I've recently been writing about my exploits as an 8th grader during the early 1970's in Goldsboro, NC. If you think that incident #1 was exciting, sit back and enjoy my memories of incident #2.
It occurred just a few weeks after we had a "peeping tom" at our house. I had finally started relaxing a little bit in the evenings when wouldn't you know it, strangers in an unfamiliar vehicle, started driving up and down our street in front of our house in the evenings. They would drive very slowly, and every time they reached the point that was right in front of our house, they would come almost to a complete stop. That went on for about four days. I called the police on the second evening that it occurred, but by the time they arrived, they could not find the suspect vehicle.
As the Friday evening of that week arrived, I remember walking through the living room and noticing that the same strangers and vehicle were at a complete stop right in front of our house. I opened the front door and yelled out to them, asking them what they wanted. The car quickly accelerated and peeled off down the street. For the next few hours, I kept looking out the window. Around 10 pm I heard the now familiar sound of the vehicle and when I looked out the window, it was again sitting in the middle of the road in front of our house. I remained at the window and didn't try to confront the strangers that time.
After a few seconds, the driver drove the car about a half a block down the street and parked along the curb. The engine was then turned off but the two men remained in the vehicle. My gut told me that something was about to happen. I then did something that I never thought I would do, I quickly located the key to my father's gun cabinet and grabbed his double-barrel shotgun from amongst the several rifles and guns that he had locked up within it.
As I grabbed the shotgun, I looked out through the living room window and noticed that the two strangers were walking slowly down the street and right toward our house. My father was very safety oriented, and so that meant he kept his guns and his ammunition locked up separately. I quickly realized that I would not have time to retrieve the shotgun shells from the other locked compartment in the gun cabine. So I improvised. I opened the shotgun up by pulling the barrel down, I then swung the front door of our home open wide and stepped out onto the porch. The two men were startled by my appearance. They were even more startled when they observed what they thought was me loading the shells into the shotgun and flipping the barrel back into place with a very loud "CLICK". I had simply pretended to load shells into the gun since I didn't have access to the real ones.
My pantomime routine actually worked. As I stood there with the shotgun pointed in their direction, the two men did an immediate about face and quickly walked back to their car. The driver started the engine and again peeled off down the road. That time though, was the last time I ever saw that vehicle.
I was very glad, and very relieved.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Man of the House....
Prior to departing for southeast Asia for yet another tour, my father spent a few weeks giving me instructions on how to take care of things around the house while he was gone. He drilled into me, that from the moment he left, until he returned a year later, that I would be the "Man of the house".
It's a tough position for an 8th grader, and it was my second hitch! The first time I was "the man" was when I was in the 5th grade, back when my father had gone to southeast Asia for his second time. I tried to absorb everything he told me and to take my upcoming responsibilities seriously. I would have much rather preferred it if he would have suddenly told me that his orders had been cancelled, and that I could just resume being a kid for a few more years. Alas, that didn't happen.
I've already written about my hellish adventures in the public school system of Goldsboro, NC back in the early '70's. And I did mention the little suburb that I once lived in there. Up until the few months, prior to my father's return, I had always thought we lived in a pretty safe and secure neighborhood. Over a course of about three weeks though, my opinion on the matter changed dramatically.
It was late one Friday night, it was fall, and the temperatures were starting to drop at night. My mom, most unusually, had decided to keep some of the windows open overnight to allow the cool fresh air to enter the house. As usual on Friday nights, my mother would allow me to stay up late and watch old horror and science-fiction movies on television. My younger brothers and sister had gone to bed hours earlier. My mother, who had tried watching a movie with me, had fallen asleep soundly on the couch in the living room. Me, I was mister big stuff, sitting in my father's big orange colored, imitation leather rocker. The rocker was situated right in front of a window that faced the street in front of our house.
I can remember very clearly, watching television and suddenly feeling as if someone was watching me. I started feeling creepy all over. I knew it wasn't the movie I was watching, for I had watched that sucker probably a hundred times by then. I tried to ignore the feelings, but they kept getting stronger and stronger. I quickly decided that I would nonchalantly get up out of the rocker and pretend to be going to the kitchen. After getting out of the chair, and as I walked through the living room, I quickly stopped and peaked out of the window that also faced the street in front of the house.
Can you imagine how I felt, when I realized that a stranger was standing in front of the livingroom window and peering through it into the house. They had been looking right over my shoulder as I sat in my dad's rocker. I could not actually see the person, but I could clearly see their shadow. I could easily detect that they had their hands on their hips and that they were leaning forward just little to see through the window. As I watched the shadow, I observed the person reach up and scratch their head.
I tried not to panic. I told myself to stay calm. I left the dining room window and headed into the kitchen. I then picked up the telephone and tried to dial zero for the operator it as quietly as I could. This was well before "911" existed and when most telephones were still the noisy rotary dial type. Anyway, my mother must have heard me in the kitchen and started demanding to know why I was on the telephone. Of course, the stranger at the window heard her clearly. If he didn't, he heard me tell her that I was calling the police. That woke my mother up real good. As she came into the kitchen, I simultaneously tried to keep her calm and to explain the situation. Surprisingly, she did not get near as nervous as I would have predicted.
Eventually, the cops showed up and did a quick search of the neighborhood, and of course, they didn't find anything. Our "snooper" was long gone. My mother and I decided that night that we would not tell my siblings about the incident, so that they would not be scared every night when they went to bed. From that night on, all of our windows were closed tight and locked every night. I also began to become much more vigilant about what went on outside of our home.
A heck of a way to spend youthful days and nights wouldn't you say?
That was incident #1. I'll tell you about incident #2 in another post.
It's a tough position for an 8th grader, and it was my second hitch! The first time I was "the man" was when I was in the 5th grade, back when my father had gone to southeast Asia for his second time. I tried to absorb everything he told me and to take my upcoming responsibilities seriously. I would have much rather preferred it if he would have suddenly told me that his orders had been cancelled, and that I could just resume being a kid for a few more years. Alas, that didn't happen.
I've already written about my hellish adventures in the public school system of Goldsboro, NC back in the early '70's. And I did mention the little suburb that I once lived in there. Up until the few months, prior to my father's return, I had always thought we lived in a pretty safe and secure neighborhood. Over a course of about three weeks though, my opinion on the matter changed dramatically.
It was late one Friday night, it was fall, and the temperatures were starting to drop at night. My mom, most unusually, had decided to keep some of the windows open overnight to allow the cool fresh air to enter the house. As usual on Friday nights, my mother would allow me to stay up late and watch old horror and science-fiction movies on television. My younger brothers and sister had gone to bed hours earlier. My mother, who had tried watching a movie with me, had fallen asleep soundly on the couch in the living room. Me, I was mister big stuff, sitting in my father's big orange colored, imitation leather rocker. The rocker was situated right in front of a window that faced the street in front of our house.
I can remember very clearly, watching television and suddenly feeling as if someone was watching me. I started feeling creepy all over. I knew it wasn't the movie I was watching, for I had watched that sucker probably a hundred times by then. I tried to ignore the feelings, but they kept getting stronger and stronger. I quickly decided that I would nonchalantly get up out of the rocker and pretend to be going to the kitchen. After getting out of the chair, and as I walked through the living room, I quickly stopped and peaked out of the window that also faced the street in front of the house.
Can you imagine how I felt, when I realized that a stranger was standing in front of the livingroom window and peering through it into the house. They had been looking right over my shoulder as I sat in my dad's rocker. I could not actually see the person, but I could clearly see their shadow. I could easily detect that they had their hands on their hips and that they were leaning forward just little to see through the window. As I watched the shadow, I observed the person reach up and scratch their head.
I tried not to panic. I told myself to stay calm. I left the dining room window and headed into the kitchen. I then picked up the telephone and tried to dial zero for the operator it as quietly as I could. This was well before "911" existed and when most telephones were still the noisy rotary dial type. Anyway, my mother must have heard me in the kitchen and started demanding to know why I was on the telephone. Of course, the stranger at the window heard her clearly. If he didn't, he heard me tell her that I was calling the police. That woke my mother up real good. As she came into the kitchen, I simultaneously tried to keep her calm and to explain the situation. Surprisingly, she did not get near as nervous as I would have predicted.
Eventually, the cops showed up and did a quick search of the neighborhood, and of course, they didn't find anything. Our "snooper" was long gone. My mother and I decided that night that we would not tell my siblings about the incident, so that they would not be scared every night when they went to bed. From that night on, all of our windows were closed tight and locked every night. I also began to become much more vigilant about what went on outside of our home.
A heck of a way to spend youthful days and nights wouldn't you say?
That was incident #1. I'll tell you about incident #2 in another post.
A Rough Start
I was born in Miami, Florida on February 2, 1959 It was Groundhog Day. My birth was uncomplicated and went smoothly according to my mother. Unfortunately for me though, my life from that point on was not so simple and easy.
My father was in Korea with the military when I was born. We didn't get to connect until I was about six months old. He did get real nauseous and went out behind the barracks to throw up at the same time I was born though. By the way, that was without being notified of my pending birth first! I grew up in the shadow of a combination John Wayne and G.I. Joe. A career firefighter who was always rescuing someone from some thing. I tried for most of my life to emulate him, but found that I just couldn't do it.
By the time I was four years old, my family and I had already moved several times and had traveled well over 15,000 miles. By the time I was six and about to enter kindergarten, I was already taller and larger than most of the kids my age, it made me stick out like a sore thumb. It didn't help either that I talked with a serious lisp, was extremely pigeon-toed, and wore big thick glasses. I was also hypoglycemic, which made me very prone to experiencing cold sweats, the shakes, and blurry vision at a moments notice.
Standing out like I did, was basically the same thing as painting a very large bulls-eye on my forehead. For every bully in every school that I attended (around 20 or so) must have each felt personally responsible for trying to beat the crap out of me, and as often as possible. I got into a lot of fights while growing up. Sometimes I won, sometimes I lost, sometimes I didn't even bother to fight back. I never started one fight in my entire life though. In 6th grade alone, I received over 13 whacks with a big wooden paddle, all for defending myself.
By the time I was nine years old, we had moved another several times, traveled another 15,000 miles or so, and my father was once again headed to Southeast Asia for a remote tour. It was then that I the unfortunate experience of watching my mother suffer her first nervous breakdown and begin her slow and horrible slide into mental illness. It was around that same time that we were living with my grandparents, while my father was overseas, that my grandfather suffered a massive heart-attack and died.
A few years later, just as I had determined that life was starting to smooth out and take on a somewhat more normal form, my father was once again ordered back to Southeast Asia. I was caught totally off guard that time. At that point in my life, I was closer to my father than at any other point before then. Suddenly though, he was gone - again. I never told anyone, especially my parents, just how upset I was when he left.
I was even more upset that he moved us away from the small west Texas town in which we were living at the time. I loved that little town. Even though we were a military family and were considered outsiders, we had been lovingly accepted into that community. To make matters worse, I finally, after most of my life without one, had a best friend. That only lasted about 18 months though.
There were some consolations at that time though. For one, after some intense speech therapy lessons, I was freed from my lisp! Another, I found that with lots of focus and concentration over a year or so, I was finally able to walk without my toes being turned in. And finally, my parents were eventually able to afford to purchase for me, a modern day and stylish pair of eye-glasses. I was forever free from looking like an absolute dork wearing black military frame glasses.
My father, before leaving for overseas, moved us to Goldsboro, NC. He did so because his sister Gale, who's husband was already overseas, was living there. She had three kids around the same ages as myself and my siblings. My widowed grandmother was also living with my Aunt Gale at the time. My father's thinking was that my aunt and grandmother could assist my mother in taking care of us kids. His motives were sincere and good. Unfortunately for me though, Goldsboro turned out to be Hell.
Back in the early seventies, in towns all over the country, forced busing was a very big issue. It was somehow determined that the best thing for all students, was to make sure that there was a good mixture of black and white students at every school. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter was, when it was initiated, forced busing did far more harm to the kids involved (both black and white) and it really did nothing but drive up the number of kids attending private schools.
Because of forced busing, I was required to ride the bus for over an hour and half to get to school every morning and afternoon. I and my fellow classmates from my neighborhood, were bused out of our far flung suburb and taken to an old rundown smelly and very dirty school in downtown Goldsboro. There was no A/C, the water fountains seldom worked. The black kids at the school were so happy to see us, that every morning as our bus arrived, they would pelt the bus with rocks and empty soda bottles. As each of us got off the bus, we were forced to hand over either our bag lunches or our lunch money. If we would have refused to give in, we would have been given the privilege of leaving school in an ambulance.
The rest of the day wasn't any better. If you were white, you could forget using the restroom for the entire day. Whenever a white kid attempted to use the restroom, he'd come out of there with a broken nose or arm, if he was lucky that is. P.E. class was a real joke. What it really was, was a way for the black guys to pick on and beat up the whites without any fear of getting into trouble. That was the truth, plain and simple. Walking the hallways of school each day was like running the gauntlet.
By the end of the day, upon arriving home from school, I was absolutely mentally and physically exhausted. It did no good to fight back when confronted at school. One black kid would start a fight, the white kid would be stupid enough to try and fight back, and then he'd find another 5 or 6 black kids on his back. I never once saw a fair fight at that school. On the home front, my mother was in terrible mental shape. Her attitudes and actions were very hard on us kids, affecting each of us in different ways. Toward the end of our time in Goldsboro, we also had to deal with possible criminal activity - directed toward us twice. I'll write about them in a separate posting some other time.
Fortunately for me, I was only in Goldsboro for about a year and half. It felt more like 20 years to me at the time though. I remember when my father called from overseas to tell us that he had received orders for Florida, and that we would be moving there in a couple of months. I was so absolutely ecstatic that I ran around the entire neighborhood for the remainder of the day, telling anyone and everyone my good news. The next day I could hardly walk because my muscles were so sore.
When we reached Florida, I was in the last half of 9th grade. From that point on, life for me greatly improved. Although my mother still had serious issues and episodes, and we still moved a few more times, I was at least able to catch my breath for a little while before reaching adulthood.
My father was in Korea with the military when I was born. We didn't get to connect until I was about six months old. He did get real nauseous and went out behind the barracks to throw up at the same time I was born though. By the way, that was without being notified of my pending birth first! I grew up in the shadow of a combination John Wayne and G.I. Joe. A career firefighter who was always rescuing someone from some thing. I tried for most of my life to emulate him, but found that I just couldn't do it.
By the time I was four years old, my family and I had already moved several times and had traveled well over 15,000 miles. By the time I was six and about to enter kindergarten, I was already taller and larger than most of the kids my age, it made me stick out like a sore thumb. It didn't help either that I talked with a serious lisp, was extremely pigeon-toed, and wore big thick glasses. I was also hypoglycemic, which made me very prone to experiencing cold sweats, the shakes, and blurry vision at a moments notice.
Standing out like I did, was basically the same thing as painting a very large bulls-eye on my forehead. For every bully in every school that I attended (around 20 or so) must have each felt personally responsible for trying to beat the crap out of me, and as often as possible. I got into a lot of fights while growing up. Sometimes I won, sometimes I lost, sometimes I didn't even bother to fight back. I never started one fight in my entire life though. In 6th grade alone, I received over 13 whacks with a big wooden paddle, all for defending myself.
By the time I was nine years old, we had moved another several times, traveled another 15,000 miles or so, and my father was once again headed to Southeast Asia for a remote tour. It was then that I the unfortunate experience of watching my mother suffer her first nervous breakdown and begin her slow and horrible slide into mental illness. It was around that same time that we were living with my grandparents, while my father was overseas, that my grandfather suffered a massive heart-attack and died.
A few years later, just as I had determined that life was starting to smooth out and take on a somewhat more normal form, my father was once again ordered back to Southeast Asia. I was caught totally off guard that time. At that point in my life, I was closer to my father than at any other point before then. Suddenly though, he was gone - again. I never told anyone, especially my parents, just how upset I was when he left.
I was even more upset that he moved us away from the small west Texas town in which we were living at the time. I loved that little town. Even though we were a military family and were considered outsiders, we had been lovingly accepted into that community. To make matters worse, I finally, after most of my life without one, had a best friend. That only lasted about 18 months though.
There were some consolations at that time though. For one, after some intense speech therapy lessons, I was freed from my lisp! Another, I found that with lots of focus and concentration over a year or so, I was finally able to walk without my toes being turned in. And finally, my parents were eventually able to afford to purchase for me, a modern day and stylish pair of eye-glasses. I was forever free from looking like an absolute dork wearing black military frame glasses.
My father, before leaving for overseas, moved us to Goldsboro, NC. He did so because his sister Gale, who's husband was already overseas, was living there. She had three kids around the same ages as myself and my siblings. My widowed grandmother was also living with my Aunt Gale at the time. My father's thinking was that my aunt and grandmother could assist my mother in taking care of us kids. His motives were sincere and good. Unfortunately for me though, Goldsboro turned out to be Hell.
Back in the early seventies, in towns all over the country, forced busing was a very big issue. It was somehow determined that the best thing for all students, was to make sure that there was a good mixture of black and white students at every school. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter was, when it was initiated, forced busing did far more harm to the kids involved (both black and white) and it really did nothing but drive up the number of kids attending private schools.
Because of forced busing, I was required to ride the bus for over an hour and half to get to school every morning and afternoon. I and my fellow classmates from my neighborhood, were bused out of our far flung suburb and taken to an old rundown smelly and very dirty school in downtown Goldsboro. There was no A/C, the water fountains seldom worked. The black kids at the school were so happy to see us, that every morning as our bus arrived, they would pelt the bus with rocks and empty soda bottles. As each of us got off the bus, we were forced to hand over either our bag lunches or our lunch money. If we would have refused to give in, we would have been given the privilege of leaving school in an ambulance.
The rest of the day wasn't any better. If you were white, you could forget using the restroom for the entire day. Whenever a white kid attempted to use the restroom, he'd come out of there with a broken nose or arm, if he was lucky that is. P.E. class was a real joke. What it really was, was a way for the black guys to pick on and beat up the whites without any fear of getting into trouble. That was the truth, plain and simple. Walking the hallways of school each day was like running the gauntlet.
By the end of the day, upon arriving home from school, I was absolutely mentally and physically exhausted. It did no good to fight back when confronted at school. One black kid would start a fight, the white kid would be stupid enough to try and fight back, and then he'd find another 5 or 6 black kids on his back. I never once saw a fair fight at that school. On the home front, my mother was in terrible mental shape. Her attitudes and actions were very hard on us kids, affecting each of us in different ways. Toward the end of our time in Goldsboro, we also had to deal with possible criminal activity - directed toward us twice. I'll write about them in a separate posting some other time.
Fortunately for me, I was only in Goldsboro for about a year and half. It felt more like 20 years to me at the time though. I remember when my father called from overseas to tell us that he had received orders for Florida, and that we would be moving there in a couple of months. I was so absolutely ecstatic that I ran around the entire neighborhood for the remainder of the day, telling anyone and everyone my good news. The next day I could hardly walk because my muscles were so sore.
When we reached Florida, I was in the last half of 9th grade. From that point on, life for me greatly improved. Although my mother still had serious issues and episodes, and we still moved a few more times, I was at least able to catch my breath for a little while before reaching adulthood.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Chapters of Life.....
I've just returned from my 30 year high school reunion in Niceville, Florida. It was a bittersweet experience. On one hand it was really great to see some of my former classmates. On the other hand though, I was very disappointed that many of my favorite people didn't come and I didn't get to spend time with them. I actually drove the farthest to attend the reunion (800 miles one way).
Another sample of bitter sweetness was in realizing just how many members of my small graduating class of 400, have already passed away. The number is around 14 confirmed, but I believe there are a few more that we just haven't been able to pend down. I know for a fact, a few more will probably pass on before the next reunion.
It's quite an experience to attend school with a number of friends and classmates and then not see or speak to them for 10 years at a time (or even 20 years if they skip a reunion). Each get-together revealed almost startling changes amongst each of us. Changes in weight, for some in height (there are a number of individuals that grew 3-6 inches AFTER high school), a change in marital status was a "biggy", as was the amount of hair on the men's heads and or the hair coloring (I saw lots of silver hair at this past event and that included my own whenever I looked into the mirror).
Here's an irony, I was talking to a former classmate and he was telling me about all of the exciting things he and his 15 year old son had been doing recently. When I told him that my "baby" was in her mid-twenties and that I had a 14 year old grandson, he just stood there and stared at me in disbelief. He was in no way ready to even think about being a grandfather yet, and here, I've been one for over a decade already.
Some of the folks looked dramatically different than they did when we graduated high school back in 1977. A really strange thing is though, some of the folks looked almost no different whatsoever! It was down right spooky. How did they do that? I've really enjoyed over the past three reunions, held 10 years apart, observing the differences and changes that take place amongst my classmates.
It was also pointed out to me, that for the first time since our high school years, there were no cliques! Even at the 20 year reunion, people grouped together like they had back in high school. We had lots of cliques, band members, jocks, "Boggy Boys", the straight A students, you name it. But at this last reunion, it just seemed like there were no borders. Everyone visited with everyone and had a good time doing it. I saw folks sharing with each other that I'm pretty darn sure they had probably never ever spoken to each other before that day. It was a great sight.
I was fascinated with the fact, that some of those who most of us thought would never really succeed in life - have succeeded big time. I was disappointed and heartbroken over hearing how some of those, who's lives looked very promising back in 1977, have been unable to rise above mediocrity though. I was able to measure myself and my current status in life by comparing how some of my friends have fared. I'm not doing too badly but I could be doing much better.
And that's what I thought about on the 800 mile drive home. I had a realization that I personally have a choice on how I want my life to be at the next reunion - the next chapter.
Another sample of bitter sweetness was in realizing just how many members of my small graduating class of 400, have already passed away. The number is around 14 confirmed, but I believe there are a few more that we just haven't been able to pend down. I know for a fact, a few more will probably pass on before the next reunion.
It's quite an experience to attend school with a number of friends and classmates and then not see or speak to them for 10 years at a time (or even 20 years if they skip a reunion). Each get-together revealed almost startling changes amongst each of us. Changes in weight, for some in height (there are a number of individuals that grew 3-6 inches AFTER high school), a change in marital status was a "biggy", as was the amount of hair on the men's heads and or the hair coloring (I saw lots of silver hair at this past event and that included my own whenever I looked into the mirror).
Here's an irony, I was talking to a former classmate and he was telling me about all of the exciting things he and his 15 year old son had been doing recently. When I told him that my "baby" was in her mid-twenties and that I had a 14 year old grandson, he just stood there and stared at me in disbelief. He was in no way ready to even think about being a grandfather yet, and here, I've been one for over a decade already.
Some of the folks looked dramatically different than they did when we graduated high school back in 1977. A really strange thing is though, some of the folks looked almost no different whatsoever! It was down right spooky. How did they do that? I've really enjoyed over the past three reunions, held 10 years apart, observing the differences and changes that take place amongst my classmates.
It was also pointed out to me, that for the first time since our high school years, there were no cliques! Even at the 20 year reunion, people grouped together like they had back in high school. We had lots of cliques, band members, jocks, "Boggy Boys", the straight A students, you name it. But at this last reunion, it just seemed like there were no borders. Everyone visited with everyone and had a good time doing it. I saw folks sharing with each other that I'm pretty darn sure they had probably never ever spoken to each other before that day. It was a great sight.
I was fascinated with the fact, that some of those who most of us thought would never really succeed in life - have succeeded big time. I was disappointed and heartbroken over hearing how some of those, who's lives looked very promising back in 1977, have been unable to rise above mediocrity though. I was able to measure myself and my current status in life by comparing how some of my friends have fared. I'm not doing too badly but I could be doing much better.
And that's what I thought about on the 800 mile drive home. I had a realization that I personally have a choice on how I want my life to be at the next reunion - the next chapter.
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