"Friday Night Fights" Submission #14

When I was in the third grade, my teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, had us all make a Father's Day card. She instructed us to draw something on the card that most reminded us of our fathers. Maybe something he enjoyed doing more than anything else. So I drew a picture of a beer can. Pabst Blue Ribbon. A few years ago, my mom pulled that card out of a box of old keepsakes. It gave me a chuckle.

My dad enjoyed his beer. Up until he got very ill, Dad would polish off a six-pack of PBR every night when he got home from work. From a very early age, I was his de facto bartender. Dad never had to ask me to get him a beer. He never had to utter a word. He would simply flick the opening of his empty beer can with his fingernail. That was my signal. When I heard it, I'd drop whatever I was doing, run to the fridge and grab another cold one. Sometimes he'd even let me take a drink.

               

On weekends, Dad had a standing date with some of his drinking buddies down at one of the local taverns. Being new to California, this is how my father developed new friendships. At first, it was the Lamplighter on Pioneer Boulevard in Artesia and then when we moved to Lakewood, his bar of choice became Rich's Tavern.

I didn't like when my dad would go to the bar on Friday nights because when he got home, he and my mom would usually get into an argument. It scared me. It gave me anxiety. I would physically shake.

One Friday afternoon, Jay Martinez, our next door neighbor, who also liked to party on Friday nights,
asked me to polish his shoes... for pay! Gladly! Upon completing the task, Jay gave me fifty cents. Two shiny quarters. I was thrilled! I was not used to having ANY money... whatsoever.

I was fascinated and thrilled with those two quarters. I sat on the little sidewalk that ran from the driveway to our front door and stared at my money. I started playing a game where I would

put the quarters on the grass, look away and then back at the coins... imagining that I had just found them.

My game was interrupted as my dad drove up after work. Knowing it was Friday, I knew his ritual would start the moment he walked in the front door. He'd shave, take a shower and then splash a heavy dose of Old Spice on his cheeks before he'd head out the door to Rich's.

My stomach began to churn in anticipation of the Friday night fights. As my dad walked to the door, I tried to engage him in conversation... maybe throw him off his game. I thought if he saw that I wanted to spend time with him... maybe he wouldn't go out... just this one night.

My plan seemed doomed from the get go. It was obvious that my dad was a man on a mission... the same mission he ritualistically performed each Friday. Nothing I said seemed to slow him down on his trek to the front door. In desperation, I made him a offer.

"Dad," I said, as I opened my hand, revealing my shoe-shining wages. "If you won't go to the bar tonight, I will give you this money."

It was a dead serious offer. As much as I wanted to spend that hard-earned money, I would have given it to my father in a heartbeat, if only he would stay home that night.

My dad stopped, looked at the two quarters in my hand and then raised his line of vision to my pleading eyes, as they began to well up with tears. He was speechless. We both stood there lost in the moment. Finally, he patted my head a couple times... still staring at my eyes... before slowly turning to walk into the front door.

About a half hour later, I heard the front screen door open and I got a whiff of Old Spice, which solidified the verdict... Dad would rather go to the bar than be fifty cents richer. "How foolish," I thought.

I cried as his car drove away.

Dad picked up the nickname, "Tiger" at one of those joints. I remember one of his friends, Hal Brown, came to Dad's viewing at the mortuary and he just cried like a baby as he repeated over and over, "Not the Tiger. Not the ol' Tiger."

Frequently, Dad would invite Mom to go to the bar with him. She consistently refused. Sometimes at home, he would ask her to have a beer with him but she insisted that she hated the taste of the stuff. She would not drink with him and i respected her for that.

The summer of '71, when we arrived home from our California adventure, something struck me as

odd. There were two beers sitting on the coffee table. I knew Jack was a pretty heavy drinker but I was pretty sure he consumed his drinks one mug at a time.

They were in beer glasses from Jack's bar. Both of them sat on a folded kleenex to absorb the condensation.

Well, if the second one wasn't Jack's, it had to be Mom's. But... she didn't like the taste of beer.

This signaled the start. I had no idea what we were in for...

"Right Back Where I Started From" Submission #13

The last day of 6th grade was pretty cool. June 1971. Knowing that I had approximately 90 days of freedom, prior to starting junior high was cool all by itself. But as I walked in the front door of our house, I saw mom and Jack, sitting on the couch, both wearing a big grin.

I smiled back at them... clueless as to why we all were smiling... until my eyes drifted down to the coffee table in front of them, where I saw the largest stack of cash that I had ever seen. My smile grew broader.

Within minutes, the rest of the clan made there way through the front door... Jackie... Phillip... Bruce. The scene was repeated. They saw us smiling... they saw the mother load of greenbacks... their grins made it unanimous.

I don't remember who... but one of us finally asked the obvious question, "Why is all that money on the coffee table?"

"We thought you guys might enjoy a vacation." Jack shared with us... still smiling.

Mom explained, "This money is for your plane tickets... to California... for a MONTH!"

Sweet baby Jesus!

Cal-i-forn-ia here I come! Right back where I started from!

I don't know if I was too young to realize or if I just didn't care... but I'm confident that part of the newlywed's motivation stemmed from their desire to eliminate 67% of the occupants of our cracker-jack box sized house for about 30 days as they got to know each other a little better. Sneaky, devious adults.

I was ecstatic. Our departure day could not arrive fast enough!

The trip did not disappoint. We had a blast.

Phillip and I paired up and stayed with my oldest brother, Butch, and his wife, Ruby... while Jackie and Bruce stayed with my sister, Barbara, and her husband, Charlie Wooley. At the end of each week, we would swap residences.

I remember Barb being very excited about seeing us and she went out of her way to make it fun. Charlie was a hoot, too. He had a great sense of humor and had us laughing all the time.

Not long after that trip, Barb separated and eventually divorced Charlie. I was crushed. Barb shared some horror stories about his behavior during their tumultuous marriage. Of course, all I had ever seen was "Good-time Charlie." Apparently, that was a show.

My brother, Bill, was living with Barb and Charlie at the time. When Phillip and I arrive for our first tour of duty at the Wooley compound, Bill mentioned that he was leaving for church camp at Big Bear Mountain in a few days. He was going to work as a counselor to the young skulls of mush.

"I wish you could go," he said, "but it cost $30."

 I will divulge this here and now. I DID NOT WANT TO GO TO CAMP! I had just arrived at Barb's house and was very much looking forward to the activities she had planned. Plus... I had attended this same camp several years earlier and to put it mildly, I was bored out of my mind! They had all sorts of strict rules, the cabins smelled like horses and we had to attend "chapel" three times every single day! Not my idea of a fun-filled California adventure.

Knowing that I did not have $30... not a small sum in 1971... and knowing that Bill surely didn't have it to spare either, I played along.

"Yeah, I wish I could go too. It sounds like so much fun!" I lied... impressively.

Those words would come back to haunt me.

"You really want to go?" Bill inquired.

My throat tightened up.

"Uh... yeah?" I mumbled... mouth dry. "But I can't go... I don't have thirty bucks."

"Let me work on it." He said with a gleam in his eye.

I have a big mouth.

Sure enough, the next day, Bill announced triumphantly that he had arranged to take his little brother to camp!

"Great!" Phony grin. Heart full of regret.

"Maybe it won't be so bad this time." I thought... mustering all the optimism that I could muster.

I was wrong. Again.

The only thing worse than my utter boredom was my horrendous case of chapped lips. They looked... and felt like raw meat.

Big Bear Camp was, in reality, Big Bore Camp.

At this point, lest I mislead you... let me point out that I love Bill for arranging for me to attend camp. He had no idea that I didn't want to go. I lied to him about that. He has always had a big heart and would move heaven and earth for me if he thought I wanted them moved. This was demonstrated in dramatic fashion some years after this... but... I mustn't get ahead of myself.

In spite of my week at camp, I still have very pleasant memories of the summer of '71 in California. My home! Trips to Huntington Beach, going to Magic Mountain amusement park with Bill, visiting old friends.... and listening to the sweet sounds of James Taylor singing his new hit, "You've Got a Friend."

I hated to leave but there were some things that drew my attention back to Iowa. I was kind of excited about hanging out with the Smiley boys again. I was looking forward to 7th grade and my first year of playing tackle football. Interest in the opposite gender was beginning to gain some steam. My new family was starting to click. Living in Iowa wasn't so bad.

But then...

It didn't take long for that scene to burst once we got back. From the moment we walked in the front door, things were different. I wasn't sure what it was at first... but it was obvious... something had changed.

"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