"So I Started a Gang" Submission #20

I tried starting a gang once. Yes, in Madrid, Iowa. Rough town surrounded by cornfields. A boy has to do what a boy has to do to survive the tough streets of Madrid.

I know, I know… could I have had a more stupid idea? Maybe… but not likely.

Where was this idea born?

My brother, Bill, gave me a book called, “Run Baby Run.” It was the story of a kid named Nicky Cruz from Puerto Rico, who moved to New York City as a child. He grew up on the streets and ended up joining a notorious street gang called the Mau Maus. He eventually worked his way to the top of the gang and the book, very graphically, chronicles every gory detail of his ascension.

Now… the real point of the book is Cruz’s glorious conversion to Christianity under the street ministry of David Wilkerson. Maybe you have heard of the film adaptation of this biography called “The Cross and the Switchblade.” I was totally fascinated with the story up until the conversion part… I’m ashamed to admit today.

I was captivated how this gang terrorized and intimidated everyone they came in contact with. When someone wanted to join the Mau Maus, they had to be “jumped in,” which meant they were beat up by several of the gang members and if they could withstand the punishment, they were in. It all sounded so cool… to a 7^th grader in the great Midwest.

My friend, Ed Burke and I would take turns reading portions of the book out loud. We discussed starting the Madrid Mau Maus. The shed in my backyard would be our meeting place. We would invite only the coolest and the toughest.

Yes… I am laughing and shaking my head as I type.

Mac Cowles, John “Scrounge” Long, Curt Chapman, Kevin Gibbons… these were a few of the initial

invitees. All of them were interested enough to come to our first meeting in the shed. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. Gang stuff, I guess. Who we were going to intimidate first, maybe. I do remember that we lit some matches. Not sure why. Gang members like fire?

Our first order of business was whether to accept the Lombardi brothers, Scott and Tony, into our elite group. The vote was affirmative but only if they could withstand the gauntlet. One at a time, they had to travel through the members, lined up on two sides, as everyone threw punches and kicks. If they made it through, to

the other end, they were in.

Scott went first and was pummeled from the get go. I remember he fell down and had to crawl to the other end of the shed. I don’t think anyone had the heart to do too much damage and he ended up making it through without any real injury. His eyes were red and watery. He was happy to be done.

As we finished with Scott, our attention turned to his younger brother, Tony. But Tony must have thought better than to offer himself up to the blood thirsty 12-year-olds, because he was nowhere to be found. He must have exited during Scott’s initiation. Smart kid.

As co-Presidents, Ed and I had to wear something that made us stand out. We talked about some sort of leather wrist band but settled on a heavy chain bracelet. Gang leaders must accessorize.

A few days later, Brian “Huffy” Huffstutler got wind of the newly formed gang and was dying to be a part of it. We were at school, on a break after lunch. We stood in front of the three-story school building, near the street.

“What do I have to do, Muns?” Huffy pleaded, “Name it!”

Thinking back to the “jump-in” initiation from the book, I modified the protocol as I told him to turn his head away from me and turn back when I told him to a few seconds later. Huffy obediently turned his head as I slipped my heavy chain bracelet over the knuckles on my right hand.

“Ok Huff, turn around.” I said

He turned his head and before he could focus his eyes, I slugged him on his left cheek as the chain dug into my knuckles, taking the skin with them.

Huffy fell against the tree and slithered down in a squatting position with his face in his hands. He stayed that way for quite some time as a small crowd gathered. Eventually he got up and smiled. A welt in the shape of the chain links protruded from his cheek.

He had taken a shot from all five foot one inch, and 80 pounds of me… and lived to tell the story. Huffy was in.

We never beat anyone up. We never intimidated anyone. Heck, we never even had a second meeting. The Mau Maus disbanded prior to ever wreaking havoc on the scared souls of Madrid, Iowa.

The memories of our gang faded into the mist of time, never to be brought up again… until a couple years later.

"First Kiss or First Miss?" Submission #19

I guess Joni and I began to do all the things required of junior high couples… we doodled each other’s names on our notebooks and the covers on our books (brown paper sacks from the grocery store… cut, folded and fitted around the book… a lost art), we smiled awkwardly at each other when our eyes accidently met in class or as we were walking in the hallways… but most important of all, we sat by each other at the high school sporting events, flanked by our respective entourages. Having these posses with us was crucial because they created just enough distraction to dilute the tension that would have been created had we been alone and forced to actually converse.

795-2108… that was her phone number. Sometimes I would sit and stare at the phone for long periods of time… trying to gather the courage to dial those numbers. More times than not… I’d talk myself out of it.

As with the entourage aspect… I again needed some sort of a distraction in order to aid me in making that call. Was that just me? Was I so lacking in game that I had to resort to such childish antics or was that par for the course at age 12? I always felt that it was just me.

Anyway… so, I had a tape recorder, a modern marvel of American technology and innovation. I loved listening to the radio and when a good song came on, I’d hit the “record” button to capture the recording of my favorite songs. It was the iTunes of the day minus the cost… and the quality.

Those recordings began to be my method of breaking the ice when I called my girlfriend. She’d answer the phone and I’d hit the “play” button. Within a few seconds, I’d stop the music and ask her if she knew the title of the song. It was our own, personal “Name That Tune” game. We had fun with it. We have actually talked and laughed about it in recent years… some 40+ years later.

I spent the night with Mac Cowles one Friday night, shortly after Joni and I had become an “item.” As was typical, Mac and I stayed up half the night talking about all sorts of things but… primarily… girls! Eventually, the conversation led to the inevitable question: “When are you going to kiss her, Muns?”

Trust me, I had asked myself that question almost from the minute this budding relationship began. But remember… I was the smooth operator that couldn't even hand her a ring… how in the world was I going to muster the courage to plant a wet one on her? But… I HAD to do it now. Mac’s question had morphed into a personal challenge.

My plan began to unfold. The next Friday, the high school basketball team had an away game. The school provided a “pep bus” as transportation for students to travel to the game. I had confirmed that Joni was planning to go and of course we would sit by each on the bus and at the game. Junior high relationship law. After we got back… I would walk her home… and then I would do it… I would kiss her goodnight.

Wait. How exactly do you kiss? I mean, I kissed my mom on the cheek occasionally but I was certain that this kiss had to differ greatly from that!

So, I practiced on the mirror. There… I said it. You probably did too… so stop judging me.

Friday night arrived. To say I was nervous was an understatement. Per protocol, I’d lined up a wingman for the event… Scott Lombardi… or “Squealer” as he had affectionately become known. He earned the nickname because of an extra-long transition period between his “boy voice” and his “man voice.” Sort of a Peter Brady syndrome.

We traveled to the game that night and, of course, I couldn't concentrate on the game. On the ride home, I had concluded that I needed to abort the operation. Call it off. Pull the plug. When I communicated my newly changed plans to Scott… he wouldn't let me even think about backing out now. He was not going to miss out on this ground breaking event.

The bus pulled up to the “bus barn” at the corner of 1^st and Main, across the street from the school. Joni lived about a half block away. That short walk did not supply me adequate time to calm my nerves. I walked about as slow as a kid could walk. Scott walked on ahead, giving me my space, but frequently whipping his head around, determined not to miss the fireworks.

We reached her house and then stood there… awkwardly… for what seemed to be an eternity. I think she sensed what was coming and was probably, secretly amused.

It was cold outside and not conducive for long good-byes. Scott was about a half block up the road with his hands thrust deeply in his pockets as he hopped up and down… trying to stay warm. He was running out of patience. I think Joni was running out of patience also.

“Well, I gotta go. Bye.” She said as she turned to walk toward her front door.

For a brief moment, I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. But before I could walk away, Squealer’s high pitched voice pierced the darkness. “C’mon Munson! Aren’t you going to kiss her? You can’t back out now!”

Joni stopped and turned around before she opened her door and I thought, “It’s now or never.”

I dashed up her walkway, forgetting about technique and all of the practicing on the mirror. I put one arm around her and awkwardly gave her a quick peck. I honestly aimed for the lips but in my haste, I’m pretty sure I got mostly chin.

I did it! I didn’t do it well… but I did it! I kissed Joni Dalton. As far as anyone else knew… I turned her legs to jelly… at least, that’s what I wanted to think.

Our romantic relationship lasted a good eight… or nine… basketball games. In real time, that’s maybe two months.

Despite my suave and debonair ways… she left me for an older man… a WAY older man. Tim
Wisecup was in high school for goodness sakes! He was just toying with her. Of course, they would never, ever last.

They’re still together today and are perfect for each other. They live life to the fullest and always find a way to still be kids at heart. I didn't really know Tim back then, I just considered him a thief. Today, I consider him a friend.

Ha ha... my first kiss...

"Chicks and Popularity" Submission #18

Popularity is a concept that creeps into the consciousness of most kids at some point, early in life. For me, it was about junior high. Like most kids, I wanted it, but didn't want to be obvious in my pursuit of it.

A quick self-assessment yielded a few conclusions...

Looks: Somewhere north of hideous.

Athleticism: Better than some, not as good as others. Probably in the upper 50^th percentile.

Intelligence: It was there… somewhere… largely untapped and lacking in regular exercise.

Wit: Quick. Sometimes cutting. Fed when it generated a laugh but ignored when it hurt feelings. (Not a good thing)

Were these the ingredients sufficient for a popularity pie? I didn't know but would soon put them to the test.

Seventh grade was a good year. It was my third full school year in Madrid and I felt like I was hitting my stride. I hung out with a group of guys that seemed to garner the most notoriety and attention… Ed Burke, Mark Gibbons, Mac Cowles, John Long, Kevin Gibbons, Scott Lombardi… to name a few.

And then there were the girls… ah yes, the girls.

I already had a couple GINO’s (Girlfriend In Name Only) in the 5^th and 6^th grades… Lori Smiley, Mary Bimbi… maybe a couple more. But this was now 7^th grade and time to step up my game. I wasn't exactly sure what that meant or where it would lead me… but I knew it was time.

Actual photo of Joni... a couple years prior to 7th grade

As I scanned the female landscape of the Madrid Junior High School, there were a number of pretty, smart and nice girls, but for my money, one stood out… Joni Dalton. She had long, brown hair, was very outgoing and extremely kind. I didn't know of anyone who didn't like her.

Rule number one in the pursuit of a girlfriend in junior high is similar to rule number one for a lawyer in the courtroom… only ask a question if you already know the answer. And in this case, the answer must be in the affirmative or I was abandoning my mission! I dispatched my good buddy, Mac, to infiltrate and collect the needed intelligence.

We were all on the blacktop playground on the west side of the three-story school building. You
could hear the chatter of pre-adolescent boys as they worked in unison to get the merry-go-round spinning a million miles an hour. The girls, on the other hand, talked quietly in groups of two and three. We always thought they were talking admirably about us boys, when in reality, they were comparing notes about Donny Osmond.

Mac approached a small pack of young females and motioned for Joni to come talk to him. He was cool and well-rehearsed as he articulately posed the complex, emotion filled question, “If Bart asked you, would you go with him?”

“Go with him?” “Go steady with him?” “Go out with him?” “Be his girlfriend.” Whatever the vernacular of that day, necessary to procure your buddy a girlfriend… that’s what Mac asked.

I watched from a distance… palms sweating, heart racing. I looked for a clue as to her answer. An enthusiastic nodding of the head accompanied by an ear to ear grin would suffice. I saw neither. Five seconds after Mac initiated contact with her, he was heading toward the school doors as the bell had rung, signaling us that the teachers were once again ready to torture us with grammar worksheets and useless mathematical formulas.

I fought through the sweaty crowd of fellow students until I caught up with Mac. I grabbed him by the arm. “Well?!?”

“She said yes.” He said, matter-of-factly… then he smiled.

I smiled too… as the butterflies took to flight in my stomach. Now what do I do?

I lay in bed that night, running scenarios in my mind about how to actually ask Joni to be my girlfriend. I was always much braver in my imagination at night than I was in reality the next day. In my vivid imagination, I was Romeo… minus the puffy shirt and long hair… in realty, I was a blithering idiot, yet to master the English language.

Days passed. I couldn't work up the courage. Any script that I had mentally prepared the night before always seemed to melt into a pile of nonsense when the time came to actually approach her. 

I needed a prop… a symbol… something that took some off the attention off of me and my words.

A ring! That’s what I needed. Chicks dig jewelry.

I had no money and Madrid had no stores that sold rings even if I did have money. Maybe mom had one.

Mom seemed to get a kick out of my request as she lugged her jewelry box from her bedroom to the kitchen table. As she opened it up, I saw a veritable treasure chest of cheap, costume jewelry. Avon specials. Mom didn't own anything expensive.

She helped me pick out a gaudy ring with a huge, diamond shaped setting made up of small red, white and blue phony stones. It was big enough to cover half of Joni’s hand… almost. And it had that fancy, one-size-fits-all band that you could push the end up under the setting until it fit perfectly.

If this didn't sweep her off her feet… I didn't know what would!

I had Mac give her the ring for me.

I didn't know if she liked it but when I passed her in the hallway, she was wearing it. Couldn't miss it. She smiled at me and my heart melted.

And so it began…

But where would it lead? 

"Hello, Good-Bye" Submission #17

Their drinking only grew worse and the alcoholism of my mom and step-dad began to have some far-reaching effects on our lives.

One of the cool things about moving back to Iowa was getting to know a number of family members with whom I had experienced little or no contact while living in California virtually my entire 10 years of life.

Christmas of 1969 was our first holiday season in Iowa and predated Mom’s marriage to Jack. We were invited over to Uncle Pete and Aunt Donna’s house for dinner and a gift exchange. They lived in Boone, about 15 miles north of Madrid.

Uncle Pete was mom's brother and I guess they were inseparable as children. Mom says that everyone called him "Pete" and her "Re-Pete."

The house was full with aunts, uncles and cousins. My cousin, Kent, entertained me with his uncanny imitation of Flipper, the dolphin. The extended family was genuinely happy to welcome us back to our home state. The sound of many conversations with intermittent bursts of laughter saturated the air. We had a great time and vowed to do it again next year... to make it a tradition.

Of course… our family had grown by that next year with mom’s marriage and our newly blended family. But the invitation was still on. The more the merrier!

Christmas fell on a Friday in 1970 and it was decided that our get together would be the next day, Saturday. I woke up that Saturday morning about as excited as an 11-year-old boy could be! The clock ran in slow motion all day as I tried and failed to occupy myself with time consuming activity.

About four o’clock, mom and Jack downed sixth or seventh beer of the day and stood up as if to leave.

“Are we going now?” I halfway shouted with obvious anticipation.

“No,” they told me. “The invitation said it started at six. We have to run to the bar and take care of a couple things.”

My head whipped toward the clock as I did the quick math.

“But you’ll be back in time to go, right?”

They answered in the affirmative… giving comfort to my soul.

By five o’clock, I had taken a bath, washed my hair and suited up in my finest bell bottomed pants… un-coached.  I was ready to get this party started.

I was sure we would be on the road by 5:30 PM… 5:45 PM at the latest.

Even as a child… I was preoccupied with promptness. I get teased to this day about my literal obsession with being early to all events. Nothing frustrates me more than to see people walking into a theater AFTER the previews begin to roll. What could they possibly be thinking?

We had a small, closed in front porch and I wandered out there at about 5:15 PM, certain I’d see the Buick’s headlights in my eyes as they headed west on 21^st Street. Nose pressed against the cold window, the glass steaming up all around me.

Every few minutes, I’d dash back into the living room and look at the gaudy, star-burst clock that occupied a large space on the wall… above the television set. And as the clock hands continued to move, I was more anxious and depressed as the time deadlines in my head came and went.

5:30, 5:45, 6:00 PM… all passed. But I still had hope. So we would be fashionably late… I could live with that… barely.

6:30, 7:00, 8:00 PM… in the books. We ain’t going. I cannot tell you how heartbroken I felt.

Sometime after eight o’clock… Mom and Jack came stumbling through the front door… obviously and extremely intoxicated. With a large lump in my throat and tear stained eyes, I opened my mouth to lodge my complaint when mom beat me to the punch.

“Cmon… lessss go!”

At that point… my emotions were thoroughly mixed. I wanted to go so bad but surely the party was over at that point and I doubted Jack was in any shape to drive. But… we went.

My mom knocked loudly on my aunt and uncle’s front door.

“Hellllloooo! An buddy home?”

It was 9 PM.

Uncle Pete opened the front door and as I peaked around him, the only body I saw was Aunt Donna, picking up some paper plates from the coffee table. Everyone was gone. The party was over. I was sick to my stomach.

I honestly do not remember exactly what started it but an argument erupted shortly after we stepped inside the front door. I think the intoxicated instigators took offense that they dared start the party prior to our arrival. Yes… they should have waited for three hours to allow the drunks to arrive.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Mom yelled over her shoulder as she staggered out the door, “We aren't ever coming back!”

Apparently they took her seriously because we were never invited back. I never saw my Uncle Pete again as he died of cancer some years later. His two kids, my first cousins, Kent and Judy, lived 15 miles away from me as we grew up… and we had no contact.

It wasn’t until 30 years later that I finally had some contact with my cousins. I saw Kent and his wife Mandy at a high school basketball game where one of my daughters was playing. It was great to get caught up. And then some 15 years after that, Mandy and I have become “Facebook friends” and communicate via social media.

I had a chance to catch up with Judy and her husband, Dave, at a family reunion some years back. It was exciting to hear about their son, Nick Collison, who was a basketball star at the University of Kansas at that time. Nick was drafted in 2003 by the Seattle Supersonics of the NBA, who later moved their franchise to Oklahoma City. Nick is one of the few players to stay his entire career with the same team. I saw a few weeks ago where he signed another 2-year contract with the Thunder.

Unfortunately, I have never had the pleasure of meeting my cousin, Nick Collison.

Surely things would have been much different had not Mom and Jack decided to celebrate the birth of Christ 45 years ago by drinking themselves into oblivion.

"My Refuge and my Strength" Submission #16

Grandma Munson became my Sunday night refuge. She was my dad’s mom. Vetah Janes was her name… the “Janes” coming from her second marriage. Regardless of her current, legal last name, we still called her “Grandma Munson.”

Grandma had a constant tick. Sort of like Tourette’s Syndrome. Every few seconds, her head would twitch and she would let out a quick, guttural sound. It took a little getting used to but eventually, I quit noticing it.

Grandma’s husband, Earl Janes, was “Grandpa Earl.” He wasn't a blood relative but he was the only grandpa I ever knew. What a great guy! I loved the man. Every time I saw him and he heard my voice, he’d get a big smile on his face and say with a touch of gusto, “Well hello Brother Bart!”

I say when “he heard my voice,” because Grandpa Earl was as blind as a bat. He couldn’t really see me. He wore thick, coke bottle glasses but I think he could only see blurry shapes or shadowy outlines.

For years, people in Madrid would bring their lawn mowers to Grandpa Earl to repair. He was a wizard at repairing these machines. Even when he all but lost his eye sight, he’d still fix lawn

mowers. He could tear a mower apart and put it back together by touch. An amazing talent.

I’m ashamed to admit that I used to play a cruel trick on him as he toiled away on the workbench in his garage. I would creep into his work area… undetected. He would be standing at his bench, his back to me, disassembling a motor. As he would lay a tool down, I would pick it up. Seconds later, he’d reach for the tool… his hand feeling along the area where he was sure he’d just laid it.

“What the hell?” He’d mumble, out loud, certain that it should be there. Then his fingers would probe the other side of the bench, at which time I would place the tool back where it was originally. Eventually, he’d feel along the original path and what do you know, there it was.

He would let out a little husky laugh and shake his head as he muttered, “I don’t know…” his voice trailing off.

Grandpa Earl had a leg amputated. Diabetes, I think. But that didn't stop him from hobbling to the garage to fix his mowers. Eventually, he had the other leg amputated and that pretty much did him in. He became wheelchair bound and his health seemed to deteriorate from there.

I remember seeing him, sitting in his wheelchair, head bowed, as though he was praying. He would frequently experience “phantom pain" in the lower legs… that weren't there. Both of his stubs would

twitch as he would attempt to muffle his cries of pain.

“Oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh!” He would he would cry out… embarrassed.

When the pain would subside for a few minutes, he’d finally raise up his head, smile at me and say, “My legs sure are acting up tonight, Brother Bart!”

“I know.” I’d say. “I hope they feel better soon, Grandpa.” I didn't really know what to say.

Grandma Munson and Grandpa Earl lived in a tiny, two-bedroom home on Main Street, directly across the street from the Madrid water tower. The old school, built in 1915, was just two blocks

south from their house. At that time, these school buildings housed Kindergarten through 12th grade. Some years later, they built a new high school out on Highway 17, just north of town. Eventually, the junior high students moved out there too.

My Sundays became very predictable. Mom and Jack would start tossing them back shortly after wiping the sleep from their swollen, blood-shot eyes and the alcohol consumption would continue until they could find something to argue about.

By mid-afternoon, invariably, one of them would fire a shot over the bow of the other one and it was on! This was my cue. I’d head over to Grandma’s house. I just didn't want to see them fight. It scared me something fierce. You never knew when the verbal barrage would escalate to physical blows. It often did and mom always came out on the short end of the stick.

Sunday after Sunday, with a rolled up change of clothes under my arm, I would jog the entire way to Grandma’s house, cutting through yards to shorten my trip. People in Madrid didn't build fences.

As I jogged, I would quietly sing gospel hymns to the rhythm of my footsteps. I remembered these songs from my childhood, attending church in California.

“Just a closer walk with thee,

Grant it Jesus is my plea,

Daily walking close to thee,

Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.”

Then I’d sing:

“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine,

Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.

Heir of salvation, purchase of God,

Born of his spirit, washed in his blood.

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my savior, all the day long!

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my savior all the day long.”

The words to these songs would comfort my troubled and frightened soul.

Grandma Munson would cook me dinner every Sunday night and it was always the exact same meal. Meat loaf, fried potatoes and cream corn. I loved it! It is still my favorite meal.

Grandma’s bedroom was right off the living room, on the north side and Grandpa Earl’s bedroom was also off the living room on the south side. My bedroom? I slept on a scruffy, old love seat in the living room. My head was on one armrest and my feet hung over the other armrest. It was far more comfortable than being home… the war zone.

It occurred to me, years later, that mom never asked me about where I was going those Sunday nights. Heck, I don’t think she had a clue that I was even gone. As I stated in a previous submission, she totally lost track of me, as she surrendered her parental duty.

Grandma Munson never asked me why I came over and spent the night… especially when I had school the next day. I suppose she might have known.

Grandma Munson and Grandpa Earl will always hold a very special place in my heart. I don’t think they even realized how much of a comfort they were to a frightened and confused young boy. They were my refuge and my strength. May they rest in peace.

"The Fog of Perpetual Intoxication" Submission #15

"If you're going to be my wife," Mom claimed Jack said, "you're going to drink with me!"

If that's how it went down, mom apparently didn't put up much of a fuss. In fact, she seemed to thoroughly enjoy drinking. I never figured out how Jack had a power over her that Dad never did. All I know is that mom's alcohol consumption went from zero to sixty in a very short period of time. The booze flowed like a river.

It started with beer and transitioned to vodka and orange juice and finally to vodka and water. If someone is pounding vodka and water from morning until night, they ain't doing it because it is a wonderful experience for their taste buds... it is a means to an end... it was a pathway to being black-out drunk.

Mom and Jack drank every single day, without fail. They maintained somewhat of a limit on the weekdays because they tended bar at night. Jack also worked the swing shift at Firestone in Des Moines but for some reason, he seemed to frequently be off of work for long periods of time. Union strike?  Disability? I don't recall but he was off more than he was on.

But even that moderation fell by the wayside eventually.

The weekends, particularly Sundays, when the bar was closed, Mom and Jack would get utterly blitzed. Mixed drinks for breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks in between. The drinking ceased when they finally passed out. Not before.

One Sunday afternoon, I walked into the house after playing some touch football in the neighborhood. As I got to the door, the first thing I noticed was that Jack's Buick Electra was not in its regular spot on the North side of the house, along 21st Street.. Odd.

"They must be gone." I thought.

I walked into the darkened living room, shades all pulled down. I found my mom on the couch... crying. I turned on the light and looked at her. She looked a mess. Her hair was noticeably disheveled but worse was the very swollen, bleeding lip.

"What happened to you?" I asked, my voice shaking. I was pretty sure I knew the answer and Mom confirmed it.

"He didn't mean it. He didn't mean to hurt me." She cried, her speech slurred from injury and extreme intoxication.

She continued. "It was my fault. I should have just kept my mouth shut and this wouldn't have happened."

Well, there was no doubt... my mom was expert at pushing people's buttons and egging them on. However, there was and is no excuse for a man to strike a woman... ever!

Thinking now about that first time that I saw my mom, wounded from physical abuse, it makes me angry. In fact I seethe as I type this. But rage was not the primary emotion I felt at that moment. As a 12-year-old, insecure, misguided preteen... I was scared... shaking.

Apparently, I lacked the machismo to seek retaliation for beating up my mom. I just didn't want him to do it ever again. Remember... from the moment my real father died, I feared my mom would die too and this event just gave me yet another way in which that might come to pass.

I hoped that my mom was right... that he "didn't mean it." Unfortunately, this was only the first physical beating of many. In one of their fights at the bar, Jack hit her so hard that she flew off the bar-stool, unconscious on the floor, near the jukebox. Stitches and an ambulance ride were Mom's prizes for that little scuffle.

The beat-down was witnessed by all the regulars. Did they just stand by as this all happened? I don't know the answer to that question but I do know that as time went on, Jack's bar lost most of their regular clientele. Who could blame them?

Their passion was on display every day... their passionate love one day, their passionate violence the next day. An odd cocktail of unbridled affection followed by violent aggression.

It was at this point in time that I began literally hating my life in Iowa. Until then, things hadn't been so bad since our big move but that all changed about six months into Mom and Jack's marriage.

I began to absolutely dread weekends. When my friends would rejoice at the final school bell on Fridays, I would start to feel that dread in my stomach and a trembling in my legs. I wanted to go to school seven days a week... not for love of school but for fear of the events that I knew would take place... like clock-work... at home.

Can you imagine a kid hating the weekends? It's just not right.

Let me park here for a minute.

This was the start to the darkest period in my life. Worse than the death of my own father, which was horrible enough. I'm not being dramatic; I'm being real.

I was 12 years old. I was not equipped to process what I saw and experienced. No child should EVER be put through this.


Not only did the alcoholism of my mom and step-dad result in weekly, horrible arguments, not to mention regular hand to hand combat... the fog of perpetual intoxication rendered them clueless to what was happening in my life. They didn't know where I was or what I was doing... ever. They didn't know what I was feeling. They never attended my sporting events. They never attended parent/teacher conferences. My mom never washed my clothes, let alone buy me new clothes. They lost total track of me and utterly surrendered their obligation to parent their minor children.

This was the ruination of my childhood. This was the cause of unspeakable anger, hurt and bitterness. It changed me... and not for the better.

But God is the giver of grace.


"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the LORD upholdeth him with his hand."
Psalm 37:24

Where would I go? Whom would I seek?

"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.