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.

SHE WAS A NEGRO chapter 17

(Parenthetically speaking…

It has snowed off and on all week. No a Midwest kind of snow. Just flakes most days, some hard, none lasts very long, but that brings with it cold weather. We should be stilling on our front porch by now. In addition I have developed allergies this year. I can’t believe it. And coming with that my nose is running like a leaky faucet. When I woke up I began reading about the plagues in Egypt. I feel like I have a plague right now. Yuck!)

I really didn’t understand the question. Yes, she was a Negro. So what? One third of my class was Negro’s. “That’s why your picture is in the paper. You were dancing with a Negro” I really needed more information. Why would my picture be in the paper because I danced with a Negro? She had been my primary partner for nearly two years.

Dad wasn’t mad about my dance partner. He was just trying to explain why my picture was in the paper, but he was mad. He was mad that I was dancing. I had been specifically warned about this sin — dancing was wrong and I was not permitted to do it. “Come with me.” Yeah, I knew what that meant. We were going to the back yard where he would cut a branch off the willow tree and proceed to whip me until I cried. I knew the drill. Cry early and get it over with. That was where I developed some acting skills.

While I was waiting for the switch to be readied, grandpa stepped out on the back porch and called him by name. “What are you going to do to Clyde?” I am going to take this switch to him because he has been dancing and doing it behind our backs. “Humm. Is square dancing wrong?” “Yes it is. All dancing is of the devil.” “Then you think everyone who dances should get the switch.” “It would teach them all a lesson.” “Well then, wait a minute. Way before I was born and even before I met your mother, I went to all the area dances. Square dancing is hard work and a whole bunch of fun. If that’s what you think should happen you should start with me. I nearly square danced my legs off when I was young and ain’t never been whipped for it.”

Grandpa walked down to the willow tree where he and dad got into a heated discussion. I stood quietly for a while and then slowly slipped away. He never came looking for me and the subject was never brought up again, but the dirty looks were enough to warn me that I got away with it this time, but grandpa will go back home soon and the law goes back into effect.

For the life of me I could never figure out all that I did wrong. I knew some of it. I tricked my mother into signing a permission slip (an issue that never came up) and I forged her name the on the permission slip. I did dance against their express wishes. I understood both those things, and being a kid that felt guilty for everything, I was traumatized. But I guess not enough to give up dancing. They never mentioned the permission slips, but disobedience was still wrong and I was clearly reminded of that. I was grounded for a while and told never to dance again. I heard what they said, but I knew I would do it again. I decided I would continue to dance until I got a very good explanation about what was wrong or I figured it out for myself. I still haven’t figured it out.

I know it was always the place. I learned at church that many of these things weren’t that back if bowling was not in a bowling alley, if pool, was not in a pool hall, if skating was not in a skating rink. Weird. I saw kids necking in the shadows at dances in high school, and there were some drinking, but that was nothing my friends and I were doing. Those activities were never a temptation to me. I may have liked girls, but the thought of necking in the middle of a crowd was never my idea of a good time. I couldn’t stand the smell of smoke and I was already aware of what drinking seemed to do to people. I valued self-control way too much. So I kept going. My high school years were filled with dancing and movies. There I go again, off to hell in a hand basket. I just wanted to escape those coming years with some degree of dignity — and fun. I was headed there until fall, but I was already a nervous wreck. High schools were dangerous places. But I had to go. I wanted to go on to college and become and architect.

I CAN’T DO WHAT? Chapter 16

(Parenthetically Speaking

I just about lost it this morning. I went over to Safeway to pick of a few items to make a dish for our monthly potluck. As I am leaving to come home, I turn into the main exit lane. There directly in front of me is a woman pushing her cart in my lane not paying any attention to what she was doing. I beeped as softly as I could to let her know I was there. She turned, frowned, and did not move to the side. Had I done what I thought, I would probably be in jail. A little further down was a woman leaving the parking area with her blinker on to turn across my lane and go the other way. While traffic was somewhat heavy the opposite direction, I was the only vehicle in my lane. She had pulled out half way into my lane so that I could not proceed. I gave her the universal “what do you think you’re doing” shrug of my shoulders with up turned hands and she smiled but did not back up. Since I could not go anywhere, I waved her through at the first opening. Had I done what I wanted to do I would not have a vehicle anymore. I have a $500 deductible).

As I was saying….

My mind wandered most of the time I was at church, but my ears perked up whenever the word “NO” or some semblance of rejection came onto my radar. I was also sensitive to anything I considered positive or when I might learn of a new rule.

I already knew I was “not to dance, drink or chew nor go with girls that do.” I had already broken part of that law.

Seventh grade was when they began to teach square dancing. None of my four siblings who preceded me where allowed to dance so I was fairly sure it would be a lost cause. But fortune smiled on me. When the permission slip was sent home I had two. One was for the dance class (actually just a part of what they called physical education) and the other for a visit to Joslyn Art Museum. I decided to get into a happy conversation with my mother and lay both permission slips down as through they were routine class outing slips and hoped she wouldn’t read them. The museum piece was on top and the dance one with only the signature spot showing was on the bottom. (I was becoming a deception list brat) . She signed them both.

My next worry was whether she would see me in the class. We lived directly across from the school and the basement class space was straight across from our front door. I always tried to make sure I was not in front of the windows in class. At the times I was near the window I did all I could to keep my back to the wall.

The teacher was surprised I was permitted to be in the class. She remembered that they others had to remain in the classroom (great memory), but the signature was legit so I was admitted. That year went fine so I wanted to do it the next year as well. This time I simply forged my mother’s name and got away with it, but not without a great deal of guilt. It was another fun year, and I was trying to figure out what my church had against this activity. Duh! I never did.

Near the end of the year the teacher announced that she would be selecting four couples to represent our school in the citywide square dance competition at the Civic Center. I was excited and my partner and I were selected, as was Austin and his partner.

The competition was on a Saturday So I did not have to explain to my parents were I was going other than riding with Austin. As long as I was home before the street lights when on, all was fine there were few questions.

There were piles of people in the Civic Center. There was a banner for each school and we quickly found ours. It was a long but fun day. Dancing is exhausting and I still had to ride my bike home. Teams kept getting eliminated and we were somewhere in the top third. Not bad, I thought. We had a great time and went home excited.

After we returned from church the next, we dropped into our normal Sunday routine. Grandpa napped in the rocker, dad read the paper, I lay on the floor reading the comics and mom was getting dinner ready. I have no idea where my younger brother was. Then dad came over to drop the Living section of the paper in front of me. And there before my eyes was my picture — with my partner as big and clear as life. I didn’t know why? We didn’t win. We weren’t even really that good. Why me. I knew I was in trouble. Dad said, “look at her, she’ a Negro.”

To be continued

INTERLUDE: SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD

I want to give everyone fair warning that I am about to take a position that some may consider heretical. I don’t believe it is, but it may serve as an explanation to why some who grew up in churches now reject the church and in some cases reject God.

At our Tuesday Bible study group a concern was expressed about some adult children who were brought up to attend church and will no longer have anything to do with it. I come from a family like that. There were seven children. Only one of my sisters and I continued to attend church after reaching adulthood. Our experience may not be the norm, but they offer light on one perspective.

I have often used the phrase “If its fun, its sin” to explain my perception of the church I attended as a child. I began attending church in the 40’s and 50’s. There seemed to be an angry, threatening message of condemnation and especially with a controlling aspect to preaching. It felt like everything was wrong and God was determined to trap me and get me and the church knew everything about right and wrong. The interpretation of Scripture went above and beyond Scripture. It added to the Word. The love of Jesus was only expressed in the song Jesus Loves Me.

In Bible College, I read Jonathan Edwards most famous message, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. It was mentioned as an ideal and powerful sermon. He preached it to the congregation of Enfield, Massachusetts (later Connecticut) in July 1741. An excerpt from The Jonathan Edwards Center at Yale University says:

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God represents in many persons’ minds the bleak, cruel, and hell-bent outlook of Edwards and his Puritan predecessors. But of course such a representation is only a caricature, for Sinners, if it represents anything, stands for only a small part of Edwards’s view of the relationship between humankind and God. As a specially crafted awakening sermon, Sinners was aimed at a particularly hard-hearted congregation. But, at the same time, the awakening sermon and all it expressed—the awful weight of sin, the wrath of an infinitely holy God, and the unexpectedness of the moment when God will execute justice—were integral to Edwards’s theology.  

He was clearly upset and angry with his congregation and addressed them like Jesus addressed the Pharisees. Apparently, he had good reason. However, it seems his message became a model for the way ministers should preach, regardless of the needs of any specific congregation and that continued well into the middle 20^th century and in some places still exists. It was almost like no one ever came to know Christ personally and always needed to be reminded that they were going to hell.

I say that to make the point that attending church is not a spiritual end all. The Biblical encouragement to “not forsake the assembling of ourselves together” is used as an encouragement to attend church. Bust should it be? Are there not other ways to assemble? Could it be done in a small group? Could it be one on one? And apart from that, can we come to know and get to know God while alone. Forgive the supposed heresy.

In many ways I consider that inconsequential. Many people grew up being brow beat and manipulated by religion. It was not only done by some preachers, but by traveling evangelists, Christians and even non-Christians who would say, “I didn’t think Christian you could…” finish the line with whatever crossed their mind.

My siblings and I grew up with this angry God. There was plenty of anger in our lives as it was. I (we) wanted love, compassion, understanding, and temperance even the opportunity to have the Holy Spirit speak to us and draw us along in growth and maturity. No one comes to Christ as a mature Christian. I was exhausted by all comments telling me that now that I had accepted Christ I could no longer… (You name it). Who needed God or the Holy Spirit when every so-called Christian I knew was trying to take over Their role. Did no one understand the apostle Paul when he wrote, “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” (I Cor. 12:11). Do not people enter into faith as newbie’s? Do they not start with limited understanding as to what it means to walk with Christ? Is there no learning curve?

There are two views of the church that I believe present a better understanding of how the church should function. But first, let me dismiss some false notions. The church is not a legal system where law and judgment is dispersed. It is not a government agency where seniority or longevity has any special rights. It is not a country club where the good old boys gather to party. It is not a social club where one goes to pick up new clients.

It is where the family of God gathers to laugh, relax and enjoy the company of one another and to be accepted by those who love you. As a family there are all levels of maturity from infants to grandparents. Nothing quit functions like a loving family. Yes, I am aware of the many dysfunctional families that exist, and there are just as many as there are dysfunctional churches. But dysfunction is not the goal or the model.

When I was teaching I would often get various surveys crossing my desk. One every survey the number one reason people went to church was for relationships. Their friends and family were there. Yes there were other reasons and many legitimate. Any healthy family welcomes the infants. That means the family is growing and continues. The mature adults love and accept the antics of the younger ones. We revert with them to children’s activities and songs and love what they do even when milk is spilled, things are broken and they won’t share with others. We loving encourage them to do the right thing. We remind them that accidents happen and no permanent damage has been done. We continue to love them through the worse of their problems. Rejection destroys the relationship. Yelling and screaming never accomplished anything. 

When the mature adults of a family want everything done their way, we must first question whether they are mature and it does not take long before the younger members of the family no longer want to come around. It’s boring, threatening, or just plain a pain in the neck. That’s why I don’t want to visit aunt Bertha.

A second aspect of a healthy church is that it is like a hospital. People come to get well. No one rushes the healing process. It must take its natural course and while it can be bandaged, medical personal should know that only God does the healing. Also, the speed of healing is not the same for everyone and some injuries are significantly more sever than others.

I know that much damage has been done in the name of Christ. Wars and murder have been committed because of faith. Believers have hurt one another because of the words we speak. Way to many of us believe the only way is our way and that’s a lie. Jesus is the way, but He deals with us individually, not as a unit.

I have great compassion for those hurt by “us.” by religion. I was one of those hurt but I began to read the Bible and then met the real Jesus. I can’t correct the evils of organized religion. Its a man made structure run by weak and sinful men (and women). But most are seriously listening to God and trying to do the right thing. Most want you to know the God they love. Most want you to experience the love they have and are experiencing. Most really care and are trying to express the best way they know how. Lets give one another a break, Give us weak and fallible leaders a break. Relax your demands for our perfection and we will (hopefully) relax our demands that you be sinless. I do not expect perfection in the loving family. I expect understanding and the more mature you think you are, the more understanding and compassion that needs to be demonstrated. 

AND IN THIS CORNER chapter 15

Ronnie was a short little kid, but the only one I knew in the entire school that seemed to have some muscle definition. Unlike others, his upper arm muscle didn’t just slightly rise up like the rest of the boys, there was clear definition of where it bulged and where it went down and the connection to his shoulder was sharp with skin folding tightly over the top of his shoulder defining every little muscle. He made sure everyone noticed his muscles. He walked around pumping his arms up like a body builder. To make his position even stronger, he pushed kids, tripped them, threatened them and challenged them to fights.

Ronnie was a year behind me. Of course, I noticed him. He was hard to miss, but I didn’t really know him. He had already worked his way through the younger kids and his own class by scaring or beating up on all of them. Then he began working his way through some of the upper grades. When he got around to me, he was in fourth grade and I was in fifth.

He had already tried to take on David. He just lived two doors up from the school. The problem with challenging kids who lived so close to the school was they never walked past the killing field — the place were all fights were staged — 28^th and Burt. I guess all the adults who lived in that house worked. None of us ever saw anyone around so the corner of their lot was used as a boxing/wrestling ring. While David was tempted and tormented, he never gave into Ronnie’s threats. Besides, he could be home and safely inside in 2-3 minutes after school. He did that for a long time before Ronnie gave up.

When he could never get anything going with David through pushing, shoving and hitting him on the shoulder, he moved on to the twins. They were the smallest boys in my class. Greg and Craig were identical twins. They may have been small but they were both wiry and very fast. The brothers rarely hung around each other at recess and it appeared that Ronnie many have been confused as to who he was challenging. One or the other finally agreed to accept his challenge and meet him at the foot of boot hill.

When the appointed day and time arrived, both brothers showed up for the fight. “Wait a minute. I only wanted to fight one of you.” Greg (or maybe Craig) said, “you challenged both of us and told us both the same time and date, so here we are.” Ronnie immediately cried foul. “It not fair, cowards, chickens, have to team up on me, huh!” and on and on. Needless to say, all parties when home without a scratch.

He tried threatening Jack. When I heard about that I thought he was really stupid. I guess he saw Jack sitting along the wall alone and slumped over when he came up and punched him in the arm. All Jack did was look up, slowly stand up and said, “Are you looking for a fight.” Jack towered over the poor kid who said no, and moved on.

When he got around to me it was the same old thing, Pushing, shoving, tripping, threatening, anything he could do to get a rise. I had decided early I was not going to fight the kid. I loved to fake fight and wrestle with my friends, but I had never hit anyone in anger (except maybe my brother). He quickly added all kinds of derogative terms and name-calling. Those get under your skin pretty quickly. The saying was always, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” Wrong. That wasn’t true. The names dug into your psychic and gnawed away until you were about to explode. Since we lived in Omaha I always that that kid should be stuck in Boys Town – the detention part.

Austin and others encouraged me to take the brat on. I didn’t want to tell them I had never been in a fight and frankly, had no interest in this one either, I could run out the school door and be home quicker than David. I could avoid the fighting but not the taunts. Friends said, “Just do it and beat the crap out of him.” Right! I wasn’t sure I would even get a good swing in. But I gave in and we agreed on a day.

I had to walk a block away from home to meet Ronnie and he was there waiting for me when I arrived. He started the name-calling and screaming obscenities before I even got to the corner. By the time I mounted the rise my face was red and steam was coming out of the top of my head. We circled a couple of times then without warning I charged and flatten him on his back. I immediately got on top and began pounding away at his face and chest. When people could see blood coming from his lip they pulled me off. I was angry that it had come to this, and I wanted him to know to leave me alone.

I hung out at the corner for a long time with my friends as they congratulated me and patted me on my back. All I could think was that I had beat up a poor arrogant little fourth grader.

When I got home, mother jumped all over me. It seemed that Ronnie’s mother had called mine and complained that I had beaten up her poor defenseless little boy who only wanted to be friends with everyone and he had a black eye and a bloody lip and it was my fault. Huh?

When dad got home I was to be switched. I tried to explain why and how it happened, but to dad there was never any excuse for fighting let alone a bigger kid picking on a smaller one. I was angry with dad as the switching was unjustified, but even through the punishment I had a smile in my heart that I had stopped that little brat.

MY BROTHER, WHOM I SLEPT WITH chapter 14

Anyone who ever had to sleep with a sibling, especially a brother had to have been doubled over with laughter when they first heard Bill Cosby’s “To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With. The routine was recorded in 1968 in the Cleveland Public Auditorium, and released later that year, on a 12" vinyl record. I was not only doubled over, but tears were rolling down my cheeks because I was laughing so hard. I could not follow the whole story the first time I heard it because of my laughter. I had to listen to it several times because I was identifying with all of it.

Dean was the brother I slept with. We shared a tiny little room right off the living room. Any noise we made could easily be heard in the living room. Since there was no insulation and the house was tiny, you could ear any thing in any room.

We slept in what was called a three quarter bed, smaller than full and larger than a twin. The mattress was about 4” thin with buttons all over the place holding the stop and bottom together. Since we were little, our weight didn’t do much denting, but that did not stop the old wire springs from squeaking with every turn. The bed was just inside and to the right of the door. It touched three walls. For the one sleeping by the back wall, they had to climb over the one on the front edge. The climber was my brother. I often let him get in bed first.

It was not unusual to draw an imaginary line down the middle and divide up the territory. I could escape from my side, but he needed a passport to even get out of his country. I was not about to give him permission — ever. We fought over the line like Arabs and Israel — every night. The line continually shifted with each of us attempting to claim more territory, Our parents were usually sitting in the living room and when they could take it no longer, “I’m gonna come in there.” That was always the first warning and we knew instinctively that we had more time to settle the dispute.

Each would attempt to occupy any newly acquired land, as possession was 9/10’s of the law. That resulted in a shoving match back to back, and then the leg-to-leg and finally pushing and shoving with hands. Then came warning number two. “Don’t make me come in there.”

It would get quiet for a while with only whispered disagreements. It rarely stayed quiet, but we were not touching as we had retreated to the outside edge of our territory. But gradually, someone’s foot would brush against the other one and a scream could be heard at the neighbors, “He’s touching me.” The third warning had mom standing at the open the door with hands on her hips, “This the last time I’m gong to tell you. One more time and your dad is coming in here with the strap.”

This always became a touchy situation. She didn’t necessarily mean what she said. It took some careful calculating on our part to figure out if dad would be next and if he was, would he have “the strap.” The dispute would often continue in whispered negotiations, “I’m gonna kill you if you cross my line.” If a doubled up first hit a shoulder it was back to screaming and dad was in the doorway. If he was not holding the strap, we were safe, if it was in his hand we were both going to get a swat or two. As a prelude to the swat, each proclaimed their innocence and blamed the other. When hit with the strap is was always best to cry immediately then he didn’t use it as long.

I am nine years younger than our sister Gladys and Dean is three years younger than I, She eloped when she was eighteen or nineteen so I was nine or ten at the cease fire. Our bed sharing ended when she got married. There were only two children left at home and three bedrooms. The bed wars ended.

Not long before the truce, mom caught me with several large pieces of cardboard attempting to build the Berlin wall between east and west. I was having a very hard time getting it to stay in place. She stood at the door watching for a while and then asked, “What are you doing.” “Building a wall to keep HIM on his side of the bed.” “I don’t thing it is going to work.” “If I could borrow some thumb tacks and string I could tie it to the ceiling.” “If you did that, either one could roll into the wall and it would move at the bottom. You would be right back where you started.” I thought about it for a while and then said. “I’ll get some boards from the basement.” “No you won’t.”

That ended construction on the great wall of the bed. The fights continued until I got moved to another part of the world. Some nights were quiet. It always took someone to fire the first shot. I’m sure it was always him.

2862 WEBSTER STREET chapter 13

We lived in the oldest house on the street. Never owned it, but rented it for the entire 20+ years my parents lived there. The rent was $45 a month and it was never increased. I always believed that was because no one else would ever rent it, but it may have been because dad took care of all the necessary repairs.

When I was little, my brother and I used to race marbles from the front room to the kitchen. The floor slanted just enough it would pick up speed for the great race. All we had to do was release the marbles.  I don’t know if it was because of the marble races or what t was, but dad decided to level the floors.  I guess it wasn’t possible to level the entire house, so he leveled each room individually, When completed there was a step from one room to the next and they weren’t all the same height. One had to be careful when moving from one room to the next.

It seemed obvious that the neighborhood had dramatically changed some time after our house was built. All the others were reasonably nice homes. My friend David lived in a house with servant quarters up stairs and a narrow set of back stairs down to the kitchen. They never had a servant, but the house was neat to play in.

Rumor had it that our house used to be a neighborhood store (convenience store in current terms). That looked right. The largest room in the house was the first one from the sidewalk. It has an outside entrance. You entered the main part of the house by following the porch around to the right. We used that front room as a bedroom and combination storage space. I know Dean and I kept bikes in there.

Since nearly all of the family seemed to move around to different bedrooms, I eventually slept in each one. Dean and I started in the middle bedroom, I then moved to the back when I first got my own room and in high school I moved to the largest bedroom, in front. I can’t remember why.

There was no furnace, or wall heaters or any kind of central heat. Dad put a coal burning stove up in the early fall and took it down in the early spring. The thing put out enough to heat the entire house, if you didn’t close a door. While that was strange in our neighborhood, it was more surprising that there was no hot water tank. All hot water was heated on the kitchen stove. The more you need, the larger the pots or more of them. Baths were taken in a round galvanized tub that hung on the wall in the bathroom. Baths were taken on Saturday night and everyone used the same water — from youngest to oldest. Dad was the biggest and dirtiest so he was last.

The house entrance & Oak tree

      I seem to remember starting out with a coal-burning kitchen stove. I was still in elementary school when we converted to electricity. The first icebox was exactly that, a box that held ice. The ice man would deliver a large block of ice carrying it in with a big pick like clamp and dripping through the house. The first washing machine we have was the galvanized tub and a scrub board. We then moved on to a wringer washer. Mom would feed the clothes through the wringer and I would pull them out on the other side. She was constantly worried that I would get my fingers caught in the wringer. The dryer was always a close line in the side yard.

Dad grew up on a farm and had the farmer still in him. Several neighbors had small gardens, but out entire back yard had been turned into garden. Us boys were expected to turn the soil over in the spring, weed during the growing season and harvest at the right time. I didn’t mind the harvest. I loved shucking corn, snapping beans and shelling peas. I don’t know why we grew strawberries. What few we got were terrific, but the birds ate most of them. We had two kinds of potatoes and carrots, beets, lettuce and a few other things. Mom canned just about everything. Once we bought a freezer, corn on the cob when right in there. The basement was cool enough to store potatoes all year. It was most likely originally a root cellar. The only entrance was from the outside back of the house.

That was the only house I remember living in while in Omaha.  I was told I was brought home from St. Joseph’s Hospital to an apartment. We moved to Webster Street while I was still an infant.

 I returned to Omaha about 1998 and drove through the old neighborhood. Creighton University’s School of Dentistry now sits on was our property. I could still see the slope of the land that was part of our sledding run. St. Joseph’s Hospital relocated right across the street where Webster school used to be. Webster dead-ends at 28^th and over the wall is a freeway going I don’t know where. 28^th Street looks more like and alley. While there is an entrance to the hospital on Webster, the main entrance is on 30^th.

There is one neighborhood house sitting in the back parking lot of the hospital where it is surrounded by cement. I understand the owner would not sell to the hospital so they bought up everything around him hemming the house in. His street is gone. To leave his place he drives through St. Joseph’s parking lot. If he were to change his mind now, I doubt they would want it. It is nothing but a postage stamp to them and could only be added to their parking lot. That would be expensive. He missed out.

Things change and the world moves on. I have no regrets about the old home being removed. It should have happened before I left. I am surprised it never fell down. The shale siding had several broken pieces where the tarpaper poked through. It was sad to lose the giant Oak tree. We has various swings there through my entire childhood. Even had a trapeze for a while during the time I dreamed of being in the circus. My niece, Wanda and I, did all kinds of tricks on that thing. I was the holder and she did the tricks. I did enjoy that I learned to fall backwards off the trapeze and catch myself by my legs.

In spite of the condition of the house, it has good memories. I remember when I first left that I would never again climb up on that roof and over into the Oak tree. To bad. That was neat.

THE SINNERS PRAYER chapter 12

The summer after eighth grade, dad took the family to the last revival meeting I would ever attend. It was in a tent with sawdust on the ground and only a few blocks from the Union Pacific repair yards where dad worked.

Preaching had a different focus in the 50’s to that of 2012. At least it did in my church. I had never heard that God loved me, other than in the children’s song we sang, but I sure knew I was in great danger of going to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. God was a mighty and awful judge. Slip up and you were doomed. I lived in fear of being doomed. I never felt forgiven and never believed I could be forgiven.

Our church had shown a movie earlier that year about what it would be like in the end times. The moon would turn to blood and the rivers would turn to blood.  I saw all these things turning red and there were forest fires and one awful scene after another but the voice over was the most frightening. God was an angry God and He would judge severely. That was followed by a very long sermon on God’s eternal damnation. I already knew I was destined to hell in a hand basket. The revival meeting was the final straw. I was terrified. I wanted some fire insurance.

After a full week of the evangelist pounding away at us sinner, I finally raised my hand at the alter call. I believe it was during the 17^th singing of “Just As I Am.” I no sooner raised my hand before I regretted it. I was afraid of walking to the front f that tent. I had no intention of going forward, but they had spotters. There were people standing at the back watching for raised hands and one approached me and asked if I would like him to walk with me to the front. I wanted to say no, but I turned and looked up at my dads face on my left and saw tears running down his cheek and the joy in his eyes so I went forward.

We no sooner got the front then I was surrounded by three or four more men all gathered around landing hands on ma and holding me down while screaming to God to save me. I was creeped out and scared. I began to cry. When I started crying, they started rejoicing and then one of them moved on to praying in tongues. That frightened me even more so I cried louder. The louder I got the happier they got. When I ran out of tears they began thanking Jesus and the rejoicing went on and on. When they finally let me go I went back and stood next to dad. He reached down and gave me a hug. I was just thankful I had escaped from the angry men at the alter, but was I “saved.” I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel differently. I didn’t feel thankful no did I feel like I was avoiding eternal damnation.

I thought it was over. I was saved as far as they were concerned and they would now leave me alone. If they thought I was saved, maybe I was. I didn’t know. The next Sunday I was surround by people at church congratulating me. You would have thought I had won a lottery. My Sunday school teacher wanted me to teach the lesson the next Sunday. As she said, all I had to do was tell the story of Joseph being sold into slavery. Easy. I could do that. I had gone to Sunday school my whole life. I knew the all the kids stories of the Bible. Having taught my class I was even more of a hero to the adults. The kids weren’t too proud of me. What they didn’t know was that I had not known if I was sincere or serious at that alter. I only knew I was a frightened 13-year-old boy. The preacher and the prayer scared the living day lights out of me. I didn’t want to be a sinner any more, but nothing in my life changed. I had heard that there would be a dramatic change when we accepted Jesus. I was pretty sure I was the same ole guy.

However, as far as the church was concerned, I was saved. I was one of them. I was heading to the great kingdom in the sky. I was sure that meant the questioning looks and the constant questions about my salvation were now over.

Wrong. The concern for my spiritual wellbeing only increased. More was expected. More was being demanded.

THE DISCOVERY OF GIRLS chapter 11

The first girl I remember eve paying attention to me was Dixie. Unfortunately, that was while I still believed girls were yucky. The difficulty was that she maintained that stance even up to the time when I changed my mind about girls. I didn’t know it at the time, but later I really liked the chase. I liked them to flirt with me some, but I wanted to pursue. That became the story of my life. If they showed too much interest, and especially if they were aggressive, I guess it frightened me away.

Jim tried to help me along with a romantic interest in girls. Jim was the tallest boy in our eighth grade class, nearly six foot. He was a lanky kid who seemed to be all arms and legs. Boys were talking about girls, but Jim was obsessed. In the 50’s there was a lot more talk than action. No 12-13 year old that I knew dated, but there was a lot of talk about kissing. Did you want to? Had you? How many times?

I worked safety patrol with my buddy Austin. In the 50’s, there were no adult crossing guards at corners, only us kids wearing white two inch wide belts around our waist on over one shoulder. Austin and I had the slowest corner of the school. Six kids total crossed at our point of duty. One of them was Sandra. She was purported to be the prettiest girl in Webster Elementary. All the guys thought so. So did I. Austin had been bugging (me like an annoying little kids do) for weeks about Sandra. Do you like her? Why don’t you kiss her? Well, OK. I finally decided I would kiss her. But how? Would I ask permission? Would I sweep her off her feet? Would I sneak up on her? We plotted and planned and finally figured out the best way. Well, maybe not the best, but one we thought would work..

We served 30^th and Burt, the last corner away from the school in our direction. Sandra always crossed with us and then walked one more block where she crossed with the streetlight at the very busy 30^th and Cummings. On D-day we both began talking to her at our corner and walked the extra block with her to the streetlight. Just as the light changed I planted a kiss on her cheek before she stepped off the curb. She turned and gave me a growling look and then a tiny little smile as she turned away. Austin told every boy in our class about my conquering kiss. I was the first in the class to give her a kiss. I was embarrassed. I was going to keep it a secret. The guys were proud of me. Geezs! Whats wrong with them?

It was our last summer for Vacation Bible School. Eighth graders were the oldest group in the program. There would be no more VBS picnics once we got into high school. Jim and I were hanging out during VBS all week. He asked if I would come over to his place after the final picnic. He had a surprise. He and his mother’s apartment were only two bocks from the church. She would still be at work. When we got back to the church he had also asked two girls and we all walked to his place. We no sooner got in the door when he took one of the girls and went into his bedroom and told the other girl and I to, “Have fun.”

“Have fun?” “What kind of fun?” I had never been alone with a girl other than to pull her pigtails or dip them in ink. I didn’t even know the girl. I had never talked to her before. Was this supposed to be romantic? We sat on the couch and my mind kept racing over a little talk Sister King gave to the older boys at VBS that very summer. Put them on a pedestal. Treat them like queens, respect them as a person, respect their wishes and on and on. We never talked. I assumed Jim expected us to neck or maybe more. I don’t know. We had never talked about what he wanted me to do.

After a very awkward time lapse, I told her I had to go home and got up and walked out the door. I wasn’t very far outside when I heard the door slam and she came out as well. “I gotta go home too.” We parted ways. I never saw her or Jim again. Jim and I went on to different high schools and I never saw him in church either.

It was my conscience. It was like God said to me “flee youthful lusts.” I did. It was the first time I felt like I had ever heard God speak and I had not even prayed the sinner’s prayer — yet.

GROCERY SHOPPING chapter 10

Getting groceries was a monthly family adventure from the late 40’s to the mid 50’s. My young brother and I would do all we could to collect scrap metal during the month. On the last day of the month we would load up our little red wagon with our collection and walk down to 15^th and Burt for mom to get the months worth of groceries. We would leave right after school and take our metal to the junkyard catty-corner from the grocery store, to collect our earnings for the month. Regardless of who picked up the most metal, the money was always split 50-50.

After collecting what would be our allowance for the month, we crossed back to the store where mom shopped and spent most of what we just earned. Dad was off work at 4:30 and he would meet up at the store and cash his check. Mom would be nearly done shopping by then and we would all walk home together. If there was room in the wagon we could ride sometimes (when we were little), but usually it was loaded to the hilt even with the raised sides.

For whatever reason, mom usually would buy two live chicken and put them in the cage we had brought with us. My brother and I tried on more than one occasion to sell that cage. Mom kept a sharp eye out for that shenanigan. Most of the time, even if we could, we did not want to share space in the wagon with the chickens.

There always seemed to be kids playing in the alley behind out house when we got home. They were gathered there for the big show. Mom and dad both grew up on the farm. Maybe you can take the kid out of the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the kid. Our property was 75’ wide and 150’ long. Our garden was 60x90 with a tiny corner cut our for the rabbit cages. For many years, rabbit was our primary meat source, except for those two chickens each month.

Dad was determined that I was going to learn how to kill and skin a rabbit. No one else I knew even raised rabbits or had to kill and skin them. I was never fond of the idea, but knew I would have to learn. Our basement was entered from the outside and was little more than a dirt cellar carved out under the house. There were four rooms (areas maybe). One small space held all the canning, another had wood pieces piled in case we needed them and the first one held a workbench and all dads’ tools. The back room was the largest. It had a small window located under the bay windows of our living room. That was used as a coal chute. It was a dusty dark area. That was also the killing room.

When I could not longer put off the inevitable, dad got a rabbit and took me down to the basement so I could learn the art of feeding myself from scratch. I’m not sure I should describe how he put the rabbit out of its misery, but it involved a sledgehammer and a very sharp knife. He did the deed in one swift motion. He then cut the rabbit down the middle and remarkably pulled the skin back easy as could be. He cut the feet off to dry and give away as a “lucky rabbits foot.” You would be surprised how many boys had one in their pocket at all times. Personally, I had several. Of course, we were the neighborhood supplier.

He then got another rabbit, brought it in and said it was my turn. I got as far as holding the rabbit by its back feet and I was finished. I could not do it. I doubted I could kill it in one swift motion and the longer my dad thought about it, he finally agreed. It was still too little. I escaped that experience. By the time I most likely could have succeeded in completing the task, dad no longer was raising rabbits. Whew!

After getting the groceries packed away, mom would take her two caged chickens to the back alley to begin preparation for cooking. She would take them both out of the cage by the neck as the kids gathered around with wide eyes and the look of excitement. They did this every month. You would have though it would get old. She would then swing them around and around until their heads came off in her hands and the chicken dropped to the ground running around, well “like a chicken with its head cut off.” The kids would run from the chicken screaming like it was attacking them. They acted like the chicken knew where it was going and was after them. That was the height of neighborhood monthly entertainment. They had to come to us for this show. It never happened at any other house.

When they finally collapsed, mom picked them up and took them to the back porch to pluck them and prepare one for supper. The second was put in the freezer.

Rabbit tastes remarkably like chicken. After I was allowed to have a pet bunny for a while I never wanted to eat rabbit again. But when it was cut up and mixed in with other things, I never knew. I also knew better than to ask. It actually tasted good, so I just ate it and shut up. When mom would fry the rabbit, she couldn’t fool me. Chicken legs and rabbit legs look