INTRODUCTION TO YFC chapter 32

I was really struggling with church. I wanted out more than my parents knew. There were times, I wasn’t sure if there was a God let alone one I would worship. My friend Stanley rescued me without even knowing it. He brought a girl to an evening church service. I was surprised, not so much that he was with a girl but that he or anybody would bring a stranger to church – especially another teen. I passed the event off as him wanting to show off. We were not introduced. To me church was not a fun experience and certainly not a place to bring a date. I would have been embarrassed.

The following week or so this same girl came by my table in the Central High library. She stopped as books shelves nearby. Trying to decide if she recognized me. When I acknowledged her, she came over to talk. “Didn’t I see you at church a few Sunday age?” “Yes.” “Would you like to come to a Bible club next Wednesday morning before school.” No I wouldn’t, but that is not what I said. I had already become a people pleaser so certainly did not want to hurt her feelings with an absolute NO. I was dumb enough to think that by agreeing I would not hurt her feelings. I always tried to say what people wanted to hear. So I said, “Maybe.” “Great it’s at the First Covenant Church on the corner of 22^nd and Davenport, I’ll see you there. We start at 7:20. It only lasts 20 minutes.”

Right! Sure, of course I would. I walk right by that church to get to school. I guess I might have to find another way. Did Stanley go? Why should I get up early for a Bible club? I really didn’t want to have anything to do with religion. I could hardly make it to school at 7:55. No. I would choose sleep over attending a Bible club.

Betty came by the library table once a week to encourage me to come to the Youth For Christ Bible club. She was relentless. Didn’t she know I really didn’t want to go? I broke after weeks of haranguing when she said she would wait for me outside the door. I would have to go quite far out of my way to miss that corner

I walked in with Betty the following Wednesday and found about 20 kids in attendance. It seemed like there were very few guys. I remember Dave and Tom. I didn’t know Tom but I seen Dave around. He was also a freshman but popular and involved on the debate team, I believe. At least he was a confident speaker and seemed to be the teen in charge. I immediately noticed about 17 girls. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad. In fact, I thought I might like this place. My only other school friends were my football and basketball buddies and a few from Webster. I would see some around once in a while, but was rarely hung out.

There was Frank, a small Italian guy with great hair and cool clothes that had a five o’clock shadow at three in the afternoon. He was 14. I wasn’t even shaving yet. He didn’t like it and I felt sorry for him. Rather than anxiously looking forward to the day I would shave, I saw it as just one more routine I would have to fit into my morning rush.

Gene became my best buddy. He attended Webster elementary in some of the early grades before he transferred to the area Catholic school at Creighton. He remembered me form third grade. We lived near one another and walked home together after school. We often had lunch at the same time. I felt really alone during the twenty minute stuff your food down your throat period when there was no one to sit with. Fortunately I didn’t have much time to hook up with anyone. The “alones” spread around the cafeteria seemed to me to withdraw even deeper including me. I wasn’t sure what they would see but I tried to avoid eye contact. I guess I was already convinced they would not like it. A deep seeded fear was building. I tried to hide from teachers. If I didn’t make eye contact, maybe they wouldn’t call on me. I dreaded being called on for anything.

Tom had the same lunch period and called me over one day. We began to hang out and he became my safety net. He was confident, out going, funny and a conversationalist. Something I admired. That wasn’t me. He had no idea what that did for me emotionally. I was beginning to feel safe. I looked forward to lunch with Tom. It didn’t take long for me to realize we had very little in common. He was an avid car fan, and I knew nothing about cars and didn’t care. That was unfortunate, but he tolerated me anyway. . My dad had just recently bought the first car I ever remember us having.

My high school spiritual safety net was to become YFC (Youth for Christ). At least I felt like I would have a place to fit and belong. It was a religious group, but for some reason it was secure there. Maybe I was closer or more interested in God than I thought. I am fairly certain Christian values were stuffed inside me even if some were rather warped. I might make it after all. God had answered my unspoken prayer for friends. I never thought to ask. I didn’t think He cared.

WHERE IS GOD? chapter 31

(Parenthetically Speaking...
      If you are Interested in 60 minutes take on some abstract art, check out 60 Minutes on Sunday, April 1, 7:00 p.m. I have seen a preview and am anticipating the entire story. I hope it bangs a few heads.)

During my first year or so in high school I didn’t give God much thought, except at church. I was getting more and more angry with God. All I knew about the Bible was the typical Sunday school lessons for children. God seemed pretty benign. I knew He loved the little children but I seemed to be rapidly moving out of that category and into the adult life where all I heard was the judgment of God. He was angry. He was going to punish a sinner — among whom I was one; at least that’s how I felt. I didn’t pray, read a Bible or give much thought to either. Maybe I was being forced to go to church, but they couldn’t make me believe.

I picked up words considered swearing when I was young. I carefully avoided the words Jesus and God. I wasn’t good at swearing, but it began developing. I asked my dad and other Christian adults some of the harder questions — where in the Bible does it prohibit bowling? Where does it address the sin of dancing or card playing? The answers were pretty standard. “It’s not the activity, it’s the place.” “It’s not the activity, but the implication.” So now I knew that inanimate objects could be sinners just like people. Right! I kept my mouth shut but often thought we should stay out of church as well. I had seen kids necking in the church basement, therefore, church = bad place. I knew better than to bring up that point.

There were no examples of Godly youth in my church, at least none that were obvious. If the teens I knew were God followers, they were hiding it rather well. I had the feeling they were all waiting to be old enough to tell their parents that they were out of there. I already knew that the church had been a painful experience for my older siblings, except Doris. I don’t know anything about the experiences of my other two sisters. I know they both met Air Force guys at the roller skating rink. That alone said a lot about what they thought of the rules of the church and my parents. My two older brothers got several dressing downs at the hands of the pastor and his wife and that they left the church before my parents were willing. They both just said no. I didn’t have that courage. My mother could control me with a look or a whine. For some reason, I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t what her or anyone to think badly of me.

My oldest brother moved to Omaha with my parents, but stole the families model A and returned to Kansas after just a few months. There he sold the Model T for living money. David joined the Navy at 17 to escape home. Her husband’s father married Doris and Dean Jr. in front of the coal stove in our home; Dorlis had a fancy church wedding where they exited under drawn sabers. I thought that was cool. Her husband was a physical abuser, and a huge bigot. I could hardly stand to be around him. Gladys eloped and called to tell mom she was married. I would not have faced her either, not with that news. My younger brother had a shotgun wedding. I felt like a saint. A lying deceptive one, but still a saint!

I began to be aware that my family had plenty of problems. I didn’t understand it all or know what they were, but it was beginning to come into focus. Where was God in the middle of it all? I was scared to death of dying without God. What faith I had was fear based. That didn’t seem right. There had to be more. Something inside me was longing for something deeper. I wanted to stretch my wings and experience the world, but there was this inner thing that usually held me in check. It was a few years before I realized the Holy Spirit was speaking to me and keeping me from sin. As far as I was concerned I was always walking this fine line between right and wrong. None of this kept me from question the rules posted on my conscience. Were those right or wrong? I was secretly beginning to try and find out for myself. David danced. I was pretty sure it wasn’t “the chicken,” but what was it? Take a little wine for your stomachs sake. I wanted to understand but I did not want a big fight or someone to simply say, “Because I said so.” That wasn’t going to work any more.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN chapter 30

I loved Friday nights. I knew I was going to meet the boys and we were going to scream our heads off at football or basketball. Before Gene got a car, I haven’t the slightest idea how we got to the games. We did go together and sometimes Jack came with us. We lived close. Just up on the corner only one block from Tech. We would meet Robert (my locker partner) and Dean (from my homeroom) outside the gate and go in together trying to find seats as close to the 50-yard line as possible even if it meant at little crowding.

While our screaming was very loud, it was mostly supportive of our teams. Dean had the uncanny knack of letting his voice reach peak performance at a point where he would clearly be heard above most of the others. I am sure I was just the follower, but my buddies may beg to differ. We could get rather, how shall I say it, accusatory, derogatory, even down right nasty if the refs called against our boys or we thought we saw something we didn’t like. It really didn’t seem to matter if the call was right right. If an opponent got away with roughing up one of our guys they got a fair amount of verbal abuse from us.

Since we were usually sitting on the opposite side of the field where our gang could never quit be identified by the opponent’s side (a good thing). Our school seemed to like our antics. At least the ones around us laughed most of the time. There was that one game. It was football and I believe it was against Benson and it was at Benson. We didn’t have a football field so all our games were “away games.” We were especially nasty that night and it was clearly the wrong night to be so.

The stadium was exceptionally crowded. Some of the fans of both teams were mixed in the crowd. That put some of their supporters close enough to understand what we were saying and to identify who was doing the yelling. There was a fair amount of taunting back and forth but it was easy to tell those guys were getting rather angry. It should have stopped us or at least slowed us down, but it didn’t. The back and forth banter was tense enough that we really needed to get out of there without them seeing or finding us. They both saw us and found us. They were waiting for us just outside the gate we exited. We were five and they were five, even match right? Not if you knew what kind of cowards three of us were. Jack was tougher than the rest and willing to fight, but very nervous about his teammates. Since Robert was not quit as obnoxious as the rest of us and not on his feet nearly as often and because he is a Negro, I don’t think they thought we were together. It was the 50’s and you rarely saw whites and black socializing. Many were friends, but that was usually only at school.

While Robert was behind us the Benson fans still thought there were only four little twerps with the big mouths. This was going to be easy, they thought. Jack might be a problem, but no one else would be any trouble at all. They looked tougher and a little bigger, but not by much. More threats were exchanged and one of them became aggressive towards Dean and moved closer. At that point Robert moved up beside Dean and just stood looking tall (he was) and as mean and nasty as possible. With his height and growling glare he was intimidating. The boys backed off but their angry taunts continued in somewhat softer tones. We countered with some mildly rude comments and walked off still taunting one another. When out of their sight, we ran like the dickens. Robert laughed, we all did. I think even he was surprised at how he could intimidate just by standing there. Being scared was over. We could be tough again.

While football brought out the largest student crowds other than assemblies, basketball was only slightly smaller. Both teams did well during my years there and often went to city championships and to state a few times. We never won state during my years.

It was harder to go incognito to basketball games. The other fans could not only hear us, but also see and, point, and give us the evil eye. We were never the only group taunting the other teams so not the only ones picked out for total destruction. Getting out of our school gym without being noticed was virtually impossible. Only one door led immediately to the outside. We had to get our first. We were more careful at other school gyms always checking out escape routes before the game.

I could hardly wait for Friday nights.

THE SCHOOL SOCK HOP chapter 29

Of course I wasn’t suppose to go, but I did. I even got up the courage to ask my dream girl from grade school. I saw her around school every day. She was even better looking than she was at Webster. She was trying out to be a cheerleader. It took awhile to get up the courage to even ask her. She appeared to be moving in some circles with upper classmen. I just doubted that we had been in high school long enough for her to make a dating connection. When I sheepishly asked her to go with me she said, “I will if I don’t get a better offer. What! That really builds confidence. But being the idiot I was, I agreed. I don’t think I would have gone to the sock hop without a date.

Nothing better did come along, so she went with a guy from the bottom of the barrel. We walked. I reasoned it was only a mile. She clearly wasn’t happy I did not have access to a car. I didn’t know what the big deal was. We were in grade school four months ago and we walked everywhere or rode our bikes. I though walking was better than asking her to ride her bike. I don’t know what she expected. I was only 14. My family did not have a car. I guess we could have taken the bus. Maybe that would have been better. For me, this would was my first official date. I guess I didn’t even know the proper protocol.

The sock hop was in the school gum. When we arrived, she greeted a few people and then we danced our first dance together. While dancing she announced that she thought we ought to mingle with other people and then maybe dance the last dance together. Off she went. I never saw her again for over an hour.

I found Dean and Gene and a couple of other guys I knew and ended up hanging out with them along the sidelines. They all came without dates. The thought of doing that had never occurred to me. I never asked another person to dance. Didn’t know anyone else, and I didn’t want to be rejected.

I’m sure us guys were typical freshman. We laughed at people, made fun of the dancing and generally acted like idiots most of the night. There was a dance called “The Chicken” which some called a dirty dance. Of course, we were interested in a dirty dance. The couple sort of jitterbugged, clucked and weaved in and out at one another and thrust their pelvis together. The crowd gathered and oohed and awed and interjected catcalls. I doubt that dance would be anything unique today, probably not even considered sexy.

We didn’t bother anyone, but I’m sure we were somewhat annoying. Maybe that’s why no one remained near us. We sat on the sideline like the wallflowers we were just talking and laughing.

We were getting tired of hanging around but I had a girl to take home. The others decided to hang around a little longer before cutting out. Eventually she came back and we danced one more time. Then she very tenderly whispered in my ear, “I have a ride home with some older guys.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. What was going on? I was being dumped at the dance, not after I got her home. She wandered back to whatever crowd she had busted from and I walked dejectedly back to the boys.

We griped about girls and her in particular than decided we might as well go someplace else. There was a bowling alley a couple blocks away. We would go there. No one had any money but we would hang out for a while.

As we were getting near the exit, my date caught me by the arm and called me aside. “I decided it wasn’t right that I not go back with you. After all, I came with you.” “True, but you have ignored me all night. Why would I want to walk back with you?" “You brought me?” “What happened to the upper classman with the car (a wild guess on my part)?" He decided not to take me home after all. He was going to another party and didn’t want to take me.”“ "Too bad. Is your dad home?” “Yes.” Well, call him for a ride.” I turned on my heel and walked out with the boys. They thought my actions were terrific. I knew I did it because I was mad. I laughed and mocked her with the boys, but as I walked home alone I knew what I had done was mean. It didn’t matter what she did, I did not need to retaliate. But I was crushed. (my excuse).

She never spoke to me again and doubtfully ever looked my way. I was OK with that. I did feel like it would not have hurt as much if she had just slapped me across the face. Nothing took away the guilt I felt for my action.

She made out just fine at school. She moved in the popular crowd and as a senior was the head cheerleader. I was just a bump on her road to stardom. 

SCRIBBLES AND LINES chapter 28

The list of supplies required for mechanical drawing were: India ink, straight edge (really a ruler), protractor, 45 triangle, curved line guide, heavy duty ink eraser, and erasing shield (used to isolate only the portion needing to be erased), and a drafting pen set with compasses, pens and extensions. It was clearly a male dominated class. There were no girls. That was very disappointing.

Mr. Franklin was my drafting teacher. I was disappointed when in the first few classes all we learned to do was draw straight lines. Practice, practice, practice! It was much harder than any of us expected. First select the right pen: thin or think lines. Simple. Selecting a drop or two from the  a wasn’t bad, but putting that ink in the pen took practice. Too much ink and you could get a drop of ink spilling out of the pen onto your paper. We were not permitted to simply get another sheet of paper and start again. We were to erase the blob without tearing the paper. What an ordeal, had to wait for it to dry before you could erase it. Then getting the lines the precise length to pass Mr. Franklin’s scrutiny as he wandered around the room with his exacting measuring devise saying. “Length that line, shorten that one.” The lines always looked right to me. (Really wish I could remember exact terminology).

Finally, weeks later, we began working on simple drawings of bolts. Why bolts? They turned out to be the easiest. Everything got more and more complicated. I was a senior before we progressed to my reason for taking the class — to draw house plans. When we were encouraged to make our own designs I felt like I was flying. We worked to designs only single level homes. Creatively it was the time of my life.

Our instructor was a single-minded taskmaster who expected perfection. The assignment was never complete until it met his standards. He called it, “Preparing for the work force.” The next step beyond this would be college. It would get more difficult.

I do not remember my art instructor’s name, but she was a short thin blond who checked our work with various noises that we came to understand their meaning. She was an abstract expressionist in her own right. She admired the free flow splash of color and meandering designs of that art form. Those works got praise. Realistic work received encouragement, helpful comments and observations but not the praise of the others. I had the same instructor for all four years.

I really appreciated the exposure to various media and techniques. The day she blindfolded us with three colors of finger paints nearby was way more fun that I expected. It was probably the only time I loved abstract work and I guess I did pretty well. Of course I had no desire to take it home and hang it on the wall. I struggled miserably when trying to describe what I was attempting to communicate. Actually I was just trying to spread paint around and mix some of the colors. If we had studied the American abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock first I might had more mental ideas. When she asked us about what we saw in his work I wanted to say a paint can thrown at the canvas with brushes flipping out color and being cleaned on the canvas. I doubt that would have gone over well.

I enjoyed collages and pottery, but didn’t know what I was going to do with an ashtray. I had brother-in-laws that smoked but had not design to give it to either of them.

If I remember right, I smashed it against a wall as I was going home.

With Joslyn Art Museum being right across the street, we made many visits. She knew her stuff and her artists. We never did see a real painting by Jackson Pollock. She kept hoping one would come for a visit. He died in August of 1956 the summer before I entered Central. He was already the darling of all abstract expressionists, and his death raised him to hero status. We heard about him until I graduated. I wish I had seen the Pollack biographical film released in 2000 while I was a student, and then I would have known for sure that he was crazy. I never read about him in school. I figured my instructor told me all I would ever need to know, but we learned nothing of his as a man.  Norman Rockwell on the other hand, was my idol.

Don;t you just love it? Doesn't it touch your soul and make you feel a... I can't think of the word.

BRUSH WITH THE MILITARY chapter 27

When I entered high school guys had to take gym or Reserved Officer Training Corp (ROTC). I chose the later. Since conscription was still active I reasoned that it would be better to enter as an officer than a private.

There were parts of the program that I didn’t mind. I enjoyed learning to take apart an M-16 and shooting it on the firing range. I became a descent marksman. I didn’t even mind the drills (marching). I hated standing at attention and parade rest. Too Tiring. I doubt I had ever stood in one place that long in my life. The first year was uneventful, even routine. I was at the bottom of the heap and all I had to do was follow and listen to the yelling and screaming. The hardest ones to understand were the screamers. Turn the volume down. None f us were deaf.

In the second year I became a corporal and a squad leader. All it meant was I stood at the head of my line of six or seven guys (can’t remember the exact number). The student officers gave all the orders. However, they continued to remind squad leaders we were I was in charge. In charge of what? We basically did nothing. That’s unfair. There were times I helped with their uniform, or parts of the drill, getting ready for inspection, and learning to break down the rifle. My biggest concern was that I had Steven in my squad, and he was autistic. I always worried about him during inspection. He had an awful time presenting his rifle for inspection and was screamed at all the time. He could open the bolt just fine, but needed help at times sticking his thumb in the spring release to close the bolt (forgive me, the correct terminology escapes me). He could not always do it. Often he would become fearful. Even when he did do it, he didn’t to it correctly because he jumped and backed up a step. “Stay at attention.” He couldn’t. I was concerned that during some inspection when no one was permitted to help him that he would get his finger caught.

Well, it happened near the end of my second year. He was at the tail end of my squad when I heard the bolt hit flesh and then the blood-curdling scream. I was not to move, but I turned my head to see blood squirting out of the M-16. There were no adults present and the student officers stood there laughing. They did not make a move to help him. I could not take the neglect. I broke rank, when down and got the rifle off his thumb, pulled my hanky out and wrapped his thumb as best I could. While I was attending to Steven student officers were leaning over me yelling, no screaming at me for breaking rank. I never looked at them deciding my squad member was more important. I took Steven by the shoulder and lead him to the nurse.

The only discipline dished out went to me for breaking rank during a formal inspection. When I attempted to explain why I did it, I was told not to speak unless asked. Nothing happened to the student officers. I don’t even know it the Army Sergeant in charge knew exactly what happened. I doubted the student officers told him, and I was never permitted to speak. Steam came out the top of my head. This kid should have been excused from ROTC and gym. He just wanted to fit in and no adjustment was made for him.

That soured me on ROTC (Rotten Old Tin Cans) and I did not return the following year. If I were taken into the army, I would not be an officer but a grunt. I feared the military might be too much like ROTC. I did not like that one bit. We were kids playing at army, nothing but 14-15 year-olds fulfilling a school requirement. We were not in the Army. His thumb was broken. Actually the bone was not severed only cracked but a cast on was put on his hand. Go figure, he was proud of that cast and wanted the squad and student officers to sign it. I shook my head.

I gave up paying attention to ROYC and completely missed the draft card registration deadline. Nurse Ratchet handled my processing when I finally went to register and blasted me up one side and down the other. ”You broke the law. You did not register by the deadline. You are going to Vietnam. You will probably die in Vietnam” Doomed again. The story of my life! Not only did I break the law I was also going to die in Vietnam. Where was Vietnam? I knew, but at that point, I didn’t care. I certainly wasn’t excited my prospects. I was scared.

I went on to be a student at the University of Omaha where my dreams of becoming an architect were crashing to the ground. No only was Nurse Ratchet going to do her best to see that I was sent to Vietnam, I was about to muster out of architecture. Not being in college was a surefire way to visit a foreign country at the government’s expense. There would be no guarantee of a return trip. ROTC would probably tell them I liked shooting an M-16 and was clearing good enough to be sent to the front line They would need to beef up my skinny little body. Little did I know, that God was going to send me to Canada, but that story is a few years later! Let’s save it.

What I did finalize in my mind was that I identified as the little guy, the underdog, and those at the bottom of the totem pole. We were mostly timid, shy, nervous, lost and confused. Limited courage. I identified with kids like that because I was one of them. I have never been interested in the powerful, the wealthy, or the controllers of this world. I cared about the downtrodden and it all started in my contacts with Austin and Robert and solidified with Steven. Helping Steven was out of character.

How could people treat another human being with such contempt? They were all innocent. Steven beat us all; he got a full scholarship to MIT.

 Proof that I was in ROTC.

FIRST WEEK OF HIGH SCHOOL chapter 26

I was pretty nervous about beginning high school. Tech was only two blocks away and the majority of my Webster classmates where headed there. Tech was primarily a vocational training school. I still had the dream of becoming an architect and that meant going on to college. I needed to attend a college prep school and that meant Central High. It was reasonably close. I could walk there.

Central was an open school meaning one could live anywhere in the city and attend. Most others required you to live with in their district. It was the oldest high school in Omaha founded in 1859. The present structure was built between 1900 and 1912. It is a beautiful historic structure built in a square with a central courtyard. It is imposing from downtown with the long flight of stairs climbing the hill to the beautiful marble appearing building.

Central was a mile from my house. The shortest way was through Creighton University. It was an easy walk and directly across the street from the pinkish-white marble Joslyn Art Museum. I had been there many times to sit and enjoy the magnificent paintings and sculptures, and experience a sense and wonder while sitting in the silence and beauty of all around me. I longed to do what the masters had done. I prayed for such a gift. Maybe I would learn.

The front of Joslyn angled from Dodge. This portion looks the same as in the 50's.

From west steps of Central High across parking lot to Joslyn. Section to right is newer.

As I recall, only Sandra, Austin and I attended Central High from Webster. I never had classes with either one. In fact, I never saw Austin at the school in four years and the next time I saw him was at a grade eighth class reunion when we picked up right where we left off. He told me he was going to be a minister. I could not have been more shocked.

The three of us went in our different direction. Austin was interested in music. Sandra became a cheerleader and rose in ranks of popularity. She was certainly had the look: blond, sharp dresser, maturing, great build. She was always noticed. Austin became more involved in music. I moved toward art and mechanical drawing,

I had great hopes of high school being a joyful extension of Webster. It became more than that within a small group of Christians, but not initially.

On day two as the upper classmen joined the freshmen I opened my mouth and made a stupid mistake. I had found my locker and had just got it opened when approached by three large black guys. At least they were larger than I. They surrounded me and one knocked my books on the floor. I should have quietly bent down and picked them back up but no I had to open my mouth, “What do you think you’re doing?" Not the smartest thing for a squeaky little freshman to say. They grabbed me and began to push me into the locker I began praying for help, along with a few very loud noises. Just then a teacher came around the corner and they released me. I grabbed my books off the floor and asked the teacher for directions. She sensed my distress and replied, “Come with me. I’m going that way.” I left the boys standing by my empty and open locker deciding that if God wanted me to have a lock it would be there when I came back. It was, I followed the teacher and never looked back. I was beginning to think that prayer might work. It did that time. In fact it was a miracle to me.  So I planned on trying prayer again when the next emergency came. I just hoped I would live long enough to graduate!

My homeroom was near my locker. It was in that room I met Robert Washington, whom I affectionately called George, and Dean (not my brother). These two with my buddy Gene were the core of a group with whom I attended most football and basketball games. Dean had a short semi blond crew cut with the front butch waxed straight up and a voice that could break eardrums. He was loud and mouthy at games taunting rivals and making him heard. He motivated me to do the same, but no one was as good a annoying the other teams as Dean. Robert was a tall muscled Negro with a slight overhand of his brow that gave him the appearance of one angry dude. His presence helped Dean and the rest of us get away with being loud and obnoxious. This big loveable teddy bear looked to be a threat just standing there. Cool guy. He never said much. Really, all he had to do was stare and grimace.

Hanging with those guys let me be who I was at Webster, a little louder and out going. Otherwise, I was turning into a withdrawn kid. It was with these guys that I became aware of acting different in different situations. What was happening? Maybe it was the beginning of a survival plan.

Logo and block lettering still the same.

CHANGE IS A COMIN’ chapter 25

Puberty Sucks! All is heightened and all is crucial. Those seen whispering and looking your way are talking about you. Friends who pass without speaking hate you. The correct costume is essential to fitting in and thus daily emotional survival. You claim you are just being yourself and yet dress to fit one silly stereotype or another. Get a grip.

I know you won’t, because I didn’t, and few I knew did either, it is rare that any teen is devoid of the social pressures of puberty. Our bodies are changing, our emotions are changing, our concepts are changing  — man, our whole world is changing and we were just trying to keep our heads above water. We want to be accepted. We really just want to be loved and loved beyond our family circle. We gravitate toward whoever shows and interest or receptivity whether good or bad. What we felt about ourselves often determines the group we seek. We walk a slack wire with limited stability.

When someone stares guys check their zippers, girls pat their hair. We are extremely self-conscious of our looks and behavior. Those who give that little thought fit into another category. Poverty if rarely considered. The whole world revolves around us and we are crushed by the silliest things, but we will not know how silly they are until years later. It is amazing that any kids get through unscathed.

Clothes and hair were becoming a big deal to me as I moved toward high school. The standard policy at my house was two pair of shoes, one for dress the other for school and play, two pair of jeans for both school and play, one pair of slacks for church, five shirts, one winter coat and one spring coat. I don’t remember hats, but I had one on at a photo-op with Santa. The standard family fare wasn’t cutting it for me as I thought about high school. I wanted more and I could not understand why I couldn’t have it.

Whoops! Couldn't find Santa, but here are two other hat shots.

Dad had a great job. He worked for the railroad and was a member of the union in the day when unions ruled. He was well paid. That’s why the home we lived in ticked me off, I thought we could do better and the lack of the right clothes made me mad. Both mom and I moved to solve the problem. I spent the summer collecting scrape metal and mom got a job babysitting. While the job was ostensibly to help me get a larger wardrobe, it met her need to have more young children around. She hired on for two neighborhood boys whose mother worked full time.

I had won the clothing battle at eight-grade graduation with the gift of a sports coat and a knit tie. I can’t believe they caved in and let me have a nearly bright orange (maybe rust) jacket with a classy black tie. I was the cats meow (pardon, wrong time period). What a stupid jacket. I rarely ever wore the thing. It wasn’t the only silly outfit I had before high school graduation. I owned a white sports coat, black cummerbund, bow tie and black pants with a pink strip and, for special dances, a pink carnation.

Only the hoodlums wore jeans and white t- shirts with cigarettes rolled into the sleeve to make a statement. It didn’t matter if you actually smoked. That was cool (right time period). It was the uniform. That modeled Marlon Brando or imitated James Dean. They sneered, crooked their mouths and wore their leather jackets in the heat.

Girls mostly wore ponytails or a bob and the tougher they were the greater the make-up. Penny loafers, saddle shoes bobby socks and a sweater over their shoulders was standard attire.

Identifying costumes were subtle in the 50’s. There weren’t so many obvious distinctions as today. Bad kids smoked, good one didn’t. Richie Cunningham and the Fonzie were friends on Happy Days. That would never have happened in my “Happy Days.”  They were at opposite ends of the social Richter scale and never the twain would meet — well rarely, anyway.

Mom managed to increase my clothing allowance and helped me feel like I belonged. You see, it isn’t just girls who need to look good. I know some guys didn’t care. I just didn’t happen to be one of them. My hair followed all the latest hairstyle dictates: crew cut, flat top, ducktails with curls, ducktails with flattop, and a college cut Maybe there were others. I just wanted to fit in. When pimples came my face was a total mess. That’s another story. I know I did make one mistake and I still get teased about it. My only relieve is that I live a long way from most of my high school friends. I always wore white socks and still get teased about it. Well, I only had one pair — just joking.

It’s time to start high school. I was scared spit-less (is that even possible?).

INTERLUDE

I am really, really tired of:

Of people pulling into the center turning lane and being so afraid the front of their car will be hit that they leave the tail sticking into the lane behind them.

Of lost drivers stopping in the middle of the street to read their maps or try to figure out where they are. MOVE TO THE SIDE!

I am sick and tired of know-it-alls. You are idiots who do not know enough shut-up once-in-a-while

I am tired talking who never take a breath and do it to keep others from talking. If I wanted a lecture, I would take a class.

I am tired of you talking insistently about your absolutely perfect family and how wonderful they are. You have convinced them they are murders and drug addicts.

I am tried of people who feel the need to correct everything anyone else has to say and ANYTHING!

I am tired of dogmatic statements when you have no idea what you are talking about. And furthermore, who asked you.

I am tired of people who walk their dogs along public property, let them take a dump and leave it for me to step in.

I am tired on people complaining about the school band practicing and then calling the city to demand them make them stop. GET A LIFE!

I am tired of that same person then complaining to the Housing Authority and demanding them do something about the noise. ARE YOU SERIOUS?

I am tired of the comment “I guess I had better go do something even if it is wrong.” Just go do it.

I am tired of grumpy old people who do not have the guts to apologize, admit they are wrong or forgive even the slightest offense and then wonder if you will get to heaven, The answer is NO! Remember the prayer you recite every week in your church “and forgive us, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” YOU ARE NOT FIRGIVEN.

I am tired of people in shopping lines that know they are going to pay by check and wait until the cashier gives them the total before they even begin to look for their check book.

I am gland you have friends with jobs, but save the conversation for a time there is not a line behind you wanting to get out of that store.

 I am tired — I’m sure there is more, but I am now just plain tired.

PART 2– HIGH SCHOOL (the beginning) chapter 24

It felt like my personality changed in high school. I became more withdrawn, more nervous, more fearful, and more frustrated. High school was threatening. Roaming gangs controlled restrooms on some of the stairs. They blocked admittance forcing cross-legged boys to run to another stair for safe access. The west parking lot was a battlefield of black and white violence. No guns and likely no knives, but brass knuckles were a useful collectors item. The skirmishes were irregular but I did not want to test my luck running across the firing range. I found another exit. I slipped out along side the little used canyon like exit between the gym on the right and the practice field on the left. Snipers lay way among parked cars and bushes to the west.

I became aware I was not the same person with everyone. It was unplanned and spontaneous. I was already different at home than with my friends at Webster. I considered that normal even though I had no idea what normal was. But at Central I was involved with different cast of characters in completely different circles. My respond was unique to each group. I never wanted them to meet. It was as though my fragile house of cards world might come crashing down. There was no real reason to fear their meeting, but I did.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the wonder of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.”

Nothing describes those four years of my life better that Charles Dickens opening to A Tale of Two Cities. In retrospect my life was a ying-yang mash under which I might collapse at any moment. I survived with thanks to my friends. They dragged, they cajoled, they prodded, they pulled me along as man being dragged behind a horse. I was going to get to the other end and they were going to make sure I did. But they never knew how much I needed them. I doubt they ever knew how emotionally fragile I was. I didn’t know who I was or where I was going. I just wanted to survive.

This is so melodramatic it may make one gag. Yet it was emotionally true. I hid my feeling as much as possible. I tried to smile when the clouds rolled in. I loved to laugh and loved the silliness of life. I was in a tug of war with the spiritual forces of this world as though I had gone to Vietnam. I won and lost wondering how the war would end, or if it would end.

Some names will be changed. There will be no need to protect anyone, but I do not want to embarrass anyone. I may even have different memories of events and situations. I may even be wrong. I am looking back 50+ years. If some readers lived with me through this phase, even name changes will not hide identities. I will likely paint myself in darker light than you remember or those I love. I will write from my internal struggle. I hope you will laugh. I hope you will see a young man attempting to come to terms with who he is to become. These are the years of transformation and the modeling is of clay, sloppy, wet dripping yucky clay. It might get messy.

Central from 20th - Main front entrance

Center from Dodge - side entrance

RACE RELATIONS 101 chapter 23

I was in eighth grade before I really began to understand racial issues in Omaha. I was not very culturally aware. I did not read news in the paper. If it was not on the funny pages, I never saw it. We did not have a TV until I was in high school. The only thing I listened to on the radio was the Long Ranger, The Shadow Knows and Fiber McGee and Molly. Dad and mom did not discuss world news, at least not when I was around. What I did know came from school. The only thing race related I had ever heard or may remember is that Abraham Lincoln fought against Nebraska becoming a slavery state.

That last year of elementary school I began to notice things and hear things and questions were forming. Austin and I looked at each other with different eyes.

I had seen “White” and “Colored” restrooms and drinking fountains in JC Penny’s and Brandies. But now I was wondering why. I didn’t know anything about the inside of the restrooms, but the fountains where very different in style and quality. It looked like the colored fountains were picked up from Frank the junk collector. We shared the same restrooms and drinking fountain at school and never gave it a second thought. I had ridden the bus with Austin and Robert and we sat in the back of the bus. The driver kept looking at me through his mirror. I wondered why and Robert had to explain it to me. Apparently I should have been sitting closer to the front. But I wanted to sit with my friends and I was blind enough to think they preferred to sit in the back. The bus was only one third full. There were plenty of seats. The bus-seating plan should have jumped at me as we had just experienced for friends rejection at the roller rink.

Earlier I had been invited to Austin’s birthday party and was the only white person there. Five were from Webster school, so I knew some of the kids. His other friends seemed to be looking at me out of the corner of their eye, or I was imagining things. I could feel the stares and knew they were wondering what I was doing there. I wondered the same thing. That same year I was beginning to understand that our relationship was not culturally accepted. I could also feel that he and I were beginning to pull apart. It was a strange feeling. It was a huge loss and it was going to get worse.

I had heard my brother-in-law, Harry, spew his bigotry venom on more occasions than I care to remember and I hated him for it. I always took it personally and could not imagine the pain the objects of this verbal abuse were feeling. He was a crude, rude and nasty man who physically abused his wife and children. I knew there was something seriously wrong with him. I was only beginning to connect it with the culture and his southern heritage.

It was in this last school year that Austin and I were chased away by an angry white man for what appeared to be him beating me up. We were playing fake fighting. It was this year that Lillian and my photo appeared in the paper because a black and white couple was square dancing at a city competition.

Everything was coming together in my mind and I was not good. It was frightening. It was painful. I can’t say I was angry. I wish I could say that now. Previously I had considered the various black and white issues faced with my friends to be strange, maybe even funny. I had missed the seriousness and pain they were experiencing. If they were subjected to that at school I never saw it. They were not seated at the back of the classroom, but alphabetically with the rest of us. They were not segregated at recess or any activities. If the world was really trying to maintain a separation of the races they were messing up big time at school. There was equality in my grade school; at least I always thought there was. I know of nothing that would say it differently, but then I wasn’t “Colored.”

If anyone were aware that the colored kids situation was different it would have been Robert.  He wasn’t extremely vocal but he would say little things. He complained about the grades that he and the others received. He complained about the places in the city where he could not go. I didn’t know there were so many places. There should not have been any. He complained about anything that kept the races separate or belittled them and most especially about being sent to the back of the bus.

I was beginning to understand slavery and the after affect still going on these one hundred years later. It was in high school when slavery was discussed in American history. Civil Rights never came up. Now I was learning of the large issue it was right here in Omaha, right around me, right under my nose, right here supposedly in these northern slavery free Yankee states. We were just as bigoted as the south in some more subtle was and others just as blatantly. In the next four years the issues would become more demonstrative as Martin Luther King’s voice was being heard and violence was increasing breaking out across the south.

Four years later I was at work in Kinney Shoe Store when a fellow employee came back from lunch and reported of a sit-in at the Woolworths lunch counter. I had the next break and ran the block up to see what was happening. All the lunch counter stools were occupied by Negros. The wait staff was standing behind the counter doing nothing. A call had been placed to the manager on his day off. He was on his way. Police were inside standing behind the stools and holding back the white crowd pushing and shouting in behind them. A minor skirmish broke out when one white man tried to shove a Negro off his stool. Police hauled the white man out. There was very clear tension.

When the manager arrived, he looked at the situation and diffused it quickly when he told the cooks and wait staff to serve these customers.

My high school years were filled with conflict and fights. Austin and I lost track of one another. While we both attended Central High, we never once had classes together. I never even saw him again at that 2000 member student body.

My life was changing rapidly and drastically. I was leaving the happy, joyful fun filled days of childhood, at least for me. Fear began to settle in. The future was increasing less secure. Fear was hovering over my little world.

THE DAY I WAS A HERO chapter 22

I was neither good nor bad at most sports. I was somewhere in the middle except in softball. Hardball was not allowed on the school field, as the field was too close to the windows. Several of the boys always tried to aim for the windows with a small degree of success. I was acceptable at running bases, and could hit occasionally, but I was pathetic at throwing and catching. I was always picked near the last. That does nothing for ones ego.

I somewhat enjoyed basketball and developed a reasonable right hook shot but had a bear of a time with anything else. It didn’t help that our gravel covered “court” (I use the term loosely) sloped from left to right and rain had developed the Grand Canyon on an angel through the eastern key. I twisted my ankle on more than one occasion in the rut. I wasn’t the only one.

The school did not have a gym. It had two rooms in the basement that were more like kids playrooms. The smaller one was a closed room where square dancing was taught and games were played. The larger room had no wall to the hall and had quite a few mats used primarily for tumbling. I loved tumbling. I learned how to take a fall, dive over people and roll. Wrestling wasn’t taught, but when the opportunity presented itself, the guys wrestled.

The ceiling throughout the basement was only 8’. Throwing anything was a challenge. Dodge ball was also popular among the guys. Girls hated it and usually sat it out. I can understand why it was eventually banned. That sucker could really sting at times. Mom didn’t like it when I came home with red welts on my body. She never understood that was a sign of valor.

My favorite sport was football. Creighton University was only three blocks east and had a beautiful stadium. They no longer had a football team, but some high schools used the field at times. There was one place slightly obscured by shrubbery where the fence had been torn away from a pole and it was easy to climb through. A lot of neighborhood kids played football there. In fact, the local junk collector organized a team to compete in the city wide midget league. Things were pretty loose in the 50’s and there were no permission slips to take home. Maybe there should have been, but Frank never got around to preparing any.

Our neighborhood was a very eclectic mix of races and nationalities. Creighton sat on the southeastern edge of the neighborhood and Frank had his junkyard right across Burt from the stadium. No one that I know of ever had permission for us to practice there, but we did and we all crawled through the fence.

We all played on both sides of the line. We just barely had enough guys to play at all. If anyone missed we were down a player or two. That didn’t seem to matter we played anyway. I played defensive tackle and wide receiver. I wasn’t very fast, but I could cut quickly and turn a defender around. I felt somewhat useless as a tackle. One the other hand, the only time I was ever a hero in any game, I was playing tackle.

The whole league was a mish-mash of uniforms, parts of uniforms and no uniforms. We were in the have not category. We wore Converse high tops, jeans and either white T-shirts or sweatshirts —color didn’t matter. You just had to know your team.

On the big game were playing a team out west who had helmets and shoulder pads. The big play came when we had them backed to the goal line and they were about to kick it out of there. I rushed in and stopped the ball with my nose. I fell to the ground on top of the football. It wasn’t planned, It just happened. My team was yelling and cheering and patting me on the back. I was a hero. But this hero was lying on the ground with a bloody nose and tears running down his face that he was desperately trying to hold back. I did not want to get up. I didn’t want anyone to see my face. The game must go on. I was eventually pulled off the ground and dragged to the sideline where I given a few hankies to stop the bleeding. Coach let me sit out the kickoff, which gave me the opportunity to let the tears flow briefly. His only comment to me was, “Buck up. You scored a touchdown.” Yeah for me! I tried to be happy and excited like the others, but I was already wondering what mom was going to say when I came home with a puffy nose and blood down my dirty white T-shirt.

I told her the truth. I got hit in the nose by a football. I didn’t exactly share I had been out west in a midget league game, or that Frank drove us there in the back of his partially empty junk truck. I’m sure she thought it was just a bunch of neighborhood kids playing. It certainly was. 

FAMILY TOGETHERNESS chapter 21

Mom’s house was just too small for the whole family to gather. Technically, the whole family never did get together. Harlow, his wife and three kids never came to grandma’s house once they left Omaha.

Harlow came with the family when they all move here in 1941. He was nineteen. He was hoping to get a job. That never happened and he hated it here so much he stole dad’s model “T” drove it back to Kansas, sold it for money to live on and reconnected with his high school sweetheart. I don’t know why, but dad never tried to collect the money nor was he upset for long about the stolen car. He might have had a premonition that Harlow would go back anyway he could.

But that wasn’t the worst that happened. Harlow married his special girl and three years later was still having a hard time holding down a job. Mom wrote him and told him she had found him a job and a place to live. So Harlow moved his new bride to Nebraska. Well, the place to live was with the family sharing their two-bedroom apartment with five siblings and another on the way. They were given the living room. And there was no job, just a few places she suggested he apply. He was furious. They had used all their money moving up so had no choice but to stay for awhile. He eventually found some work, but stated he was returning to Kansas as soon as they had the money and would never come back to Nebraska again. As much as I remember, he never did come back.

So when the family got together it was the other four older siblings, their spouses, ten grand kids, Dean and myself. Naturally there was an adult table and kids table. When the ten older ones including mom and dad sat down, all doorways but the front door were blocked. The grand kids myself and Dean was in the kitchen and that table nearly touched all four walls. Mom was the only one who could move. She sat on a chair in the doorway to the kitchen. It did not matter how crowded it was she was in her glory. She wanted all her kids home as often as she could get them to come and she tried to talk all of them out of moving from the area when some did move. Eventually all of them left town.

David moved for work to southern Nebraska along the Kansas border, met a wonder woman there and stayed. Doris and family lived on the south side of town, which was far enough away to be another city. At least it felt like that to me. She was even more country and farmer than dad. She had her garden, a little Billy Goat for milk and chickens for eggs. I was closest to her of all the older kids. She often had me come and spend Friday night at her place and then sent me to gather the eggs Saturday morning. If it was just picking up the eggs, that might not have been so bad. I got so digging under a chicken for her eggs didn’t bother me too much, but I hated being attacked by the rooster. He always tried to peck me to death. When the goat saw that I was going down he joined the fray by trying to butt me. Frankly I think she just sent me out there so she would have a good laugh. I know I looked a fright.

Dorlis and Gladys both married Air Force men. They got shipped around a lot. When Dorlis’ husband finished with the military they settled in Florida. He was a southern boy and the biggest bigot I had ever met. He was vicious and never saw a black person that he didn’t have something nasty to say even if it meant shouting out his car window. Dad and I were especially glad to see them move. Gladys eventually settled the closest to home. She was a very responsible person and worried about them aging and potentially needing help. Mom and dad moved out of Omaha before that need became a reality.

There were a few years we all jammed into the house on Webster Street. Since two of the brother-in-laws smoked, they moved outside right after the meal and stayed there until it was time to leave. It was terrible if the weather kept the grandkids in. The adults were constantly telling them to quiet down. Of course, they never did. The adults had no conversation on those times, but mom was happy. Everyone was there.

I can’t even remember who didn’t like whom. It changed all the time, but there were always some on the outs with others. Every gathering was full of tension. Dad sat quietly and endured, but went to bed as soon as everyone left. He was worn out. I was still young enough to enjoy the grand kids some of whom were only a few years younger than I. I had babysat every one of them at one time on another. As I got older I had a growing awareness of the struggle being together was.

The women always went to the kitchen to clean up, David, dad and Doris husband sat in the living room and the Air Force boys sat on the swing on the front porch. There was never any excitement about the family getting together. I was treated as a grandchild by my siblings — which only makes sense. I was closer in age to them than my own brother and sisters. We had nothing in common.

Only mom seemed to never notice that there was no room to accommodate us all. She would argue when they wanted to leave for the day. “Can’t you stay a little longer”?" She didn’t seem to understand that her clinginess was driving them away.

When my time came to leave, I was anxious to go. Mom was convinced that I would be lonely and miss home and move back in no time. I did return for two summer breaks, but only for visits there after. I had the same need the others all had. I needed to get away. There was no family togetherness, and nothing every changed. I was not lonely. Unfortunately, I didn’t really miss home at all.

MUST I chapter 20

(Parenthetically speaking…

It’s the first day of spring. Yeah. At least the sun was out — briefly. Now that I am up and mobile it appears to be clouding over. That’s the way it goes in the northwest. I suspect the snow is finished — I hope.)

      Now what do I do? There was so much happiness through the church when I publicly prayed the sinner’s prayer that I was sure my troubles would be over. My church pressured me to get with the program and get saved. Now they wanted me to be filled with the Holy Spirit. In my church, that meant speaking in tongues. I was so confused that I wasn’t even sure I was saved. Nothing had changed. Well there was one thing. I was becoming more nervous and fearful especially around things of faith.

Now I was confused. Confusion came either from my desire to be filled with the spirit or my desire to please the people of the church, especially my dad. Dad never put pressure on me. He never said a thing about it. If he cared, he kept his mouth closed. That did not seem to apply to others in the church.

Every service included a call to come forward, and pray for salvation and/or to be filled with the Spirit. I had seen people do this dozens of times. After several months of getting the evil eye and verbal encouragement I started going forward each week to pray. Just doing this made me wonder if maybe I was sincere about the sinner’s prayer, if maybe God had come into my life. How was I to be sure? After many weeks of going forward it was clear people were getting very concerned about me and were gathering around me putting their hands all over me and crying to God to give me the gift of tongues. I hated every moment of it. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted them to keep their hands off me.

I had thought about this for quite some time. Maybe I could fake the gift; maybe I should try to fake the gift. After all, it wasn’t like I didn’t already know plenty of phrases from a dozen or more people I would hear nearly every week. Also, I was a little mimic. Of course, if I did fake it, I would have to select parts of my dad’s tongue prayers. I knew them the best. Besides, he never came to the front to lay hands on me — it was just other people. Then there was sister Withrow. Her prayers were worth considering.  She spoke in tongues every Sunday and was heard about all other voices. I was a little concerned that everyone knew some of her comments, but I began to pick and choose phrases I could blend together with dads and others. I was going to do this. I felt like I had to do this. I didn’t want to do this.

I was a nervous wreck the Sunday I decided, “to be filled.” My palms were sweaty and sweat was rolling off my forehead. It was so bad that I almost decided not to do it, but I decided that it was more important to stop what I considered to be harassment — please stop. The moment came and I went forward, knelled down and went over and over what I planned to say and then began to let it out softly, but not slowly. As people near me heard the wonderful sounds flowing from me they began to gather around. I figured my performance was going well so picked up the volume a little and the crowd grew. I was careful not to let it go on too long lest I stumble. As I quieted down the rejoicing began in serious and the groups praise in tongues more enthusiastic. When the opportunity permitted, I stood up to return the pew, but had to deal with the hugs and handshaking first. I felt like that was emotionally painful, but only part of the price I had to pay to end the demands.

It worked. There were no more demands that I do anything. The evil eyes stopped. The comment ceased. I went back to the way things were before I prayed the sinner’s prayer. The biggest problem was that I began to hate the church. I no longer had any interest attending church. I went, because I “still lived in my father’s house” and had to. But I no longer listened. I no longer seemed to care. I mentally mocked what was happening. I laughed to myself at the things I considered ridiculous or silly, especially the people.  Were they all hypocrites? I was comparing others things I knew about them to their behavior in church. I was emotionally demanding that they be perfect. The more I felt they had fallen short, the more I wanted out of church.

While my actions did not change and I played the good boy to those around me, I began to be bitter. I dreamed about what I could be doing if not forced to sit in church. I was sure my older siblings had the right idea. I wondered when they each had the courage to escape. They were all married with children now and only Doris went to church. I figured she had to. Her father-in-law was the preacher.

As for me, I became unsure about God. Was He really there? Did He really care? Was I part of the group he loved? I didn’t know. Why did “His people” seem so demanding and cruel? At least, that was how I saw it.

I wanted to know God. I wanted Him to know me. But the process seemed to be complicated. If people were really converted, how did it happen? Maybe someday…

FREE, FREE AT LAST chapter 19

For most teens a car meant freedom. When the time came for me to get a car, it only meant transportation. For me, freedom was my bicycle.

I don’t remember when I began riding a bike, but I know there were limitations on distance and directions beyond which I was not permitted to go. I most likely fudged from time to time, but basically, I kept those boundaries. But as summer approached and school was ending with my completion of 7^th grade, all boundaries were lifted. The new rule was to be home before the street lights came on. That was liberating. I felt mature, grown up, the Christian equivalent of bar mitzvah. I was trusted.

Glen was my primary riding partner. We had already thoroughly explored our neighborhood. One of our favorite spots was around 33^rd and California. We both liked the drugstore on the corner. They had this very cool black and white, shiny soda fountain and a couple of guys who made terrific strawberry shakes and hot chocolate sundaes. The store also had a great collection of house plan books. I spent a lot of money on those books. It was late 6^th grade and into 7^th grade that I became absolutely fascinated with house plans. I thumbed through every new book they had and bought as many as I could. I never had porn stored under my bed it was house plans.

A block south was the beginning of Gifford Park. It angled for three blocks between 33^rd and 35^th and Cottage Grove and Davenport. There was a hill off 33^rd that dropped into the park and we often played like we were spies, running around and hiding in the bushes. There was a Standard Gas Station with an air pump for our tires right across the street. We explored that entire neighborhood street-by-street alley-by-alley and even bush-by-bush. There were times we slipped across Dodge and checked out Turner Park. It was small and not as Interesting as Gifford. Besides, Dodge was our eastern limit. Neither of us wanted to spend too much time there anyway.

But when the restrictions were lifted we were off to Memorial and Elmwood Park way, way out west (probably about 30 blocks). At least it felt that way to 12-year-olds. We even ventured onto the University of Omaha (now U of N at Omaha) but never stayed long. Too crowded. There was the keenest (another expression we had) path with an arched stone tunnel under a nearby street. Next to it were the drinking fountains. We hung out around there a lot. It was fun to explore the hills rising toward the University.

We rode around Memorial Park, but didn’t play there much. It is a memorial to the fallen soldiers of WWII. It always seemed like such a solemn place. The expanse was huge and the drop to Dodge Street seemed a great distance, but beautiful.

I always wanted to return home through Dundee neighborhood along Chicago, Cass or California just to see all the huge homes. I would look in awe wondering what they were like inside. As I learned more about architecture I was soon able to figure out what rooms were where by the size and shape of the windows and their location. I longed to see the staircases. Many were unique. If there was a garage, it was often accessed from the alley and was only for one car. Even then I didn’t know how a car could fit in those skinny little things.

My brother David did deliveries for Brandeis Department store and on more than one occasion delivered to their mansion on Dodge. It was too big to figure out. They did not have a garage. They had a converted stable with servant quarter’s overhead (a carriage house). Man I wanted to see inside so bad I kind of wanted to grow up to be a deliveryman to that mansion. David said he always delivered to the back door and never even got his head inside. So much for that dream!

We loved to go south to a place called Devils Slide. I think that was only a name the kids gave it. There was a very slight slope to the bottom from a plateau high at the top. From years of use, most likely, a slide of sorts had been worn on the hill. There were always a number of kids having a blast at the slide. We always came home from there a filthy mess. “Where have you been?” “In the dirt.”

We did some riding around downtown, but it was too busy and there was no place to leave our bikes without fear of having them stolen. We would also ride along the Union Pacific Yards, but there was nothing much to see. Trains were lined near the road and blocked any view into the yards. I just wanted to see where dad worked. I never did.

That summer was the year of freedom. We went riding nearly every day, and only returned as dusk. I lost track of how many lunches I missed by not being home. I didn’t care. I had the world to explore, well at least nearby neighborhoods.

Memorial Park, Omaha, NB (I remember it being green)

IF IT’S FUN, ITS SIN chapter 18

(Parenthetically speaking…

We hand a medical emergency at church this morning. A dear lady from a care center passed out during the announcements. She was unresponsive so 911 was called. We always have a break for coffee and sweets after the announcements so the timing disturbed very little. We just had a longer break. They revived her and she stayed. When the pastor got going with his sermon – good job, but the way – the two ladies on either side talked to her the rest of the service, albeit quietly. However, since everyone was aware and it was disruptive, I want to congratulate the pastor who kept right on preaching. I could never have done it.

Reminds me of the first medical emergency in a church I had observed. I hadn’t been in Saskatoon very long. Our tradition was to have the staff sit on the platform. It happened while the congregation was singing “A Mighty Fortress is Our God. Lorne, our head usher noticed a senior saint collapse in the third row from the front.” How he did it I don’t know? I didn’t see it happen. But Lorne and a couple of other ushers quickly walked up the aisle with a stretcher they had strapped to a pipe in the lobby, and picked the man up. A doctor met them in the lobby and the ambulance was there almost immediately with barely a disturbance in the service at all. Very few even knew what had happened. It was the smoothest thing I ever saw.)

Not every church was like mine. There were some that were stricter than ours, and some way more liberal. I’m talking socially, not theologically although that is also true. About the time I was making my list and checking it twice, I was thinking that all churches were pretty much alike, at least protestant ones. I knew the Jewish and Catholic faiths were unique. I had visited both of them.

No one got out of elementary school in my church without knowing the fundamental rules for right and wrong. It started with the Ten Commandments. There was a lot of confusion over exactly what it meant to not take the Lord’s name in vain. Was “gull darn it” swearing.” What about “son of a gun.” How about gosh, golly, jeez, gee whiz, shucks, or piss. Piss sounded bad. It was a bodily function and polite people never used that word even when one had to go and take a ---- (can’t say it). That all seemed to be verboten. We all knew the F--- word and the S--- words were bad, very bad. You could get your mouth washed out with soap for uttering such profanity. If you said anything negative with the words Jesus or God or added the word damn, you got the belt. You even had to be careful how you sang, “Jesus Loves Me.” You had to watch your tone and sound like you meant it. We would be frowned at or shushed when we used even an unknown word on that unpublished list of naughty words even if we didn’t know the word was on the list. Since many of these things floated around you at school, knowing the right from wrong language was hard work.

We certainly didn’t understand “have no other gods before me.” We had heard most of the Bible stories about idols being smashed and destroyed, you know, the golden calf and all. We were pretty sure we were OK on that one. No one had any little golden calf like statues in their room.

We were all ready to argue about keeping the Sabbath day holy. We knew that in our tradition it was Sunday. First, was it Saturday and then Sunday and what was wrong with making Wednesday the Sabbath? It would be nice to have another day off in the middle of the week. Church kids hated the Sabbath because it meant you could not do anything but rest and read or play very quietly. I wanted to scream. I gave up naps before kindergarten. This seemed to be extreme punishment to me. I would have rather has the switch.

You could get slapped around for not honoring your father and mother, especially your mother. Never, never did anyone say anything bad about his or her mom and no one sassed her. If they did they would have been whacked. That was a universal law, I think. I think that is always why kids are ready to fight when something bad is said about their mother. Invoking the word mother in a bad way was almost the ultimate sin.

Do not murder or commit adultery were no big deal. Never! Didn’t even cross our minds even when we said, “I’m going to kill you.”  All that really meant was that I was really, really made at you.

Stealing on the other hand was a problem. Bobby, up the street from me, had a neighborhood gang (sort of) and to get into his gang you had to steal either a comic book or an air tire cap off a parked car in the neighborhood. Tire air caps were cool in the 50’s. They weren’t just little black caps to cover the stem. I don’t remember all the designs, but Standard Oil’s cap had a cool crown. All the oil companies had their own designs. I stole both caps and comics and graduated to a couple of candy bars along the way. I don’t know why I stole comics. I read the ones my brother bought. They were not that important to me. I guess I did it to be accepted. Being accepted at the beginning of puberty is very important. Now as an old man, it makes no sense. Youth is such a small smidgen of life, but critical.

Bearing false witness had something to do with lying — I think. Maybe it was about telling lies about other kids. Well, some of them deserved it. They were mean and nasty. Some of it was just retaliation for something they did. Most of it was just to make yourself look better in someone else’s eyes while making the other one look worse. That never worked. We used to always say. “Sticks and Stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” That’s not true. Names cut to the quick and don’t heal very fast at all.

I certainly didn’t want any of my neighbor’s wives. I didn’t want a wife at all. I probably wanted some of my neighbor’s things. On the other hand, I lived in a poor neighborhood and we all pretty much had the same things. Well, not all of us.

Beyond the Ten Commandments, the for sure no-no’s were smoking, drinking, chewing, dancing and playing cards. When I got older I was surprised that having sex out of wedlock was not on that stated list. I guess we were just supposed to know that one. When rock and roll came along, music was added to the list of evils. There use to be evangelists who went around the country telling teens and their parents about the horrors of the syncopated beat and the evils of the devils music. It was all based in Africa, you know. I was never much into the music of the day but music was not a big deal to me. After saying that, I find it unusual that when I hear one of those old songs I can often sing along with them. Maybe I absorbed more than I thought. Most of that was pre-rock and roll so I guess I was OK. I always loved “Flying Purple People Eater.” Weird song.

Beyond the basics the list got pretty bazaar. That’s why I have always said, “If it’s fun, its sin.” Please, if you know of other no-nos, please add them to this list. I know this is not anywhere complete: movies (especially drive ins), bowling, roller-skating, pool halls, cruising, jukeboxes (it was really what was in the box), nothing good happens after midnight, sports on Sunday, almost anything on Sunday that wasn’t reading or sleeping, and… I’m going to stop and let you give me more if you will please. If your ideas come in, you will find them in the comment section. I did this in an adult Sunday school class years ago and the list was over 80 things. I had heard them all at one time or another, and didn’t believe very many.