PART 2– HIGH SCHOOL (the beginning) chapter 24

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 I became more withdrawn, more nervous, more fearful, and more frustrated.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

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

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

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

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

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

Central from 20th - Main front entrance

Center from Dodge - side entrance

RACE RELATIONS 101 chapter 23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DAY I WAS A HERO chapter 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAMILY TOGETHERNESS chapter 21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MUST I chapter 20

(Parenthetically speaking…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FREE, FREE AT LAST chapter 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IF IT’S FUN, ITS SIN chapter 18

(Parenthetically speaking…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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