Dear Little Lady Love

CHAPTER TWO

Papa writes in his non-fiction effort, “A Moveable Feast”, “All you have to do is write one true sentence, write the truest sentence you know”. This will be the only analogy I dare ever make between Ernest Hemingway and me.

Helen Reddy had a hit song some years back proclaiming it was, “You and me against the world …. “, and like most people, I had imagined her voicing her soft verse while lying in bed next to the person she was going to affectionately sidle up to for the rest of her life. In reality, as everyone now knows, she was singing to her child. In any event, that was the way it was for mom and me, as my aunt and uncle and cuz and yet another tiny bundle of joy moved back to one of the small white frame mill houses in Kannapolis, as my uncle had gone back to work for Charley Cannon.

Not being able to fully understand why our family had busted up caused me to have a pretty tough time of it, and even though the street our rented white frame house on Onslow Drive had all the bare essentials that make a house habitable in this modern day and age, as well as front porches and some big trees; it was a neighborhood where older folk lived, and I do not remember a single solitary neighbor ever coming to our house to visit or pass the time of day; but worse yet, there were not any kids my age to play with. I missed my cousin terribly, for we had spent everyday of our whole lives together living as brothers. There were a few older kids on the other end of the block my mom talked into allowing me to tag along with for their trip to The Saturday Morning Kiddy Show at The Plaza Theater on those mornings; and it is those Saturday morning outings that remain among my most treasured memories during all those early years.

It did not take long to figure out if you got there early enough you could get one of the coveted front row seats where you could jump up unimpeded, and scream and howl and roar as loud as you could once the screen became alive with the first cartoon of the day. The serials always brought an uproar as great as the cartoons, but when the movie began the real fun started when the chase began, and then once again when the villain was caught, and then again as he was being thrashed, and then shackled, by the hero of the day.

It was to be almost another four more years before WBTV, the first television station in the Carolina’s was to sign on in Charlotte, in the summer of ’49; which meant the kids attending The Kiddy Shows’ on those wonderful Saturday Mornings could yell, and shout, and romp to their heart’s delight, because for many of us it was the only time during the week, month or year, when we were not within ear shot of a parent, or older person, who would scold one if one got too boisterous or unruly. There were not any little league baseball teams, or Pop Warner football teams, I ever heard of back then, which would not have made any difference, because there probably would not have been any extra money to buy me a glove, bat or ball (of any kind) anyway. Seems to me I had a teddy bear one time that became so ratty he went away one day, to that place good little teddy bears go to; but that teddy bear, and a toy pistol, are the only toys I can remember having until my family moved to Plaza Hills.

My colleagues and me did, however, have our Saturday morning outings where we could naturally expend more energy during those two hour shows then most kids in this day and age would ever be able to imagine; as it is just as doubtful only a precious few today have ever experienced such elation, camaraderie, and unconditional acceptance among their peers.

There must have surely been a girl or two on the front row from time to time, but what is just as certain is it was the next quarter of rows where the girls sat, as well as the kids who were less energetic, as they looked a tad older anyway. It was in the next section where the boys and girls began to filter in amongst each other because it was the back quarter of rows where the old timers sat, who, depending on the ages they had begun their treasured Saturday morning outings, had all started out somewhere in the rows of seats closer to the screen. As they matured they continued to move further and further back up the aisle until they found out where their niche was going to be.

Having found another avid movie goer who had sworn his allegiance in nothing less than an oath blood brothers would have given, that my seat would be there when I returned, I would walk back up the aisle to take my place at the end of the rowdy line at the candy counter to get my Milk Duds (which did not melt in the summer heat). Having completed my mission I would then marvel, as I walked back down the aisle, at how content those in the far back rows seemed to be, by being able to enjoy their Saturday mornings even before the movie began, as many would meet to begin their two hour smooch-in before the lights in the theater went out, and the cartoons began.

As Christmas approached, word finally came that gave us the day and hour my dad, Technician Fifth Grade Frank M Wilson, 34 213 088, of Battery A, 747th Field Artillery Battalion, would be arriving home after mustering out of The U S Army Air Corps; and the long ride home from Fort Bragg, just on the other side of Fayetteville, North Carolina.

Mom and me bedded down on the sofa that night and slept there til dad arrived by taxi from the train station as it must have been a late hour. I remember waking as mom got up to answer dad’s knock at the door, and seeing dad enter the room, and my life, that very first time, and it only occurred to me that very night I had never had any earthly idea what dad looked like, as there never had been any photographs of him around. My parents embraced, and kissed; dad looked at me, I looked at him; but did not feel the need to budge from my warm sleeping place, as dad did not come over to shake my hand either. Not feeling any need to be particularly concerned about the momentous occasion, I immediately went back to sleep because he seemed to be every bit as apprehensive about me as I was him. Besides, it suited me just fine that this momentous occasion had not been too mushy.

The next thing I remember was dad and me, on the front porch, nailing a footing on our Christmas Tree. Story had it years later we had splurged for a string of lights, which we had never ever had before, and it was a grand Christmas.

The first job mom took after the quartermaster ceased to function was to go to work for Belk Brothers Department Store, which was on the east side of North Tryon Street, only a couple hundred feet away from The Square, in downtown Charlotte; which had had its origin about twenty miles east of my hometown in Monroe, North Carolina, in 1888. The store had opened there as “The New York Racket”, and had been founded by a man named William Henry Belk, who had borrowed most of his seed money from his brother, who was a practicing physician named John Montgomery Belk.

Dad took a job driving an ice cream truck on a route for one of the local dairies; and while I suppose his wages were average for the time, he worked six days a week, from sunup to sundown many times, seeing as how his route took him into the hinterlands of upper South Carolina half the time (his route naturally took a longer time to service the warmer the months were): that is, up until the time he had his first heart attack when I was in Central High, and going to work for the United States Postal Service. Dad’s job as an ice cream route driver did not leave much quality time for family life, but then dad many times would arrive home with a package under arm for me that had been kept frozen by dry ice that evaporated by bubbling away when you put it in water; and that all made it work out somehow.

Ever so often I would be sent to the small market on Central Avenue to buy a loaf of bread which usually meant there was a penny or two I could have to buy some candy (I never did like licorice) out of one of the candy jars as a reward. To arrive there I walked through a field that had a path through it saving me from having to walk the long way around on the hard top or sidewalk to Central Ave; but soon discovered there was an older kid who lived nearby who took great delight in bullying me by charging a toll of some of my candy in return for safe passage home. On one memorable trip I finally took my dad’s advice by refusing to pay the tab and this kid almost took my head off, for I can still remember laying there, crumpled on the ground, oblivious to everything else going on around me, as I moved my lower jaw left and right with my hand very slowly, listening for the tell-tale crunch of bone against bone, in horror of what might be; and its eerie how one can still remember things like that from time to time. After that trip I came to the conclusion that was the way it was going to be, and much to my chagrin – I allowed the condition to exist – and bolstering my ego, changed my route by taking the long way around on the hardtop and sidewalk to arrive at the central avenue market, unwilling to give that fucking neighborhood terrorist punk kid, who is almost certainly doing time for some crime as I write, any of my candy.

III

In the fall of 1946 I was enrolled in Mrs Smith’s first grade class at Midwood Elementary School, which was just in the next block west of the little market on Central Avenue, and in the block just east of The Plaza Theater, that had been separated by The Plaza, the street which intersected there with Central Avenue. I can still vividly remember my mom delivering me on that first day, as we walked over an empty school yard, and through empty halls, as school was already in session. Mom knocked on Mrs Smith’s door which was promptly opened wherein mom introduced me to Mrs Smith who in turn politely introduced me to the class. Having made my grand entrance, mom left, and I was directed to a seat at the very rear of the class, seeing as how there was not one closer to the front that I would have surely have taken had mom not wanted to play the role by having me be the last to arrive, and being formally introduced to the class. Funny thing about it, as I can still clearly remember sitting at the rear of the class room that morning, not having any earthly idea what was going on, because mom had not made a big deal out of me beginning my first grade in school. While I am sure the lunch break must have been better, I was still the outsider, trying to find out which little click I could get in.

As it turned, it was all for naught, as the kids in Mrs Smith’s first grade class had apparently not been to as many movies as I had, and did not look upon me as a star making a grand entrance, but a Johnny-come-lately who was forever maybe thought of as a tag along. From day one I always felt like I was on the outside looking in, as the vast majority of those kids made it all the way to Central High with me, and one was Best Man in my second marriage; but I never truly felt like part of the in crowd in school, and never did well in school or college; cause I always felt like the ‘Ghost of Christmas Past’, no one else could see, except the person I was talking to.

Sometime during that first year in Midwood my folks bought a home on Woodside Avenue, not much more than a mile north of where Central Avenue crossed The Plaza. Turns out, Plaza Hills had been built in what was said to have been a giant corn field on its upper end. My folks paid $8,100 for a home that contained 990 square feet (according to tax records) which caused them to have a payment of $51.00 per month (that included Principal, Interest, Taxes and Insurance). Story has it I was suffering some childhood malaise, and was carried in wrapped in a blanket to recoup before going out to explore my new neighborhood. I can still remember walking out my front door that first time, and seeing no trees on the street where my folks would live for the next twenty five years; and it astounds me to think I can still remember the names of all the families who lived in all the houses on both sides of the block we lived on (except one, as the family’s who lived there, came and went so fast, but then there were never any kids living there anyway).

A man named John Crosland developed Plaza Hills, and was an innovator even then, in that he had the foresight to build sixty or so apartments and duplexes on the fringes of the neighborhood that were closest to Plaza Road, which was already becoming a major arterial for our part of northeast Charlotte. Crosland also built a four store strip mall that faced out on to the two lane Plaza Road wherein was housed Doc Dorton’s Plaza Hills Pharmacy, Mr Hicks grocery market, a hardware store, and a Laundromat. While I came to know all the merchants there, it was the clerks who worked the soda fountain who I wanted to know best, because at any given time I knew exactly who to approach for the enormity of their scoops when buying my nickel, or dime, cone of ice cream, having recently discovered chocolate ripple. There were not any thugs to whom tolls had to be paid when taking my shortcut through some of the apartments to get home, and that meant each trip was even more enjoyable than the last.

A few blocks away, and closer in toward town Plaza Road curved from its two lane road, back into The Plaza, a picturesque boulevard with its huge trees that shaded nearly every foot of its sidewalks, and median, for its one mile length until it reached its beginning point at Central Avenue. It was this section of road that separated the neighborhood where I now lived from the Midwood section I had lived in as a kid. On the east side of the curve where Plaza Road became The Plaza was Plaza Presbyterian Church, and it became the church my family chose as ours, as it was close enough so we could walk to church every Sunday Morning.

Most of the kids in the neighborhood were older than me by several years, and as it happens, there were only two kids my age, both girls. The man who lived across the street was a district manager/distributor for the afternoon newspaper, THE CHARLOTTE NEWS, and most of the older boys in the neighborhood met in the afternoons to pick their papers up at his house so they could have the protection of his garage, which he had built, in large part, to give his son and the carriers a place to pick their papers up if it were raining. Roller bat was our favorite game all those years because the streets were tar and gravel, causing grievous injury if one fell during a game of touch football. After the newspapers came I would often times play with the only other two kids left, and my dad no doubt wondered from time to time, where those paper dolls that had been so carefully cut out, were coming from on the small desk in my bedroom.

On the southeast corner of the square stood S H Kresge (check spelling) Five & Dime Store (which was always called Kresses, the predecessor of K-Mart), and the building next door continuing further south was where Kay Jewelers was found; but just a couple feet south of the entrance into Kay’s on the east side of South Tryon Street was where The Tryon Theater was located, which was where I was now spending my Saturday Mornings. For less than the price of a school lunch, which was only a quarter then, I could take the #4 bus downtown and gain entry into a magical land. The fare usually began with at least two cartoons which were followed by a Flash Gordon, Sir Galahad or Superman Serial, which was sometimes followed up by a selected short subject that may have featured Moe, Shemp and Larry; while another may show scenes one might see on a nautical excursion up the Amazon River (one I remember in particular). The finale was always the main attraction which might have starred Bud Abbott, and my all time favorite Lou Costello, or any number of cowboys including Tex Ritter, Hopalong Cassidy or The King of The Cowboys, Roy Rogers and his Wonder Horse, Trigger (never was a Gene Autry fan, he sang too much). I’m not sure I could have handled it then to have learned that long before Roy ever saw, or mounted, Trigger, his wonder horse had made his film debut in a movie that starred Olivia DeHaviland and Errol Flynn, but then I was spared that sad news for a lot of years.

It would probably have been more fun to have had the company of my cousin, and a second younger cousin by now, or maybe an older boy from the neighborhood; and the bus ride would probably have been more pleasant had I been escorting a sibling brother or sister: but that was not the case, so I made the outings alone.

The fact remained, my folks always worked on Saturdays, meaning I was free to make the sojourn downtown where for a few wonderful hours my world had meaning; for I was transformed into either a hearty swashbuckler sailing the bounding main seekin’ treasure, a noble Knight of King Arthur’s Round Table, or at the very least one, of The Bowery Boys; but in every case always, always, a sidekick to the star. I had been the leader of my own small clan at one time, but my clan was gone one day when I woke up. I had resolved that in the future I was going to let someone else be the leader so I could prove my loyalty. I just simply never tried to imagine myself having the best of anything because my family had never had anything above the barest base essentials; so I never tried to imagine me owning a thoroughbred as spirited as Roy’s. I could, however, see myself riding a nag, or better yet, driving an old surplus Army Jeep to get where I wanted to go, just like one of Roy’s sidekicks did (Pat Bertram?) in a lot of movies; feeling secure in knowing the man in charge would want to keep someone by his side he knew he could go back-to-back with, should the need to do so ever arise.

On bright sunshiny days it always took my eyes a while to adjust, as there was not a single solitary light in the theater except for the light put out by the projector when it was running. The good news was it was only about 100 feet back to the southeast Corner of The Square where I stood in front of Kresses waiting for the #4 bus to take me back to Plaza Hills so I might find something else to do for the rest of the afternoon.

The war was over. The hard times that had lingered from the days of the Great Depression up until the time our country had geared up to enter the war effort were gone. The sheer joy of life that radiated from those men who had made it home from fighting “The Big One”, as Archie Bunker would have put it, exuded from all the people in the neighborhood; for we all knew now The United States was invincible, and would never lose a war because we had The Atomic Bomb. The economic boon our country was experiencing served to kindle the home fires, and the baby boom came into full swing, as big bellies all over the neighborhood became small again.

The corn field my family and me now lived in was now taking on new life everyday as home, after home, after home was completed. Spindly little trees and shrubs were planted as each new family moved in, and we discovered all the people in the houses had names, and jobs; and people looked forward to walking out their front door after the dinner meal on those clear, warm early evenings when the sun was still shining to see who was in their front yard who may want to chat a bit.

In those days the purchase of a family car, new or not, was cause for a celebration, as everyone went to see it, and given rides around the block from time to time, if it was new, or anything special about the car, because cars were hard to come by then. New sofas, dining room furniture, or a living room rug, each received the same tribute, as everyone seemed to be genuinely pleased to be living in our new neighborhood that was prospering so. They were happy times, and everyone had kind words and pleasant greetings for everyone else; and I considered it a privilege indeed to be growing up in the new modern era known as The Atomic Age. Mom never failed to remind me on a regular basis how much more fortunate I was to be growing up in these times, and how I would have things she and dad had never even dreamed of.

We did not have a car back then, but seems to me like every two or three weeks dad would rent a FORD from a garage only a block or two away from his work, if they had one left over at the end of the day on Saturday’s (presumably at a special rate, as Blue Law’s kept them from opening on Sunday’s). After church on those glorious days when we had the use of a car, we would go big time and go to Kuester’s for lunch that had been built in a grand old home on East Morehead Street (mom used to get big laughs telling all our neighbors how I always asked what flavors of ice cream they had before always ordering vanilla – but then mom was getting such big laughs I just never had the heart to tell her the only reason I was ordering vanilla was because Kuester’s had not discovered chocolate ripple ice cream yet).

After lunch we always took a ride, and for what its worth, there was only one thing I ever heard dad say more than once he would like to have, and that was a Chrysler, seeing as how the topic of everyone’s dream car came up from time to time when everyone was standing around gawking at another new car that had showed up in our neighborhood. There was only one other time I ever heard my dad tell any friend of his there was anything else he ever wanted, and that was a boat; but then in his whole life there was never enough money for him to stretch for a new Chrysler car payment, much less a boat payment.

The good news was we could not have enjoyed a new Chrysler any more than we enjoyed those old round back FORD sedans we took on those occasional Sunday outings. On some sunny summer Sundays we would sometimes ride out York Road to Lake Wylie, stopping at Joyner’s TEXACO Service Station and gas dock at Buster Boyd’s Bridge at the North Carolina, South Carolina line (which is the damned portion of The Catawba River that forms most of the jagged part of the mid state line separating the two Carolinas); and sit and watch the boats go by with their many happy occupants while sometimes trailing skiers behind.

On one Sunday in particular I pretended I had not heard dad and ran ahead of him out on the dock where this sleek looking boat that was as pretty as any I had ever seen in the movies was being fueled. My shock came in realizing the only other occupant of the boat was a classmate of mine from school who was with his dad who was fueling his polished wooden inboard boat. My plea to my school mate chum to take me for a ride was so compelling his dad did not make any excuses (no doubt smiling smugly to himself that every kid in school would hear about this ride the next day); and agreed to give me that ride about the same time my dad arrived on the scene, giving my dad no need to refuse me as he was being invited along, too.

We boarded that magnificent boat to begin, and with the sound of the engine giving notice I was in for the ride of my young life, it began. Our pilot pushed off, and took his time getting up to speed, but my surprise, that I remember to this day, came in comparing the spray being thrown out to the side, to the silver screen that always appeared when the drapes in the better theaters were being pulled apart, before the beginning of a movie (the better theaters had gigantic drapes that were pulled apart as the lights were dimmed down at the beginning of the movie presentation, and pulled closed again at the movies end as the lights got bright again).

It was clearly the most exhilarating experience of my young life, but because of the excitement of the ride, and the shrill of the engine trying to make meaningful conversation would have been difficult, so no one tried. It was not a long ride, just around the wide part of the river where it had made its turn eons before; but long enough to see water skiier’s only a stone’s throw away. It came as no surprise to find out speeding across the water was fifty times more fun than you would have ever imagined only seeing it in a movie; but water skiing would have to be the biggest thrill of all. As our pilot approached the dock I made myself my first promise; that someday, I, too, would water ski.

The vast majority of Sundays were, however, spent visiting with aunts and uncles and cousins and other kin around Kannapolis, when on another Sunday we were returning to Charlotte just before dusk. There was a hitch hiker on the side of the road with a sign on his suitcase that read DAVIDSON COLLEGE. We stopped to pick him up for the short ride to the campus just north of Charlotte, and in Mecklenburg County as well. We were so pleased to be giving a college student a ride we asked about him, and how he enjoyed college life, causing our hiker to obligingly answer questions dad and me had for him. Mom pointed out nobody on her side of the family had ever gone to college, but quickly followed up saying her son would, as she turned to smile at me in the back seat. We delivered our rider to his dorm on campus about the time it got dark, and I thought how exciting it would be to go to college someday; and looking back now, I only wish I had made another promise to myself to earn a college degree that day, but I didn’t.

THE HOBO

LETS HIS

WHISKERS SPROUT

IT’S TRAINS – NOT GIRLS

THAT HE TAKES OUT

BURMA-SHAVE

Most of the kids in my neighborhood had a bicycle, and my first bike was bought second hand from the son of the man who lived across the street who delivered our afternoon newspaper, as his folks had bought him a new bike. My first ride on my new bike was a disaster, finally terminating a good third of a mile down the hill with me crashing into a shrub row that had luckily grown high enough to do the job without breaking every bone in my body (no one had told me how to brake my bike, but much more disconcerting yet, I was not smart enough to figure out how to stop it on my own).

On pretty days I would ride my bike the mile and a half to school; but by then had a new found friend named Danny who had recently moved into the neighborhood only a few blocks away. On rainy days Danny’s mom would deliver us to school in her Plymouth, but on this day my mom had given me bus fare (only seven cents at the time) so I could get home as Danny and his mother had an extra trip to make after school. While waiting for the bus it occurred to me that if I hitch hiked home I could use that dime to buy a giant two scoop cone of ice cream at the drug store; and never in my life did a cone of ice cream ever taste better.

As it happens mom was at home that afternoon, and as I arrived I could not wait to tell her of my good fortune. My enthusiasm was contagious meaning mom could tell I had some great news to share until she realized I had thumbed a ride home. A frown came over her face that only moments before had displayed an infectious smile, and none of it made any sense because in the next sentence she forbade me from ever thumbing again before going back to the kitchen.

Mom had baffled me by her reaction, and sensing that, she came to get me, ushered me into the living room where we both sat on the sofa for what was to be a short mother-to-son talk. The conversation lasted less than a minute, and was all one sided just as talks like that usually are; but in very plain terms mom explained there were men who would sometimes pick little boys up so they could get them to suck their wee-wee’s, or visa-versa: and that I should never thumb again.

The only sex education class I was ever given at home lasted less than a minute, and told me only there are men like that.

VII

I was beginning to be accepted as a junior member of the gang by some of the older boys who met every afternoon across the street where their paper bundles were dropped. Aspiring to be a paper carrier the day I turned 12 years old; I would sometimes help insert the comics, or any other special section to be included in the paper that day, and then help fold the papers that were then crammed into the huge basket suspended over the front wheel of each bike. Having accomplished that, the boys departed to cover the far corners of our neighborhood. At different times I helped each carrier and eventually learned the streets on each route. Mr Phillips would always kick in enough papers for me to leave one at each house on the route anytime a vacation came around for any boys family, and as well, stand in when one of the boys had a cold.

Each afternoon found us trying to find some new way to entertain ourselves, and as I suppose it happens with most boys we became restless with the mundane games, and times. Someone suggested one day we do something that required cunning, and daring, to prove ourselves super sleuths, or at the least, their equal in mischief. In no time at all everyone had agreed on the perfect scheme to test our mettle, which would make THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY (first movie ever made-?-) seem paltry in comparison. We would steal gas caps; and steal we did.

For some days after that we would meet after dark at the predetermined rendezvous point, for those of us who could get out for thirty minutes or so on any night; and stealthily ravage and plunder the community of its gas caps, sneaking around behind parked cars, hiding behind trees until the coast was clear, schussing dogs away that were getting too nosy, cause barking dogs got a kick in the butt back then if they were barking at the moon. There were not as many street lights back then, which meant no gas cap was safe; for within only a week or so we had acquired many dozens of those precious items, which in some cases we had already planned to steal, because the prey that night had not treated his afternoon newspaper carrier with proper respect and regard. Our stash was placed each night in a bag we had left on a little leftover triangle of land that did not seem to belong to anyone when John Crosland built the apartments between the street I lived on, Plaza Road, and Drummond Avenue. Each night field mice saw our stash continue to grow until at last it finally happened.

There was a crotchety old man, who was married to a crotchety old woman, who lived in the apartments on the other side of Duncan Avenue across the street from the drug store, who had caught me and several of my ghoulish friends the halloween night before, as we were in the process of decorating the crotchety old man’s car windshield with a bar of soap because his crotchety old wife had chosen to accept a trick, rather than give us a treat, when we knocked at their front door. The old man had been sitting alone, in the dark, in his car, as we began the process; who ten seconds later began a severe tongue lashing which we felt obliged to stand there and listen too before continuing on our rounds; perhaps knowing even then, that if you get caught doing the crime, you have to do the time, one way or the other. At a later hour that same night, after our rounds, we returned to the old man’s car, and marred every square inch of every piece of glass on his car, before we called it a night; seeing as how we had remained masked during his diatribe; and he could not prove who we were.

The exact same ploy of his had worked this night as well. The old geezer was sitting alone in his car that night, when some of my older buddies, not knowing he considered himself to be a Sherlock Holmes type, were caught red handed as they were in the process of stealing his gas cap. He was acquainted with one of the boys fathers, and escorted him home to tell his dad the plight the neighborhood was suffering; and all hell broke lose. It was not very late, meaning each phone in the homes of all the culprits rang, and a meeting scheduled early the next night so the fathers could figure out how to make restitution.

No one had the felt the need to call a special meeting for those of us who were involved, because in record time after school that next everyone faithfully met at the garage where our crime had been perpetrated. It was a somber occasion, with each boy telling the others of sad circumstances taking place in their homes. Most had already received whippings that were the worst in their memory, as one of our friends told of being laid out on his bed while his mother wielded the belt to his bottom without benefit of trouser, and his butt still showed it too. All told of restrictions that were going to exist until further notice (being grounded would be the way it would be put today); but then all also told of seeing disappointment in their dad’s eyes they had never seen before.

The meeting began that evening with the big bag containing dozens of pilfered gas caps sitting in the middle of the garage floor as the living rooms in the thousand square foot houses in our community were not large enough to host a meeting like this anywhere else anyway. It was decided each boy, and his dad, would go in groups to each house in our environs, and either return their gas cap from our bounty, or pay the money to cover the expense of a new gas cap that had already been purchased; not to mention a sincere apology from each boy in that group.

Everything had gone fine til we came to the apartment of a spinster who lived in an apartment only a hundred feet from where we had stashed out bounty. The maiden informed our dad’s our chicanery had caused her to suffer the greatest misfortune of her life; and it went on, and on, and on; until she almost broke down having to tell of the inconvenience, and expense, of having to have her gas tank removed, and flushed, because sand had been put in the gas tank screwing everything up; and all that had cost her some enormous amount of money. Our pleadings of innocence did not carry (no one in our group had put any sand in anyone’s gas tank), and the lady persisted that she be re-imbursed for the amount of money she said those repairs had cost her. Our dad’s huddled, but then paid the tab, before we carried on visiting the people in the last few apartments, making restitution, and apology, in like kind.

The confrontation our dads had had with the old maid brought promises for additional thrashings when some returned home; and I was scared to death when dad turned the engine off to our old Plymouth in our driveway. Dad suggested we not go inside just yet, so we could have our talk in the car and not be within ear shot of mom, as the time had come for us to have our first serious father-to-son talk.

We reviewed the punishment, and restrictions, other dads had shouted out on their offspring after the pissing match in the apartments, where our dads found out the old maid’s yellow stream of piss went further than theirs; and while my dad had been irked I was stealing gas caps, of all things, he was nonetheless thankful our mischief had been so easily reconciled (even though we were surely going to miss the money he had just had to kick in). As I sat there thanking my lucky stars I was not getting my butt beat then and there; dad in very calm, clear tones explained this had been the first of many temptations I would have to make a decision about whether to join into or not, made me agree it really was a pretty dumb thing to do, and that I would do well to remember this event and this conversation. Dad went on to explain there would be no whipping for me cause I was the youngest of the youngest of the culprits, by several years, being no older than nine or ten years at the time; but that I could not leave my yard without permission from either mom or he except to go to a particular place or event until further notice: but most important of all, I was to think, in the future, about the harm, and expense, such foolish pranks could cost.

It would to be many more years before my dad and me were to have another father-to-son talk; but I never forgot that one.

VIII

That old ’42 Plymouth was our first family car which we bought from a neighbor who went to our church who lived out on Plaza Road, who had a doctor’s bill so large he had no choice but to sell his car to pay it. Plymouth’s of that vintage era had a hood ornament that featured a glass section on each side that was supposed to light up when the lights were on; but those glass sections on our car had long since disappeared: Which as it happens, provided a place for me and my oldest cousin to hold on to as we each sat on one of the front fenders as dad drove us down some old Rowan County back country dirt road going only slightly faster than we could have run. Its black paint had long since lost its luster and shine, but its grey interior was untattered and clean, and it served us faithfully for a number of years. But the wonder of wonders was happening down the street. The word had spread like wildfire, as Joe and Theresa’s folks, who lived on the corner of our block lower down the hill from my house, were buying the very first television set to come into our neighborhood, and had been promised their antenna would be up within only a day or two.

There had not been an appliance store where television sets could be seen, or bought, between my bus stop at The Square, and the entrance into The Tryon Theater; so I had never seen a television set before. Accordingly, I had imagined all along the television set everybody was talking about would only show movies, and cartoons, just like in the movies theaters; which had whetted my appetite for TV from the moment I heard the signal was now being cast, as it now had to be at least late summer, 1949.

While our home was always clean and neat, the evening meals were never anything special seeing as how my folks worked all the time, but as wholesome as one would expect coming out of a can most week nights as red meat, or anything special, was rarely ever served except on Sunday’s (am assuming everyone agrees hot dog’s, and watermelon are not red meat). It was mom’s belief, however, that humble beginnings, and modest incomes, did not force any family to live below par, and that pride in home, and family, were essential. Having said that, we simply never talked about things we could not afford (including Chryslers, boats and TV sets).

I could not wait to see television that first time, knowing it would be an event I would remember the rest of my life. For some reason I was the last to arrive that evening, and can still remember trying to imagine what it was going to be like having a movie theater in your living room, because for me at least, from that night forward, television was going to forever be a part of my life; as mine was, at the time, receiving a signal in my empty living room, as I transcribed this thought.

There was not a square inch of floor space that had not been taken, which meant the best seat available was on the arm of the chair Theresa was sitting in, causing me to have to step over bodies, and legs, of our buddies in the neighborhood; as Joe and the good old boys sprawled all over the floor had not spared her any room either. We sat there several hours that night, fascinated and dumbfounded, by the magic; and while there is not much reason to believe The Texaco Star Theater was being telecast that very night, the very first thing I can ever remember seeing on TV was Milton Berle clown around, and act the buffoon wearing a dress, and was astonished that I maybe liked him as much as Lou Costello.

The ritual continued on Friday Nights for many weeks to come, and mountains of pop corn were consumed; but before long other chimney’s sprouted television antennae, as other sets came into our neighborhood, and our Friday night gang dispersed.

It was to be about three more years before we bought our first television set; and the reason I can be so sure of that is because I was carrying an afternoon newspaper route when we did.

It is painful to look back now at how boring it all was back then. In retrospect, I believe mom had cut my dad off by then. The reason for my thinking, in large part, was because there had not been a photo of dad anywhere in our house before he showed up at our front door a few days before Christmas in 1945; which leads me to believe mom had accepted his proposal only because she had not received any other more to her liking.

Adding insult to injury, mom had by now, mentioned to me on several occasions that I did not seem to be happy; and seeing as how I could not think of any better answer than I am, I would bow my head toward the floor and hope she would not ask again. Unrelenting, mom would then ask if we would not be better off if she and me were to bust our family up; and by the time I could answer no, it had already gone through my mind that her ‘little dab of money’, as she always put it (minimum wage was $.75 per hour from 1950 to mid-year 1956) as a clerk at F W Woolworth’s Five & Dime Store downtown paid for little more than our food at Miller’s Grocery, where we would stop each Saturday on the way home after she had been paid (Miller’s was on the opposite corner across from Plaza Presbyterian Church). Besides, if mom was going to ‘bust up’ our family, I would have much preferred to stay with my dad than go it alone again with my mom.

The reality is it was my mom who was an unhappy woman; but yet had the most robust laugh you ever heard, when out and about amidst neighbors or kin, and hearing something she thought was funny; for my mom was only a couple inches short of six feet, had a full attractive figure, and for years, in my mind’s eye, looked like Lucille McGillicuddy, before her hair turned red (Lucille Ball).

Anytime dad and me came up with a plan of our own for the way our small family could spend a Sunday afternoon, mom would more often than not queer the deal; sometimes throwing a tantrum of sorts if she had to, in order to get her way. There were times when mom would exercise her self indulged prerogative of changing her mind in mid-stream, causing consternation to befall dad and me because there was no alternative, giving us no choice but to - allow the condition to exist – rather than leave her alone to sulk for the afternoon. More than once I hoped dad would put his foot square in her ass, because whatever mom’s intentions, it was unfair for her to punish us because we only had one afternoon a week when we could spend time together.

At any given time it is not likely you can be any father than 25 or 30 feet away from someone in a home that only has 990 square feet; which made it that much tougher to deal with the reality mom got to the place she would sometimes sit alone in the living room, in the dark, after dad and me had gone to bed, and cry the most mournful cry you ever heard. I was sorry our family finances were allowing us to only eke out a standard of living that was so modest we were barely getting by, never having any extra money; but mom would sometimes sit alone in the living room, in the dark, after dad and me had gone to bed, and cry the saddest cry you ever heard.

Did not take long for me to surmise mom’s crying jags had no other purpose than cause dad and me disdain, as it was not a cry a person would cry from pain, but one of remorse like one might expect to hear in a funeral dirge. I would like to think that was the reason, I, too, began to cry at the drop of a hat; and quickly found out mom was as powerless and defenseless, as dad and me, in having to deal with her when she was on a crying jag. As unexpected bonus came in finding out that very first time, that the minute I began my crying I got my way; which naturally, has already been explained as being the reason for my tears. But the biggest surprise of all was to discover my crying broke my mom, almost overnight, from sometimes sitting alone in the living room, in the dark, after dad and me had gone to bed, and crying.

I have no idea how many months my charade continued. But what I do remember, was my class and me were taking a recess at school one day, and in the process of playing a game of touch football when Tommy Wellons pushed me to the ground; and when I saw I had scuffed pretty badly the knee of my trousers, I began to cry.

I will never forget the sick feeling I had, having to come to grips in a flash, with the reality crying had become so commonplace with me, at home, that I was doing so in front of a classmate. But to the last day I live, I will remember forever, as clearly as it happened that very day, the look in Tommy’s face to see a boy crying over such an insignificant event.

Over the years since then there have been times, more often here of late, when tears welled in my eyes, because of a heroic event taking place on television, a scene of intimacy on a movie screen between a man and woman who truly love each other, or reminiscing about something that could have been, should have been. There will doubtless be other times when my eyes will well with tears, that sometimes spill; but the last time any discernable sound accompanied my tears, was on the playground that very day, much more than 55 years ago: and I simply cannot imagine ever crying again.

The aunt and uncle my mom and me had shared our home on Onslow Drive with during the war now lived on a small rented farm in the countryside north of Kannapolis, in Rowan County, close to a town called Rockwell, North Carolina. It was to be many years before I was to learn the reason for their move. Seems my uncle had teamed with a few other hearty fellows who worked in the mill, and had set up an office as they endeavored to form a union, which caused my uncle to be summarily fired; and lose, as well, the use of a small white frame mill house (the rank and file workers in Cannon Mills were never able to form a union, as told me by David Belk Cannon; whose momma was a Belk, and whose daddy was a Cannon, families already mentioned in my book).

Every summer I would spend a week, or two, if I refused to get into our car after that first week, in the country, and always enjoyed those special days there as I now had three cousins, all boys, the youngest of whom was only six or seven at the time. Naturally, all four of us slept in the same bed, and were up early for eggs, grits, biscuits and jam for breakfast, giving my cousins and me the energy to explore the great expanses of woods surrounding their little rented farm.

My dear aunt could work miracles with that old iron stove in the kitchen, in the far end of the back side of the house; as it became a horn of cornucopia giving forth biscuits and rice and gravy and mashed potatoes and peas, beans of every description, and the best fried chicken I have ever tasted, as none has ever been able to compare (one of those nasty birds that only a few hours before had been running aimlessly about outside).

As you are about to read, there is only one thing in my book, and I do mean only one thing, I cannot prove outright; taking it on hearsay alone. But story has it a neighbor lady married a fellow from Kentucky; and having eaten some of my dear aunt’s fried chicken, bragged about it to new found family and friends, once she moved westward with her new husband, as being the best fried chicken she had ever eaten; that was good enough to make you want to lick your fingers once you have finished.

Story also has it an older, white haired fellow, from her part Kentucky made a special trip to the back wood hinterlands of the Rowan County countryside of North Carolina, searching out the lady who had prepared this chicken he had heard so much about. Naturally, it did not take long to find my dear aunt; and after explaining he would dearly love to have some of her fried chicken he had heard so much about, she obliged. After he had feasted on her meal the old timer ask for her recipe, and offered her a twenty dollar bill if she would let him have it; on the premise he was going to use her chicken recipe in his road side café back home.

Chances are, you have already figured out the rest of the story. The white haired old man was indeed a self professed Colonel from The Great State of Kentucky, and his name was, of course, Harlan Sanders. But let me say one more time; this is only episode in my book, and I do mean the only one, that cannot be proven outright; taking it on hearsay alone.

An old upright wooden ice chest would have had ice in it if my uncle had been to the store within the past two days which kept the goat milk and butter chilled; but water was carried by hand by my cousins and me from a cool, clear spring, where crayfish scavenged its bottom, maybe 50 or 60 yards down a wooded trail out back. A single unshaded light bulb hung suspended from the center of the ceiling in each room (which naturally meant even plain little houses in the North Carolina countryside had electricity); and the privy was only far enough away out the back door so to never have to be concerned about any unpleasant aromas wafting from the make shift hut on hot summer days and nights. Was naturally a two holer, so if the next youngest had to take the youngest out there after dark he could try to take care of his business too. Should it have been a day trip, and one was waiting for nature to take its course, one could have perused a SEARS, ROEBUCK & COMPANY Catalogue, which I thought for years, had as its sole purpose been nothing more, than countrified toilet paper with fancy pictures. On rainy days and nights, my cousins and me could get away with standing on the top step, just outside the screened door at the kitchen, and urinate into the puddles of water being formed by the rain falling from the tin roof that was playing a symphony of sorts just over our heads; while still trying to see who, with the flip of a wrist, could make their yellow stream go out the farthest at any given time.

A good sized crick was easily reached by walking a winding path for maybe ten minutes out through the back woods; and even though the fishing was not all that great, bream could sometimes be caught that were as big as three fingers when prepared, making each a prize in its own right. After supper sometimes, we would cut a watermelon that had been washed off, and then allowed to cool all afternoon in the spring at the bottom of the hill, and devour the succulent red meat under the cool branches of the four giant chinaberry trees in their front yard; in that it would have been unthinkable to have taken the watermelon inside because my dear aunt was still under the impression there was something to an old wives’ tale that had it, any watermelon seeds left inside turn into pismire ants overnight.

One of the grand things about North Carolina summer nights is, except for a fortnight a year, the nights cool down into the sixties if you are out in the countryside, making it a grand place to play hide and seek; when even on a moonless cloudless night a whole bunch of the four hundred million, or maybe its four hundred billion (who the hell knows), stars in our Milky Way Galaxy, would have at the time, provided sufficient light to see the way as the panorama above looked like a blanket covering the earth while providing us with its soft, dim light as well. I believe if there was only one way to show the younger generation the difference between the way life is today, and the way it was then; it would be to have taken them out into the countryside on a beautiful summer night some fifty years ago. They would marvel at what they would be seeing in the heavens, for the night sky could be so bright, all the stars, in all the constellations, could be found, if you knew where to look for them.

During the days my cousins and me would take the twenty-two pump action rifle my dad had given me, he had owned as a much younger man, and go on expeditions to hunt crows and blue jays, or anything else that flew or ran or hopped or crawled; but then four kids trekking through the woods would have made so much noise anything worth shooting would have been hiding somewhere watching us like a circus parade featuring little people marching through their back yard. The high-lite of the day was when we stumbled upon a can or bottle or anything else manmade to shoot at, for seeing the joy on my younger cousins faces when I handed them my rifle made it all worth while (I was stealing the rounds from the hardware store, only two doors down from the drug store, that is, until the store owner asked me to take my business elsewhere).

You see, it was already clear to me it was just a big game, for all along, no one had ever paid any attention to me except my band of brothers who were here with me. I was a city kid. I had already experienced the older kids in my neighborhood, vying for the leadership role of the day, trying in vain to come up with one liner’s that were as good as any you could see or hear on TV. There had already been a time or two, in particular, when a thought expressed by one of the older boys, waiting for their papers in the garage across the street, that had drawn great laughs and accolades, was a thought I had already imagined; but had failed to mention simply because the big boys, who never paid me any attention, never gave any credence to anything I ever had to say anyway. I loved my cousins as much as if they were all blood brothers, because I knew they would all walk through hell with me if I asked them to.

Seeing as how I was the leader, I made up the ground rules as we went along. One afternoon in particular, on one of our expeditions, we wound up at the deepest part of the branch where we caught the bream when fishing was good; breaking our folk’s cardinal rule of going there without our dad’s. Did not take me but a minute to shuck my skivvies, and before I knew it, everybody else jumped in buck naked too.

Turns out, the youngest had been brain washed by my dear aunt, causing him to spill the beans only minutes after our return, thereby costing each of us a spanking; not to mention threats that could only be described as apocalyptic if we ever went back to the hole alone. Looking back, that might not have been a bad idea on my dear aunt’s part, cause we all made it through to manhood somehow. What is important here, is I got to skinny dip one warm summer day in a stream in the North Carolina countryside when I was a little boy; a rite of passage for boys back then.

More than once, on other outings, we would each find a suitable tree to lean against, and flail away at ourselves in the belief the very exercise taking place at that precise moment in time would somehow infinitely increase the size of each of our pricks; but for what reason I did not know. I was the eldest. I was the undisputed and unchallenged leader of this clan; but I can still remember the bewilderment my youngest cousin displayed during those interludes; cause just like monkey see, monkey do, he always went along with the program his brothers and me were carrying out (I never did figure out how to explain to him why he was leaning up against a tree, choking his chicken, but did have confidence in knowing he knew I was right for some reason).

With no more fanfare than the beginning of the exercise had had, we were off again to some other uncharted part of the countryside, to see what sights were there to behold; and I just shuddered to think what would have happened if my youngest cousin had ever told his mom about these interludes in the backwoods of Rowan County in North Carolina.

Wound up going to Piedmont Junior High, rather than a school closer by, simply because most of my 40 classmates from Mrs Smith’s first grade class also were enrolled there (making me a Piedmont Junior High Panther, namesake of the Carolina Panthers - ha). The bad news was grades were no longer checked in a column signifying the student was either doing “Good Work”, or “Could Improve”, but read starkly A, B, C, D, or of course F; and no one ever felt better about making an “A” than I did when I made a “C” because I never did take many books home. I did go to the trouble to learn my multiplication table’s, could add and subtract easy enough, and I suppose my penmanship was passable too. Also never had much trouble spelling most words up to three syllables, or reading selected short stories in dad’s ever present current edition copy of READER’S DIGEST.

My unwillingness to strive for good grades did not concern me much because I had read RED HORSE HILL by Stephen W Meader in junior high, on my own, and felt comfortable with the speed and ease in which I had devoured his book because it had been a test Ken was giving Ken, and there was not any reason to cheat. It was a story about a kid and his horse or whatever, and it moved me so that I can remember a faint glow that is unique in having read a book you enjoyed; but as pleasing as it was, it paled quickly when compared to the joy I received every time I stepped into the wonderland on the other side of the silver screen.

I did, however, soon discover CLASSIC Comics (try to find correct title name); which gave a good enough account of the original story to allow me within only a matter of minutes time be prepared to write a passable book report on most of the classics when assigned.

It was to be many years later before a friend gave me THE WINDS OF WAR, by Herman W Wouk; at which time the true pleasure that can only come from reading a book, wherein its teller of the tale, takes you to a place you want to go.

XII

The face of Plaza Hills had changed month by month as families outgrew the modest two bedroom, one bath, homes in our neighborhood; and other families moved in with kids my age, in some cases. Just as soon as one family moved out another moved in, and it all happened so quickly the paper delivery was sometimes not interrupted, as the afternoon newspapers I was now carrying were almost as popular as the morning newspapers back then (at a cost of 25¢ per week).

Only a few blocks away some new found friends were a brother and sister I am going to call Dick and Jane, for no other reason than they had a dog with spots; and looking back now it all seems as boring as my first grade reader (their dog was named Spot in the book).

Dick had already established his physical superiority over me and my friends, in large part, because he could spit a good six or seven or eight feet through the gap between his upper two front teeth; and because I, personally, never felt the need for a joust to see who would win. Jane was older than her brother and me by a few years; and while she may have had a date or two for a very special occasion, she had not yet been given permission to date with any regularity. That summer, much to our bewilderment, Jane began to preen and groom herself, becoming quite the young lady; with only limited outbursts as loud as ours toward her brother and me for our immature intimidations, and mockery, about her newly discovered femininity.

On most pretty days there was always something for Dick and me to do outside, while on rainy days, when an ever familiar summer thunderstorm roared through, we all would meet inside to play Parcheesi, or spend hour after hour over a game of Monopoly. Most times the game would continue until one of us cleared the board, for each of us knew after doing so, he or she could look forward to a leisurely stroll on the Boardwalk, or enjoy a stay at Park Place.

As it also happens, my friends parents had a little silver metal box they kept in the chest of drawers in their master bedroom that looked just like the one I had at home where I kept my money and personal items that were small enough to fit in. Jane had apparently wondered many times what prizes their parents little silver metal box withheld, until her curiosity finally got the best of her causing her to ask her brother and me one day how we could pick the lock. Fessing up to owning a box looking just like the one their folks had we voted unanimously to see if my key would open the lock of their parents box, causing Dick and me to race as fast as we could to my house and back; and before we could catch our next breaths we were all sitting on their parents big bed.

The box contained a round plastic container of condoms, as well as a small jar of Vaseline; assorted small comic books little bigger than the size of an open hand like none we had ever seen, a deck of playing cards (of which there were only 51); and last, but not least, a single sheet of paper, that was typed and single spaced that had been folded closed so many times it was beginning to fray at its folds.

Our laughs and cajoling quickly subsided, and an eerie stillness came over us as we examined each piece as if we would never see it again. Condoms took little time to comprehend, and even though I had no idea why the Vaseline was there the comic book I remember the clearest was “Mutt & Jeff”, who had ordered something to eat in a restaurant, at the same time the urge to fornicate came over Mutt, and the girl, who was serving them. The girl waiting on them, being an obliging type, shucked her clothes, and after laying flat out on the table they would have been eating from, turned her face to the side, and commenced giving head to Jeff, while he stood there watching Mutt standing in a chair, coursing away in her bottom with a prick about the same size of his arm.

The cards showed nude women, and only one nude woman at a time; sitting, standing or lying in different positions that left nothing to the imagination. Some were playing with various types of hand held female toys that would later be defined as dildos, while others were lying spread eagle on everything from a dentist chair to a small table in an open field, where a woman was sitting with her legs spread as wide apart as she could get them, holding a horse’s prick in her hand that looked as large as a roll of salami, and gawking at the thing, as if she was considering how to insert the thing into the gash between her legs.

It was the single piece of paper, however, that continued to hold my curiosity, because as the days passed I witnessed Jane, time and time again, become so completely absorbed by what she was reading she seemed to be totally unaware of even the presence of her brother, or me. It was a story told by a young woman at sea on a cruise ship, and begins with her telling of meeting a young man in one of the ship’s bars whom she was immediately attracted to; and as the teller of the tale, she minces few words as her desire begins to heighten to make love her first time. After a drink or two the couple adjourned to her cabin, where they immediately begin to undress each other. The teller of the tale went to great lengths to explain, in graphic detail, what was happening to her as they begin to fondle and caress each other; from the ‘thundering’ sensation that was ‘pulsating’ through her body, to the ‘tightening of her breasts’, and the wetness you could almost sense that was now taking place in her ‘swelling, throbbing crotch’; as each aahh and oohh of their foreplay was interpreted, and accounted for. As her erotic tale wore on she continued to describe in lucid detail the lurid feelings, and frenzy, that was now captivating her, as the man had now begun performing cunnilingus for her. Next the man mounted her, and in a feverish zeal that would make any satyr proud, he stroked away in her bottom causing her to quiver and quake; even making mention a time or two of her personal thoughts about the large size of his tool. The young woman spoke fluently, and unselfishly, of the emotions that were now consuming her, speaking in very clear terms that even a boy my age could halfway understand. Few words were wasted telling of them lying there totally spent, but after only another a few more words she told of becoming aroused again, and with her executing the act of fellatio for him her story ended as abruptly as his second orgasm; as the writer had finally run out of space.

For weeks after that, on a dreary afternoon, or a rainy afternoon, or a perfectly beautiful cloudless sunny summer day, we would sometimes use my key to unlock again, for our mutual delight, the treasures contained in the little silver metal box. Every time, without fail, Jane reached first for the folded piece of paper which she opened gingerly, and then voraciously consumed it, as if it were a love poem written to her by prince charming himself.

Winning a game of Monopoly was winning even then, and hitting an old softball through the maze of friends so hard that it rolled so far down our street its retriever had no hope of hitting the bat now lying at my feet in front of me was an unforgettable experience (did not happen many times). Few things compared to catching a fish bigger than your cousins had regardless of its size, and living at the waters edge where you could see your boat moored from both your bed, and the chair you sit in when watching TV, was already my idea of Eden. But yet I somehow had this eerie feeling a woman would have traded any, or all these creature comforts, for the joy she could receive from making love with a man whom she loved, and who loved her; and who could make her feel like the young woman who told the tale on the single sheet of paper.

My, “…. sugar and spice, and everything nice”, vision of womanhood was now somehow strangely diluted, because the story did not make any more sense to me than did my understanding as how the Atomic Bomb ended the war; but yet I knew both situations were real, and would no doubt have to be reckoned with someday.

Before long we included another neighborhood chum our age in on our mischief; but that first afternoon our friend asked Dick and me if we thought that was what a girls bottom really looked like, seeing as how it had all that hair around it on the cards, at which time our chum and me smiled at Jane; and the room became tense with anticipation. The silence did not last but about two seconds, because in no more time than that Dick spoke up, ordered the contents back into the box, that it be locked; and only then suggested to our friend and me we go outside.

Dick, in very clear and explicit terms, left no doubts what the consequences would surely be if either my buddy or me ever tried to ‘mess around’ with his sister, and having said that, spat a good nine or maybe even ten feet by forcing spittle through the gap between his upper two front teeth. Dick then looked our buddy and me in the eye; and asked if there were any questions.

Within only another day or two after that the box was reported stolen, but I never doubted for a minute it had not been Dick who had removed the little silver metal box from the chest of drawers in his parent’s home. No matter though, the contents had been indelibly imprinted in my mind.

For a summer or two I was there as much as I was home, as both their folks worked all day long just like mine did, and there was not anything else better to do anyway because there was no afternoon TV then either (we had one by now). One fall the newspapers were making mention of an inordinate amount of newly painted signs beginning to appear all over town, emblazoned on everything from ‘garbage cans’ and walls of vacant buildings that read, “Central 69 – Harding 0”. Jane was an underclassman at Central High by now, but to save my life I could not figure out why the school we were both were yet going to graduate from could have such high hopes of achieving such a lop sided victory in defeating our arch rivals on the west side of town. All of a sudden it occurred to me she was looking really strange, almost like she was trying to figure out whether to enlighten me or not; a look I had seen before; that is, up until I told the girls I used to play paper dolls with, what tragedy was going to befall their paper dolls, if they did not tell me what one had to know to speak Pig Latin. There was no one else in the house, as Jane began to set the stage, sensing she was about to tell me something I was going to remember the rest of my life. It was almost bemusing to see her attitude, coming and then sitting closer to me, but I consoled myself in thinking if that was the way women are, then that is the way they are; and simply another condition I was going to have to allow to exist.

Jane in very serious and somber low tones then told me what 69 meant, using no more words, or clarifying what she had said any more clearly than my mom had when chiding me for thumbing home from school maybe five years before. For a moment after she had made her remark everything was quiet, and still, almost as if she was contemplating whether there was more to be said. There had never been any doubt in my mind, but that Jane and me looked upon each other as brother and sister; and it seemed as if she was sitting there thinking I was going to ask for additional clarification.

All I knew for sure was I could still vividly remember the afternoon, only a year or two before, when only a few feet from where we were sitting, in the privacy of her parents bedroom on the other side of the wall, how I had learned how women could crackle and sizzle from this thing called sex. I thanked my lucky stars that no mention had ever been made of women going 69, which allowed me to continue to believe a woman would presumably require a man in her life in order to be fulfilled; and make life worth living.

XIII

On another afternoon I was home alone, and decided to investigate the contents of the little silver metal box dad always kept in our hall closet, as I had seen him search through its contents from time to time. Sitting on the sofa in our living room, and not finding anything conspicuous, I decided to investigate the envelopes and papers contained therein. The car title stated its purpose clearly enough; and an insurance policy was not worth the effort it would have taken to read.

But one envelope had been posted by The Clerk of Superior Court for Mecklenburg County, and contained a birth certificate inside that read Frank Monroe Wilson and Ruby Wilhelm Wilson had adopted Kenneth Ward Wilson; who had been born in the City of Charlotte, in the county of Mecklenburg, on August 14, 1940.

My curiosity ended at that point for any additional information the box may have held, and after replacing everything in the same order which it was in when I began, I returned it to its proper place on the shelf, with no one the wiser of my knowledge of the contents of our little silver metal box.