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…