly became aware that my mom was not responding.

"Mom?" I said. No response.

"Mom!" I said louder. Nothing.

"MOM! MOM! MOM!" I screamed as I began shaking her violently.

Her eyes flew open wide with terror, "Bart, what's wrong?!?" She screamed!

My mom, unbeknownst to me, had been taking sleeping pills to fight some insomnia she was experiencing since my dad had passed away. That night, the pills had kicked in quickly and with strength.

I thought she had died. I REALLY thought she had died. It took me hours to quit shaking.

My mom had a terrible, hacking cough caused by years of a 3 pack-a-day smoking habit. It was not unusual for her to have coughing spells that literally took her breath away to the point of passing out. This, too, frightened me as I was sure that one of these times she would be unable to catch her breath and she would just quit breathing.

Those coughing fits seemed to intensify at night as she tried to sleep. This was the major reason that I eventually quit slipping into her room at night to sleep next to her. From my bedroom, I would still hear her hacking at all hours of the night. To combat it, I developed a technique whereby I would wrap my pillow around my head and thus insulate my eardrums from most sound. In addition, I would turn a box fan on high as an added noise distraction in an effort to NOT hear my mom cough.

All these years later... I still wrap my pillow around my head and I sleep with a fan on high 365 nights a year... and it all started because I thought my mom was going to cough herself to death.

I clung to my mom more than ever. I didn't want to lose her. My sister, Barbara, had always been my surrogate mother of sorts. And to some extent, because of the age difference of my siblings, my brothers also, had always taken care of me... watched over me... loved me, the baby of the family. But they were all a couple thousand miles away. Mom was all I had.

My mom was still young... just in her mid-forties and she looked younger than her age. None of that registered with me. She was just my mom and I needed her now more than I had ever needed her before. So... it took me by surprise when the inevitable happened. She started dating.

Teens date. Not moms. Especially not MY mom! What would dad think? I couldn't understand it and I definitely didn't accept it.

Elmo Shuey. At least she could have dated a guy with a normal name! Elmo. Yes... ELMO!

Apparently my mom had dated him centuries ago when the big band era was still small and their acne was the major issue in life. I guess they decided to see if the fire could be rekindled.

I tried to conceal my jealousy the night he came over for their first date. He tried to talk to me like he was my favorite uncle but I was having none of it. I looked at him as a thief. I had one parent stolen from me by cancer and death... and here was a guy looking to steal my mom with his charm and his new Olds Toronado.

Like a dad talking to his 16-year-old daughter, I quizzed my mom about where they were going, how long they were staying and what time I could expect her to be home.

She told me that she couldn't imagine being out passed midnight as she looked at Elmo... who smiled and winked. Whatever THAT meant.

I went to bed early that night... for one reason, my grandma was not an exciting babysitter and number two, I figured the earlier I went to sleep, the less time I would have to worry about my mom being home safe and sound. I'd be sound asleep with my pillow wrapped around my head and my fan rattling on high looooong before my mom's midnight curfew.

At about one o'clock in the morning, I was awakened with a rare earache. Not able to go back to sleep, I thought I'd go wake up my mom. She'll know what to do. She always does.

I made my way to her room and switched on the light. She wasn't there. Her bed still perfectly made.

Where was she??? She was with Elmo and she was late! I was upset. No... I was FURIOUS!

I sat on the couch, arms folded... too angry to even watch television. 

My anger mounted as the hands of the clock made their redundant circular journey. One-thirty, two, two-thirty in the morning. How could she do this to me? My earache had long since subsided. The only thing that hurt right now was my heart.

Was I acting the part of a spoiled brat, upset that things were not exactly as I had wanted them to be? Or was my mom being insensitive to the needs of her youngest son who was navigating his way through a tumultuous time in his life? I struggle with that question even today. I would like to think that faced with similar circumstances as an adult that I would strike the proper balance with my actions. But then again... I love being a hero in my contrived hypothetical situations.

I began to hop up and peak out the curtain every few minutes... impulsively... obsessively... as though my frequent looks would speed up the process of her getting home. It didn't.

At about three in the morning, I heard a car pull up and the engine stop. I jumped up, slowly pulled back the curtain just enough to see Elmo's Oldsmobile parked in front of the house. 

Mom was home. My earache was gone. My anger dissipated. All was well with the world.

I ran into my bedroom and pulled the covers up and feigned slumber. I didn't want mom to know that I was waiting up for her. I lay there in eager anticipation of the front door opening. I waited... and waited... and waited.

After 15 or 20 minutes had passed, I got up and looked out the window. This time, I didn't peak through a crack, I flung the curtain open wide... hoping they saw me. The car was still there. Two silhouettes in the darkness. No evidence that they saw me looking at them.

I was seething! It was going on four o'clock in the morning and my mom was in a car... alone with a man. Elmo! What were they doing? 

Time for desperate action. The light switch that controlled the front porch light was a square knob that could be turned continuously in the same direction. 180 degrees and it went on... another 180 degrees in the same direction, it was extinguished. On, off, on off. I grabbed hold of that knob and begin turning it in the same direction... on, off, on, off, on, off... for five minutes... like a lighthouse beacon giving direction to a ship lost in the fog.

My embarrassment over pulling such a childish stunt was superseded only by my determination to send a message to my mother that she was needed by her son... now. I sat down on the couch, confident that my message was received... loud and clear. Mom would be coming in the door shortly.

I awoke as the front door opened and the early morning sunlight streamed across the living room. As my eyes focused, I could see the clock read a few minutes after eight o'clock. "You've got to be kidding!" I thought.

I started to explain what a dreadful night I'd experienced but my mom cut me off in mid-sentence.

"How could you embarrass me like that?" She asked angrily. "Turning the porch light on and off! If you keep acting up, Elmo may never ask me out again!"

Unfortunately, he did ask her out again but for some strange reason, I no longer cared. That night, my relationship with my mom changed and changed for good. I no longer clung to my mom. My world no longer revolved around her. 

Whether I was ready for this level of independence or not, I wasn't sure, but there was no turning back. I detached from my source of strength and comfort. I began to look for other things to fulfill the void that my mom had left.

This was not good news... 

"Strike Three" Submission #6

It seemed to me that Sam's dad treated him differently than the other four kids. More harsh. More distant. Less patience. Less affection.

I wondered how that would effect him in years to come.

Boone, Iowa - Summer 1993

20 years later, I ran into Rod Smiley at a church service in Boone while I was visiting Iowa on vacation. I was so happy to see my old friend and I was eager to hear about his siblings... where they were and how they were doing.

He gave me the rundown on everyone but when he came to Sam, his countenance changed and he looked off into the distance as he spoke. He talked about Sam's problems through adolescence and the difficulty his parents had controlling him. He was sent away for a bit but his behavior didn't seem to change much when he got home, in fact, it grew worse.

Problems at school, problems with drugs and problems with the law.

Rod said that at one point, Sam was determined to make some positive changes. He moved to Colorado for a fresh start, got a job and seemingly had his life pointed in the right direction.

At this point in the conversation, Rod's tone was rising and his eyes once again met mine. Then he looked down and with sadness said, "But trouble always seems to follow Sam." He continued, "It wasn't long before he lost his job and had tumbled back into the drug scene."

He mumbled, "If you were to ask me where he is today...." His voiced trailed off.

Madrid, Iowa - Fall 1995

Kim, Sam's oldest sister, filled in some of the blanks when I ran into her at a high school football game. She hadn't seen nor heard from Sam for more than 10 years until he had called her a few months back.

Sam's teenage son was in the hospital from a self inflicted gun shot wound in a murder/suicide attempt. He had killed his step-father.

"Sam's son had always idolized his dad but Sam never seemed to be there for him. Now he's fighting for his life." Kim concluded.

A couple years ago, I heard from another family member that Sam was in prison. I didn't bother to ask why. I didn't want to know. I just prayed, "Lord, please be with my friend."

I know that when one reaches adulthood, one must take responsibility for their decisions and their actions. But I couldn't help but feel sorry for Sam Smiley. It just seemed that he started life with two strikes against him and as a young adult, he swung once again and missed. Strike three.

"Sam's Gift" Submission #5

Madrid, Iowa - Early 1970

It must have been early 1970. Winter. I woke up on a Saturday morning and was greeted with blanket of fresh snow on the ground. Before I could even choke down a bowl of cereal or watch a "carntoon," Sam was beating on my front door.

He looked like a little mixed and matched Eskimo... lots of layers of clothing in various sizes and colors. Snow boots, many sizes too big for him. It appeared he was posing as the male half of the famous American Gothic painting but instead of a pitchfork, he was holding a snow shovel.

He suggested that we could make some money if we knocked on the doors of our neighbors and asked if we could shovel their sidewalks and driveways for cash. Now this was an odd concept for a California boy but I was certainly game if it meant monetary gain which Sam assured me it did.

Sam was right.

Before noon, we had combined for a $20 jackpot...
ten bucks each!

Should I tuck it away in my piggy bank and save it? Not on your life! We were headed downtown to the Dime Store on 2nd Avenue. Candy galore!

I was a kid on a mission as I methodically ran my eyes across the racks of candy. Ten dollars worth of candy in 1970 was almost equivalent to a pillow case of treats on Halloween. I was so focused on the task at hand that it wasn't until I loaded the counter with my choices, that I noticed Sam hadn't picked up a thing.

With great curiosity, I asked him, "Aren't you going to buy anything?"

"Yes." He replied. "But not here."

Knowing the handful of retail establishments in Madrid, I could not imagine where he wanted to spend his hard earned money but I was about to find out.

Lucas Hardware was a few blocks east of the Dime Store. I had never darkened its doors. I mean...

why would I? I had just turned 11 and there was little reason that a kid my age would have any need for tools or nails or whatever else they sold in that place.

Sam knew exactly what he wanted. He told me that he wanted to buy something for his dad. He almost seemed embarrassed by the admission but my thought was, "At least you have a dad."

He scanned the contents of a well lit, glass enclosed case of pocket knives and settled on a nice, pearl handled one. This single purchase consumed just about every cent of his ten dollars. Sam was proud of  his choice.

He had resisted the selfish lure of buying enough candy to put himself into a sugar induced coma in favor of blowing his entire earnings on a gift for his father. I thought that was dumb and cool at the same time.

Sam was so excited, he ran all the way home as I attempted to keep up with him, while placing a stranglehold on my bag of candy. Out of breath... we reached his house.

Sam motioned for me to follow him as he slowly opened the front door to his house. Coming from the bright, white snow, illuminated by an afternoon sun, into the dark living room of the Smiley home was quite an adjustment for the eyes.

As usual, there were only two things that lent any light to the dungeon-like living room... the flickering screen of a small television and the subtle glow of Mr. Smiley's cigarette.

We stood just inside the door, eyes slowly adjusting. We were not greeted by Sam's dad. We weren't acknowledged in any way. Not even a glance in our direction.

Uncomfortable and intimidated...VERY intimidated. I wanted to bolt.

"C'mon Sam!" I thought. "Give him the knife and let's get out of here!"

Sam slowly and cautiously approached his dad as if he were approaching a rattlesnake. Mr. Smiley kept his eyes glued to the television.

"I bought you something, dad." Sam said as he handed him the box.

Mr. Smiley appeared annoyed as he took the box and opened it. He took the knife out of the box and stared at it for a few second before putting it back in the box.

He looked at Sam as he tossed the box onto the coffee table and said, "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

If Sam had an answer to his dad's question, he thought it best to keep his thoughts private.

Mr. Smiley's gaze returned to the TV as he took a long hit on his cigarette. Once again, Sam and I felt invisible and insignificant.

After what felt like an eternity, Sam reached down, picked up the knife and headed out the front door. I was right on his heels.

In my mind, I was weighing the hypothetical options of having a dad like that or having no dad at all. At that exact point in time, I thought my circumstances were better than Sam's.

As we left his house in the vast brightness of the day, I looked at Sam and before I could say a word, he forced a smile and said, "Good. I wanted to keep the knife for myself anyway." We both knew that was lie but I understood perfectly and smiled back at him and said, "I know."

Was it an isolated event? Maybe. Am I being too harsh right now with a memory from 44 years ago? Possibly.

All I know is that this episode has stuck with me for my entire life. As an 11-year-old, I couldn't totally process what had just happened. I just knew that it didn't feel right. I was scared and uneasy and I felt deep sympathy for my friend.

I often wondered whatever happened to Sam. It wasn't until years later that I found out...

"Welcome to the Neighborhood" Submission #4

Madrid, Iowa - July 1969

It was the middle of an Iowa summer... hot... humid... and the annoying buzz of locusts filled the air. Bruce and I were in the backyard. We had two large walnut trees with a single plank of wood wedged between them forming a bench. A homemade swing hung from a sturdy branch.

Under the canopy of branches and leaves from the large and mature trees, we set about making a fort out of the moving boxes. We cut out windows to allow air into our corrugated construction and carved passage ways into the tubular boxes that became hallways to other sections. It took us hours to complete.

We were so proud of our efforts that we briefly considered living in our cardboard condo until Bruce brought up the fact that there were tornadoes in Iowa and that it snowed in Iowa... and that our new home just might not stand up to such weather conditions. Oh well... we'd just enjoy it while we could.

As we sat in the cramped quarters wondering what to do next, our thoughts were interrupted by a barrage of rocks pelting our humble abode. We were under attack! Who had launched this assault? Was it my mom? Couldn't be. She couldn't throw... I mean... she couldn't chuck rocks with that sort of velocity and accuracy.

 Turns out that the offensive was Sam Smiley's way of welcoming us to the neighborhood. The Smiley's lived next door. Five kids. Two boys and three girls.

The Smiley boys, Sam and Rod, became my first friends in Iowa. They were as different as night and day.

Rod was quiet. A very nice kid. Very low-key and shy. Stable and guarded. He didn't seem to be too wrapped up in popularity, fashion, sports or the opposite sex. He loved to get up at a ridiculously early hour on Saturday mornings to watch hours of "carntoons" as he called them. His daily uniform was jeans and a white t-shirt that was a size too small. He kept life simple.

Sam, on the other hand, was loud, energetic and impulsive. The rock thrower! Sam was the funniest kid that I had ever met. It wasn't as if he was attempting to be a comedian, he was just naturally funny. Sometimes, we would be in the street playing football or tag and I would look down and notice that Sam was wearing rubber baseball cleats. The cleats just happened to be near him when he got the impulse to play outside. So he slipped them on and away he went. And talk about an enviable talent, he could burp the entire alphabet in a single belch. What kid wouldn't like a guy like that? If you didn't grow up with a "Sam Smiley" in your neighborhood, then you missed out.

As an adult, I have learned that many who entertain us with their comedic genius, have an unpleasant history or grew up in some tough circumstances. Not all funny people share this background but many, many do. It makes me wonder about Sam and it conjures up some memories that held little significance as they unfolded more than 40 years ago but give me pause today.

It makes me think of that wintery Saturday morning when we woke up to a deep, blanket of snow on the ground...