Chapter 3, Bad Memories Here

When we moved from the “projects” we went to a place near 9th Avenue, and what is now “Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard where my father built a duplex with his own hands, next door to the Honsteins. I don’t remember much about the Honsteins except that he was a body & fender man and Mrs. Honstein drank Coca Cola like water, stored several cases of it on her back porch, and by the age of 35 had lost all of her teeth because of it.

We lived in the duplex and rented out the other unit. I think I must have been about 7 or 8 at the time and it was at this residence that I got my first bicycle; a Schwinn with “Knee Action” donated to me by a relative. The knee action was a type of “springer” front fork that provided a smoother ride than most of the stiff framed bicycles of the day. It had fat balloon tires and was my pride and joy. I tore big chunks of meat and skin off the front of my big toe before I realized that the knee action allowed the bike to unexpectedly ride lower which caused my toes to drag the pavement, with painful results. I learned to never ride that bike without shoes on.

I don’t have many fond memories of that location except for that bike with the knee action and a nearby movie theater that handed out door prizes of live chickens and ducks at Saturday Matinees. I also remember building neat little forts out of huge cardboard boxes which we joined together to form separate rooms. Many bad things happened while we lived in the duplex. My mother cut a vein in her ankle while working with a hammer and chisel, my father was bitten by a Black Widow Spider, and I fell when I slipped on morning frost and cracked my skull, which required several stitches to repair. It was at the duplex that I became a “bedwetter” and was beaten mercilessly by my father for this indiscretion.

Oh no! The warmth of my pajamas suddenly became a chill as I slowly awoke to the realization that I had, once again, wet the bed. It was cause for great alarm to me since I knew my father would react violently when he found out. The frustrating part of this is that I always dreamed I was in the bathroom standing in front of the toilet. I didn’t know I was still laying in bed. Nobody is so lazy that they would wet the bed to avoid getting up to use the bathroom, but that is what I was accused of. I was just lazy.

Why my father used this excuse to take out his frustrations on me, I never understood, but I was the only one of us kids who suffered his physical wrath. Not my brother or my two sisters was ever struck. My father’s favorite weapon was the belt, and I still wear the scars from the welts it raised on my back.

Sometimes I would change my clothing and hide the soiled sheets and underwear, flip my mattress over and remake the bed with fresh linen before my father woke up. This was not an easy task for a young boy of six or seven. Sometimes my mother would help but she was more afraid of my father than I was. Sometimes I would leave the house before he got up and sit in the schoolyard until classes started. I tried wearing several layers of clothing and even comic books in my pants to avoid the pain of those whippings. To make matters worse, he used to make me go to my room and sit there waiting for him to show up to dish out his punishment. The apprehension was almost as painful as the beatings. After a time I developed the habit of biting and tearing at my fingernails, and my father used this as a further excuse to attack me and always added a lash or two for that transgression. In an effort to correct this misbehavior, he made me wear fingernail polish to school in hopes that it would embarrass me into stopping.  I didn't shake that habit until I was in my early thirties.

At some point I developed a stutter in my speech. It manifested itself one day in the classroom. I must have been about nine years old and even then I realized that if I didn’t resolve that problem immediately, it would get worse until it became permanent. Once I got started talking I was okay and could talk normally as long as I didn’t stop. If I stopped, a restart could elicit a lengthy stutter. I developed the habit of being very deliberate when I wanted to speak. Sometimes, with some carefully chosen words, I would actually begin my sentences silently to myself and let it flow into vocalized speech once it was flowing. I credit myself for halting that impediment in its tracks, and the stuttering ceased after only a few weeks.

It was also at this location where I ran a needle through my finger while playing with my mother’s old treadle sewing machine, Ouch!  It was also at the duplex where I received my first indoctrination into organized religion. I remember being made to attend Sunday school and hearing the stories of biblical events and being very skeptical. I remember going through the motions, singing the songs with all the other kids, but never believing what I heard or feeling a part of the group. Our parents never went with us, they just gave us a dime for the plate and sent us to get us out of the house. I guess they were doing their praying at home!

Next: The Repo Man