A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER SEVEN:
TERRY
Written by Rick
Archer
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Rick Archer's Note:
There is no rule that says
an Act of Kindness must be performed only by a
human.
This is the story of my dog Terry.
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The story of my
childhood would not be
complete unless I said a word about my dog Terry.
Odd as it sounds,
I imagine Terry did more
to keep me sane during my troubled years than any single human being.
I got Terry in 1958, one
year before the 1959 divorce which led to St. John's. I was eight at the time. Terry
would serve as my constant companion during my nine years at St.
John's. Sadly, he passed away while I was away at college.
More about that later.
We had three dogs for a
while. Duke was my parents' dog, equally loyal to both.
There was a female collie down the street, so my parents arranged a
union. We kept two
puppies, Terry and Sally. Unfortunately, the two puppies
wreaked havoc on my father's precious garden, so he demanded one of
them had to go. As for Terry, my father did not dare say a
word or he would have never heard the end of it from me. Not
long after Sally's departure, Duke died
of old age. Once Duke
died, Dad's attitude changed as well. This was about the time he became angry at the world. Or maybe it was this time
he began chasing his mistress and could not live without her.
Whatever the reason, my parents began
to argue in the latter part of 1958. My father's reign of
terror lasted into the spring of 1959 until the Devil's Bargain was
made. During this period, Dad would come home and immediately pick a
fight with my mother. My mother
would retort that she gave up her education so he could get his
degree.
These moments led to brutal
shouting matches. I would run to my room
and hide, holding my dog to my side for comfort. I would be so
scared. Inevitably I would bury my face in my dog's fur and
begin to cry. Even though he was just a puppy, Terry would lick my face and do everything in
his power to help me survive
those awful nights. There were many times when Terry was absolutely my only friend in the entire world.
Things weren't like this at the start. When I first got Terry,
he and I roughhoused all the time. Our favorite game was
chase. I would run and Terry would tackle me by grabbing the
lowest part of my pant's leg around the ankle with his teeth. Considering Terry
never missed an open field tackle, he would have made a great
football player. Once he got me on the
ground, we would roll on the grass and wrestle.
My mother
had mixed feelings about my wrestling matches with my beloved dog.
She
was constantly sewing up my torn jeans and washing the grass stains
out. However Mom didn't complain. Mom loved my dog for a
special reason. Once the marital nightmare began, Mom was well aware Terry was the only thing
that kept me glued together during the final year of her marriage.
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I almost lost Terry as a
puppy. It was completely my fault. We lived in a brand new
subdivision known as Sharpstown. There were fields in front of
my house, behind my house, and down at the far west end of our block.
Terry and I loved to explore those fields.
Rabbits, blackberries, mud holes.
Since there was virtually no traffic, I never gave
Terry's safety any thought.
I was eight years old
and completely unaware of the danger I put Terry in by not having
him on a leash when we crossed the road. Since Terry was still a
puppy, we had not established voice discipline yet. One day we went running
through a giant field a
block from my house. On our trip home, Terry dashed out into the middle of
the street. I saw a giant Sears delivery truck barreling down
and screamed "Terry!!!" at the top of my lungs. It
was too late; Terry could not stop. He ran directly in front of the
truck.
The truck driver
saw Terry and slammed his brakes
hard. The screeching sound of the brakes was
unbelievable. Too late. One of the front wheels hit
Terry pretty hard. Terry began to spin uncontrollably.
The little dog rolled over and over and over. Terry took five
circus-style flips
down the street that covered at least ten feet.
Once Terry
finally stopped his somersaults, he laid there
motionless. I was certain Terry was dead.
However, just as I reached his side, Terry magically bounced up and dashed past me
at warp speed. Poor Terry!! He was so frightened, he ran home as
fast as he could!! I was incredulous to see him come back to
life.
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Although the
truck's wheel had bumped the dog very hard, thank goodness the
truck driver slowed just enough so Terry did not get caught under the
wheel. Full of tears and consumed with guilt,
I yelled my gratitude out to the truck driver. I waved at him and thanked him profusely. I could see the man
smiling with relief that my dog wasn't hurt too much. Seeing my
huge crocodile tears, he could tell how much Terry meant to me. The man
grinned at me and waved back his acknowledgement of my appreciation.
He was pleased to know his alert action had saved my dog's life.
Now I turned and chased
Terry
home. I found him shaking like a leaf on our doorstep.
I took my trembling puppy into my arms and cried buckets upon
buckets of tears in
relief. I thanked God for giving Terry and me a second chance.
At that moment, I realized I loved this dog with all my heart.
Note to Reader: I have those same tears as a write this story.
What a friend.
Two things happened
after that. Terry had such an incredible spirit of
independence that I still could not
bear to put him on a leash. Terry loved so much to run free.
But I did it anyway for his own good. Terry looked so
sad, I just couldn't go through with it. So I looked for
another solution. I put a collar around Terry's neck and made
sure to hold that
collar tight whenever we were even remotely near any traffic.
In addition, I developed
an uncanny voice control over my dog. All I had to do was say
"Terry!" in a stern voice and he would freeze. Terry trusted me completely.
He
recognized I was looking out for him, so my voice
became his warning signal. Terry would run along
beside my bike and stop the instant I said "Terry!" if I saw a
problem up ahead. We became quite a team. It gives me
tremendous satisfaction to report Terry never had
another close call with traffic. Thanks to our
teamwork, Terry was able to run free his entire life.
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Following the divorce, I
learned the dark side of Terry lust for freedom. Terry loved to run away.
Every three months or so, he found some way to escape the back yard while I was at
school. I would go looking for him, cursing the entire
time because I was so worried. That dog drove me nuts. One
afternoon after another
escape, I saw Terry from across the street before he spotted me.
Although Terry was headed towards me, he had not noticed me.
I said nothing because I was worried he would be excited to see me and
impetuously run
across the street. Fortunately there was no traffic, so I relaxed and watched
to see what he would do.
To my surprise, Terry stopped at the street and looked both ways
before crossing. Terry had learned his lesson from the
Sears truck years ago. I was very impressed.
Moments like that which
taught me that Terry was highly intelligent, easily the smartest dog I have ever
known. It wasn't just his Old Yeller-style loyalty that drew me to him, it was
my respect for his immense spirit. My dog had a mind and
personality that was 'human' in so many ways. We had a
profound connection. I also appreciate that Terry taught me
lessons in responsibility. One day not long after
the divorce, I asked my mother why Terry was so skinny. "Probably
because you forget to feed him at night."
A look of horror crossed
my face. Oh my gosh, Mom was absolutely right. Sometimes
I did forget! I was beside myself with guilt and shame.
I vowed never to forget again and kept that vow. We became
inseparable. Terry had a great life
thanks to me.
I kept him busy. He went with me everywhere and I mean Everywhere.
It is safe to say Terry was one heck of a
happy dog. As for me, I could not have made it
out of childhood without him. That is how important Terry became to me.
Once in a while Terry
and I took
bicycle adventures together over to River Oaks, the area where Houston's
finest mansions were located. Terry would run alongside my
bike as I took back routes to avoid traffic. This started
right after the divorce. One day when I was riding my bike to school, I
noticed a wonderful valley in the midst of these modern palaces. This lush
grass-covered valley was surrounded on all sides by beautiful trees and palatial
mansions looking down from above. Terry and I would go there before anyone was up
and around on a Sunday
morning. While Terry roamed around the quiet neighborhood
sniffing everything, I would sit in the valley and bask in
fantasies about how I would like to live in a place like this
someday. This was a common daydream of mine. The dream
arose because I had been ripped from my comfortable suburban existence by
the divorce. The neighborhood my mother moved us to was not all that bad, but it was a far cry from what I had
been used to. I would stare at these beautiful homes and wish my parents
hadn't gotten divorced.
The absurd paradox of having the children of
Houston's wealthiest patricians as classmates didn't help my mood
any. I had
known the comfort that money can bring only to have that life
ripped away from me. Every day I had to go to school
with constant reminders of what I had lost. Eventually Terry
would check back in
from his exploration and interrupt my thoughts. Probably just as well.
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As I grew older
my fantasies changed. I didn't care about living in a nice home any
more. I just wanted to escape my mother. Terry and I would take
bicycle adventures over to Rice University. As I viewed the
beautiful campus with its ivy-covered
buildings and stately oak trees, Rice represented the sanctuary I coveted. While Terry chased thousands of black birds
and every squirrel under the sun, I would sit there and dream. Wouldn't it be wonderful to
graduate and go to school here at this amazing campus?
Terry was
extremely athletic. There was
an odd-shaped oak tree with a giant tree limb low to
the ground. I would climb up to that limb and call to Terry. Terry could jump
that high, but his paws couldn't quite grip the thick branch, so he would fall
back to the ground. I learned to
catch Terry at the top of his leap and pull him up to me.
He would lick my face in
appreciation and I would hug him. We would sit on that tree
limb for a while and watch the world go by. Just me
and my dog. Then Terry would see some squirrel and jump down
to begin the chase. I would yell at my stupid dog for ditching
me, but I didn't really care. I loved watching Terry
have so much fun.
Frequently Terry would
accompany me to Cherryhurst Park where I had found a deserted basketball
court to practice on. While I perfected an endless
series of lay-ups, hook shots and
jump shots,
Terry would roam the park in search of cats, squirrels, dogs, whatever interested him. Every ten minutes or so Terry would check in to make
sure I was still there, then take off to explore some more. We
had a marvelous buddy system.
Sometimes I would tease
Terry. Once in a while I would deliberately hide behind some
bush. Then I would call to him. Terry would return and see me missing and
become frantic with worry. At first he would start running double-time
in every direction. That random search routine didn't last for
long. Terry quickly developed a better trick.
The moment he didn't
find me, he would start sniffing the ground. Then he would follow my scent from the spot he had last seen me.
Guess what? He would always find me. It was uncanny to
see him in action. That dog was something else. His
tracking skills showed me that dogs have abilities I could not even
begin to comprehend.
As I said, Terry was the smartest dog I would ever meet in my
life. Without a doubt.
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Prior to the
divorce, there were a half-dozen boys who lived nearby for
companionship. That changed dramatically when I moved
to a new neighborhood. There were no boys my age in
sight. Terry was already my best friend in the world,
but now he became practically my only friend. Part of
the problem growing up as an only-child
was having no built-in brothers and sisters to play with. Another problem was moving all the time. The moment I
made a friend across the street, it seemed like we were moving again.
If I had gone to
public school, I would have had neighborhood kids as
classmates.
Unfortunately, I grew up on the other side of the tracks from
my rich kid classmates, so there were no carpools, no 'come on over and throw the football.' I never learned to use the
phone. While my
classmates called each other on a regular basis, I was
completely out of the phone loop. Consequently when my mother was at
work or out chasing men, I was home alone with no
one to talk to. At this point, books and Terry were my
only friends.
I had a few
buddies at St. John's, but they were
more like
acquaintances than close friends. The problem was the
unspoken caste system at St. John's. They were
Brahmins and I was an Outcast. Of course I had
constant interactions during school, but outside of the
classroom my classmates had their own social circles. Many of
these kids had grown up together and kept to their clique.
I learned early on to keep to myself. Unless they
spoke to me, I didn't speak to them. And so
starting at age 10 I was well on my way to becoming a loner.
As a result, I developed an acute dependency on Terry for
company. Only one problem - Terry loved to roam on his
own.
If Terry the Terrible had one
major
failing, that would be his insatiable sex drive. I learned the
hard way that even
dogs have that downfall. I would
come home from school and Terry would be missing.
Where is that damn dog this time!?! I would get so mad at him!
I would immediately get on my bike and begin the search.
Typically he was just a few blocks away and I would round up
my escaped dog fairly quickly. A typical example was
the stake incident.
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It did not help that Terry was the
original escape artist, the canine
equivalent to Harry Houdini. One time Terry was so
overcome with lust that he pulled a metal stake up from the ground.
I could not believe it. I had used my neighbor's sledge hammer
to drive that stake three feet deep into the ground. It was
hard work and I was sweating like a pig. The dirt was dry and
tightly-packed, so this was no easy task. Given
how hard it was to drive the stake in, I assumed it would be just as hard to
get it back out. So when I was done, I smiled with satisfaction and
looked straight at Terry sitting there watching me with an
innocent face.
"Look there, dog. You'll never pull that up!"
Famous last words. Soon
after he
was gone when I came home from school and the stake was missing.
I grimaced at the hole Terry had dug to
loosen the stake. I rode my bike around
till I found Terry with his latest conquest. Terry was engaged in the throes of passion with that stake
clinging to the metal chain connected to his collar. Terry had dragged
that stake and chain all the way across the neighborhood in pursuit
of his latest girlfriend. Despite my
consternation at his latest escape, I burst out laughing. I
had to admire his will power.
This was
not the first
time I had caught him in the act. Having learned that male
dogs do not 'disengage' very easily, I politely sat
there waiting for him to finish and received some informal sex education
in the process. When Terry had satisfied his urges, I yelled
"Bad dog!!" at him. Terry didn't care what I said. Terry had
gotten what he wanted and was ready to go home. I removed
the chain and the stake and we headed home together. All was
forgiven.
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Whenever I came home and
Terry was missing, I would be panic-stricken. I had my entire life
wrapped around this dog. Time for the Great Chase. I
would immediately hop back on my
bike and search the neighborhood bellowing "Terry, Terry, where are you?" Typically within 15-30 minutes he
would hear my call and come running up to my side wagging his tail
and thrilled to see me. I was always irritated to find not a
trace of guilt on his face for the panic he had caused me.
About 20% of the time I
didn't find Terry at all. These were the worst moments.
After two hours of searching it would get dark, so I called off the
search and went home
to do my homework. Left to his whims, it typically took Terry
sometime late in the night to
get hungry enough to come
back home. I was a basket case the entire time waiting for his
scratch on the door.
It might be as late as midnight, but I would wait up for him. I would let him in and scold him, but Terry the Terrible never showed the slightest
concern for my feelings of alarm. All he wanted to do was eat
and go to sleep. He would hop on my bed and give me that 'Are
you coming?' look. I would just stare
at him in consternation and relief. Eventually I would forgive him
and shove him over to get under the covers.
Terry was the master. His specialty was defeating fences. Sometimes he dug a hole under the fence, sometimes he jumped over the fence,
sometimes he found a loose board and
kept pounding at it till he busted through. Stakes did
not stop him. He would dig them up. Ropes did not
stop him. He could chew through a
rope. Screen doors were his favorite.
If Mom or I didn't latch the screen door, Terry would be gone in an
instant. Eventually we caught on and became more
conscientious about using the simple metal latch. That didn't
work either. To our
astonishment, Terry learned how to lift the metal hook with his
nose and escape that way. So we got a fancier metal
latch. No problem. Terry figured out the screen
door mesh wasn't that strong, so he would just bust through and
destroy the screen door in the process. That dog
drove me crazy!
Terry was ridiculously clever at finding
ways to get free that had never occurred to
me. What an imagination! For a
while we lived in a second story apartment with an
elevated deck outside the back door.
From this porch there were steps leading
down to the carport. One day we left
the kitchen window open to let some breeze.
The window sill was five feet off the floor. When we weren't looking, Terry jumped out
that window onto the elevated deck behind
it. From there, Terry walked down the
stairs and took off. I was
incredulous. Terry had no way to see
over the open window ledge. That
indicated he knew ahead of time there was a
deck on the other side of the open window
to land on safely. I told you he was smart.
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Every time
Terry got loose, like a good detective I would investigate his latest trick and do
something to prevent it from happening again. For example, in
the case of the open window trick, now I only left the window
half-open. Hah! Now what are you going to do, dog?
As I said, we moved all the time, 11 homes during my 9
years at St. John's. Several of these places had nice
back yards. If it wasn't too hot, we would leave Terry
outside to enjoy the fresh air. Every time we moved to
a new place, Terry and I would independently evaluate the
back yard for escape routes. He was determined to
escape and I was determined to stop him. To my
astonishment, even a tall metal fence didn't stop him!
The case of the
tall metal fence was a real stumper. Based on that low
oak tree limb at Rice University, I knew how high
Terry could jump. This fence was higher than that
limb, so it was out of his range. So
how did he get out? I theorized that Terry could jump
high enough to somehow get his paws on top, then use
his hind feet to climb over. Imagine my smile when I
discovered a photograph which confirmed my theory.
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APRIL 1961
CALL OF THE
WILD
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Basically, once
Terry decided he wanted to roam, he was relentless. Nothing
stopped him despite my elaborate precautions to curb
my willful dog. Not surprisingly, Terry
chose not to cooperate. This escape stuff was
not a random event. I estimate Terry found a way
to get loose three to five times a year. Typically all he had
to do was use his
athletic ability, but the day came when he resorted to
cunning as well.
Following the
divorce my mother gained some money from selling the Sharpstown home.
This windfall enabled Mom to make the mistake of renting homes
with large yards. I say 'Mistake' for two
reasons. For one thing, no yard could hold Terry.
He was undefeated. He always found a way out with his escape techniques. Second, Mom had
no business wasting precious money on houses beyond her
budget. But Mom had grown up with wealth, so she
foolishly indulged her preference to live in a nice place.
When the money ran out, so did her bad habit. No more
back yards. When we moved to an air-conditioned apartment
with no
yard, Terry had to stay inside all day long.
Hah, I gloated. Let's see you escape from this place! Terry soon discovered that
his running days were over. Or maybe not. That
is when Terry got creative and jumped through open windows
and learned how to nudge the latch on screen doors. Eventually I
caught onto all his tricks and took counter-measures.
Terry's running days were over. Or maybe not.
This is when Terry's cunning kicked in. Terry developed a new trick. He would simply scratch the
door when Mom walked by. That was his signal to pee.
She would invariably let him out and expect him to come
right back in. Terry was so clever. He would
develop my mother's trust by willingly return nine times in
a row without fuss. But when the Call of the Wild hit,
on the 10th time Terry would be off to the races.
That dog was so damn rotten! He wouldn't dream of
pulling this stunt with me, but he played my mother like
a fiddle.
Unfortunately, not all of Terry's escapades
ended quickly. Terry's Call of the
Wild incident started the same
way most of his escapes began. On a Sunday
night, Terry waited till I wasn't looking.
I was in the bathroom or doing homework,
whatever. The moment I was
preoccupied, Terry scratched on the door
and Mom let him out and he Terry decided not
to come back in.
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Of course I was furious at my mother, but
there was no time to waste arguing with her.
I was back on my bike in an instant.
However, this time it did no good.
Terry could not be found.
Making matters worse, my dog did not come home that night. I went
out of my mind sick with worry. Next
morning, still no Terry. I
went to school, fumed and fretted all day
Monday, then resumed the search that
afternoon without luck. I spent Monday night
in total despair. Did not sleep a
wink. Tuesday saw the
identical scenario. Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday. Terry had never
been gone for an entire night, but now three
nights had passed with no return. Did
a car hit him? Was he hurt? Did
someone take pity on him and take him inside
their house? Did the dogcatcher get
him? Why can't I find him is my dog!?!
Wednesday morning, I was forlorn. I
had given up all hope. Just as I got
ready to leave for school, I heard barking
outside. I looked out the window and
saw a pack of six dogs running together
halfway down the street. One of those
dogs looked like Terry. Forget the
bike. I burst out the door and chased
the dog pack on foot. Dumb move on
skipping the bike. The dogs were
getting away. But then I got lucky.
Without warning two dogs began
to fight and the rest of the pack stopped to watch. Oh my God,
it's Terry! My heart leapt.
I screamed "Terry!!!!!" at the top of
my lungs, but it didn't work. Terry was in a fighting frenzy. So I dived right in. It didn't even dawn
on me I could get hurt. I just wanted my dog back! Caught off guard by my intervention,
both dogs briefly stopped fighting to see what this new threat
was. I got between them, grabbed Terry's collar and
pulled him away.
However Terry wanted to keep
fighting! To my consternation, that damn dog
struggled mightily
to get away from me. Terry had all kinds of energy surging through
his body and strained to get back at the other dog. Angry, it was
time for me to assert my authority. I dragged him by the
collar towards home.
To my surprise, Terry wouldn't budge! He kept struggling to get back
at
that other dog. That is when I saw the problem. His
opponent had just climbed on the back of a female dog. That's
when I realized why Terry had disappeared. This female was a bitch
in heat and Terry was
fighting for mating rights. So I said, "Tough luck, Terry,
but I want
you back." I
picked Terry up off his feet and carried him home in my arms.
He struggled for a while but I was too strong. That is when
Terry gave me the most pitiful look. I could almost read his
mind. "Come on, Dad, that other dog is humping my
girlfriend! Let me go! Let me go!"
And what did I reply?
"Forget it,
Terry, you and me are
going home." I am sure it
was humiliating for him to be carried the entire way home.
However, in the mood I was in, I could have cared less
about sparing his feelings. Finally Terry gave up and licked my
face. Damn dog.
I should have had him fixed for what he had just put me through.
Would have saved me a lot of grief.
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11 Years old, fifth grade
the growing
wedge
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Since
Mom had left for work when Terry and I returned,
the coming confrontation would have to wait.
The pain of losing Terry had
been unbearable. Indeed, the worry-induced
nausea was so strong that I was
determined never to let Terry escape again.
But to do that would require my mother's
cooperation.
That night I told Mom in no uncertain terms
to never let Terry out again by herself.
If he scratched the door, don't let him out, come get me
instead.
Mom did not say a word. She just
glowered at me in defiance.
"Mom, did you not hear what I said?"
Mom replied, "Yes, of course I heard what
you said. But you have no right to
talk to me this way."
I was undeterred. Raising my voice, I
said, "You need to promise
me you won't let Terry out again. Or
at the very least, put a leash on him.
I can't bear to go through this again."
Mom lost her temper. "Who do you think
are? I'll be goddamned if I let some
snot-nosed 11 year old tell me what I can
and cannot do."
Now I lost my temper too. I screamed
back at her,
"Mom, Terry is MY DOG!! I'm in charge of letting Terry out!
Don't you ever let Terry out when I am not around, do you
understand!?!"
With that, Mom spun around, retreated to her
bedroom and slammed the door. This
moment would prove to be Fort Sumter in the
growing animosity between Mother and Son.
Thankfully Tom Cook was long gone at this
point, but the damage he did to her mind was
still there. In the
space of a year and a half Mom was beaten
down from two consecutive divorces, one to
my cheating father, the other to an
alcoholic wife beater. She had wasted
her savings and she was scared by her
inability to find a good-paying job.
Something had snapped inside my mother.
Now she was arguing with me the same way she
argued with Tom Cook and my father.
As for Terry, Mom didn't listen to me.
She kept doing it anyway. Each time I would have to go out and chase
that rotten dog down again. Sometimes I wondered if she
ignored me deliberately. I wasn't the
most loving child in the world. Thanks
to resentment from this Terry incident and my lack of respect
over her pathetic desperation for a man, I slowly moved away from her
authority like a receding glacier. There was a part of
me that suspected she retaliated with mean tricks like letting the
dog out to pay me back. Indeed, her passive aggressive
behavior led me to
wonder if she had done similar things to
deliberately provoke my father.
As for me, I was a nervous wreck.
Every day it felt more and more like it was
me against the world.
I was becoming a loner at school. My
father had abandoned me and now an ice age
frost was setting in with my mother. I
was walking a tightrope with no safety net. If I lost my dog,
I was a goner. However, with a mother
like mine, all it would take would be
another scratch on the door. Losing
Terry would be lights out, E.L.E., extinction
level event.
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A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER eight:
Tale of two mothers
Written by Rick
Archer
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Rick Archer's Note:
Things were tough at home.
My mother's behavior in regards to Terry was
borderline cruel. The worst thing
about it was I had no control over the problem.
My mother's attitude is that if Terry ran away,
he was bound to return soon enough. But
after Terry's escapade with the dog pack, this
felt like Russian Roulette. Yes, five
times out six Terry would return.
But what about the day
when he didn't return? I was turning into
a very desperate kid. Fortunately I had
St. John's.
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10 Years old, fourth grade
Mrs.
Ballantyne
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Despite my perpetual loneliness, there was no other place
I would have rather been than at St. John's. I knew I was getting
an amazing education and I thrived on the competition. Unlike
public school where I had one teacher, at
St. John's I had several teachers, one for
English, one for Math, and so on.
Every one of my teachers were excellent.
The classes were small and my teachers
encouraged participation by asking a lot of
questions. This was my chance to
shine.
However,
from the start I
felt like an outsider at my new school. So I adjusted as best I
could. If I couldn't participate, at least I could do a lot of watching.
My favorite pastime was admiring the
glamorous high society women who congregated
every afternoon in the Commons Room for
coffee, tea and conversation.
The Commons Room flanked by the 4th Grade
classrooms on one side and the 5th Grade
classrooms on the other. A
well-traveled hallway connecting these
classrooms went straight through the Commons
Room. I made sure to watch the
activities any time I passed by on the way
to class. In addition, my 4th Grade
locker was only 20 feet away from the
Commons Room so I had plenty of
opportunities to go peek.
The memory of the nasty woman who had practically taken my
head off with her scorn had a lingering effect. Although I didn't let that woman's
rude dismissal stop me from peeking in, I did become more
surreptitious. I found an observation post in the
shadows behind an entrance to the room. If I got
an occasional dirty look from someone who noticed me, I learned
not to stick around. I would
simply disappear before they could say anything. No one ever
bothered me again.
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On any given day, there
could be anywhere from
twenty to thirty women milling about. These women all had
children who were students at St. John's. I
had no idea what their names were or who their children were.
They were all faces in the crowd.
However, it did take
long for me to focus on a particularly charismatic lady. I had no idea who she was, but
she definitely caught my attention. As she spoke, the other
women seemed to gather around her. Since she appeared to
dominate the conversation, I assumed she was their leader.
Her name was Maria Ballantyne,
but I did not know that at the time. In fact, her identity
would remain anonymous until the 7th Grade. We will get to
that in due time.
I did not know if
Mrs. Ballantyne was as mean as that woman who had ordered me to leave,
but I was impressed by her stature. Everything
seemed to revolve around her. From that point on, I found myself drawn to
this lady. In fact, I suppose it was a form of hero worship.
As I watched her
perform on center stage, I was
star-struck.
From that point on, whenever I noticed the
Mother's Guild in the Commons Room, the first thing I did was look
for this lady. Even if I had only a few minutes left to get to my next
class, I would risk being late just so I could watch Mrs.
Ballantyne
in action a little longer.
Mrs. Ballantyne
was an attractive
woman. She was about 5' 4", dark brown hair
and a dark complexion thanks to her Greek heritage.
Whenever I saw her,
Mrs. Ballantyne always seemed to be at the center of every group.
As I studied her over time, Mrs.
Ballantyne was the most dynamic and powerful woman I had ever seen
in my life. I stopped paying attention to the other women and
began to concentrate only on her.
|
Any time I spotted
Mrs. Ballantyne, I would stop and hide somewhere
so I could study her for a few minutes. However, I never once came anywhere near
Mrs. Ballantyne. After that other lady had chewed me out so badly, I
kept a discrete distance from all these women lest they bite.
Fortunately from my perch in the shadows, I was free to
study Mrs. Ballantyne with impunity. Over time I
detected a difference between Mrs. Ballantyne and the
other women. For one thing, she seemed very down to earth. She
smiled a lot and radiated warmth. I liked her and
I liked to watch her in action. As far as I was concerned, with
all those women buzzing around her,
Mrs. Ballantyne was
the Queen Bee.
It seemed to me that
Mrs. Ballantyne was most socially gifted person I had ever come
across. She exuded confidence. Warm, poised and outgoing, Mrs.
Ballantyne struck me as the go-to lady at every one of these
afternoon Power Conclaves.
It struck me as
unusual that Mrs. Ballantyne was the only 'mother' I ever noticed. I didn't even know
her name, but I was mesmerized. Other than that woman
who had been mean to me, none of the other ladies made the
slightest impression on me.
I wondered why Mrs. Ballantyne
seemed to be such a constant fixture at my school.
I estimate I saw her at St. John's at least two or three times a
week. It would not be till the 7th Grade that I
learned the reason. Mrs. Ballantyne had seven children
at St. John's.
Most of the time
I would spot Mrs. Ballantyne
in the Commons Room,
but she was also the only mother who ever seemed to appear in
other parts of the school.
I would see her striding down the hallway corridors
side by side with Headmaster Alan Chidsey or deep in
conversation with E.K. Salls, the Assistant Headmaster. Since I didn't see the other mothers doing the same thing,
this familiarity with the administrators also set
Mrs. Ballantyne apart from the other women in
the Mother's Guild.
I had no idea why this
lady was so special, but Mrs. Ballantyne seemed to know everyone.
She was a social dynamo of the highest order.
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From the moment I first spotted Mrs.
Ballantyne in the 4th Grade, I was transfixed. The
4th Grade became the 5th Grade. The 5th Grade became the
6th. With each
new grade, I resumed my silent watch and with each new grade my respect
for this woman deepened.
One day I began to
wonder why I was so taken with this woman. The first word that
came to mind was 'Mother'. When
I recall my impression of Mrs. Ballantyne, I remember thinking
many times that she was the best mother I had ever seen.
But here is the odd thing. I never actually saw her with any
of her children. So what made me think she was a great mother?
In his book The
Shining, Stephen King talks about Danny, the 6 year old kid
who knew things without being told. While I don't consider
myself particularly psychic, I do get hunches about people that
often turn out to be true. I think if we learn to pay
attention, we all get hunches like that. In the case of Maria
Ballantyne, I just 'knew' that she was an excellent mother.
That was good enough till the 7th Grade when I finally got
first-hand evidence of her skills.
Over time I came to
greatly admire
Mrs. Ballantyne. Not only was she the clear leader of the Mother's
Guild, the alpha lady in a group
of women who were typically used to being in charge themselves, starting
in the 7th Grade I was able to see how
well she interacted with her own children. Mrs. Ballantyne obviously had her children's complete respect. I came to the conclusion that Mrs.
Ballantyne was not only the most socially talented woman I had ever seen,
she was also the best mother.
One day it finally
dawned on me why I
watched this lady every chance I got. Mrs. Ballantyne
represented the kind of mother I wished I could have. My own mother was all I
had. Given that my father abandoned me shortly after the
divorce in 1959, thanks to the absence of relatives, family friends, or
even some kindly
neighborhood lady across the street, I was totally dependent on a
mother who was perpetually lost in her own problems.
|
Based on what I saw at
school, Mrs. Ballantyne seemed intimately involved
in every detail of her children's lives. As an extremely lonely
little boy, it isn't surprising at all that I would be attracted to
this dynamic Greek woman who radiated warmth and concern. The
stark contrast between this poised leader of the Mother's Guild was disconcertingly unfavorable to my own beleaguered
mother.
Although I knew my mother was a
good person, she simply wasn't a very good mother. Mom couldn't
keep a job and she couldn't pay her bills. Mom also had a
bad habit of putting her needs before mine. Her penchant for acquiring total losers
and forcing me to live with them was a source of serious
contention. With my privacy was invaded, the
presence of men such as Tom Cook made me miserable. My
mother's authority was badly sabotaged by her infernal
insistence on dragging these men home.
My mother's
manic depressive behavior caused me untold anguish over
the years. There were times I actually worried she might
kill herself. Other times I feared she would end up in the loony bin and
be unable to care for
me. That was my biggest fear. Just the thought of
being forced to live with Jezebel would be enough to scare any
kid out of his wits. Due to my increasing
lack of confidence in my own mother, I often wondered
what other mothers were like. Enter Maria Ballantyne.
I would notice Mrs. Ballantyne's poise. I would see how well
she was liked by her peers. I would take note how her own children gravitated to her.
Since I was a near
orphan, how could I not be attracted to such a caring, energetic
mother?
At these times I would be overwhelmed by all sorts of wishful
thinking. Given my troubled
home, it should come as no surprise that I developed a serious case of hero worship for Mrs.
Ballantyne. That said, please do not be alarmed. There was nothing
wrong
about my admiration. Although I was a sad, very troubled
young man, I meant no harm. I had
total respect for Mrs. Ballantyne's privacy at all times. Not once in
all those years did I ever approach her in any way. All I ever
did was stand in a corner watching and wondering.
"Gee, what would I be like
if I had someone like Mrs. Ballantyne for a mother?"
I would conclude every
viewing with the same wistful
lament.
"Gosh, why can't I have a mother like that?"
|
I have made it clear
that things went downhill for me and me mother following the divorce.
Now it is time to elaborate. Word of warning - put your
seatbelt on.
Following the divorce,
Mom was
ill-prepared to take care of herself, much less me.
Money quickly became a huge
problem. Despite my father's monthly contribution of $100
child support, Mom had serious trouble
supporting the two of us. Like many wives of the post-World War II era, she
had expected to be a stay-at-home mom. This explains why she dropped
out of college to support my father while he got his engineering degree.
Mom's decision to support
my father was a good idea at the time, but backfired badly
after the
divorce.
Although Mom possessed some serious smarts of her own, her lack
of a college degree forced her to accept secretarial jobs for which she was
intellectually overqualified and psychologically unsuited for.
Mom did not like being told what to do.
Just as my father
was a Momma's Boy, my mother was a Daddy's Girl. She
adored her father while he in turn encouraged her to speak up
and think for herself. I sometimes wonder if Mary's father
did her a disservice. Mom
had
a smart mouth and rebelled against the rigid gender roles of the day.
Furthermore, due to her low self-esteem courtesy of her highly
critical mother, Mom had a shaky grasp of office politics. Born of privilege, my mother was headstrong
and outspoken,
especially for that era.
She insisted on doing things her way, an attitude
that understandably rubbed her less-talented male bosses the wrong way.
Mom eventually learned to keep her ideas to herself, but then
she would turn around and still do things her way.
Invariably her boss would catch on and Mom would be shown the door.
Mom was pregnant
three times during her marriage. After giving birth to me,
her next two pregnancies suffered miscarriages. On the
advice of her doctor, Mom had her tubes tied. This
decision would have grave consequences. As we know, the
approval of the birth control pill played a major role in the
sexual liberation of women during the Sixties. Women were
finally free to enjoy spontaneous sex without fear of pregnancy.
In my mother's case, having her tubes tied freed her up to do
the same thing after her 1959 divorce. She wasted no time.
Mom had a lot of sex with a lot of men.
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My mother was quite the gypsy.
During the St. John's Era, 1959 till 1968, Mom wandered endlessly.
She drifted from job to job, home to home, man
to man. Nine years, nine
different jobs, eleven different homes, countless men. My
mother's gypsy ways helps explain why St. John's was so important to
me. St. John's was the
one constant in my life.
There were a lot of
qualities about my mother that I appreciated. She
had a live and let live way about her that suited me just fine.
There was practically no discipline following the divorce. I
was never grounded or punished for anything. I was allowed to
be a law unto myself. From the moment the divorce was final,
she let me do whatever I wanted to do. Since I stayed out of
trouble, Mom thought she was doing a great job. My mother was
never mean to me. Passive aggressive, yes, but as a rule never
openly hostile. Mom was a warm person with a kind spirit.
In particular, I admire her for being extremely open-minded.
She embraced Jews, Blacks, Hispanics, Foreigners and Gays in an era
when that simply wasn't accepted. I give her high marks for
raising me without the prevailing prejudices of the day.
However, Mom
was not cut out to
be a mother. Nurturing was simply not her strength. I
guess somebody forgot to include that skill in her tool kit. Mom's
major fault was that she tended to put her own needs first. Consequently I was forced at an
early age to fend for myself. As I have said, following the divorce I began to raise myself. I never had
a single babysitter; Mom could not afford one.
To cope with her overwhelming loneliness, Mom would leave the
house at night to pursue boyfriends. My mother would be home
four nights out of five Sunday through Thursday. But I rarely
saw her at night on the weekends. Even during the week every now and then she would
say no time for supper, sorry, gotta go, heat up a hot dog. No matter.
I would eat my hot dog, do my homework,
play with Terry, watch TV, read a book in bed, go to sleep. I
was extremely self-reliant for my age. I did my
homework without being told. Depending on where we lived, I got myself to and from school by bike or
bus. Since my mother wasn't big on cooking, I learned to
feed
myself when I was hungry. Oddly enough, I never
had the slightest interest in learning how to cook. Instead I became the master of
the simple meal. I survived on Wheaties, peanut
butter, hot dogs and hard-boiled eggs. Since my best meal of the day came at the St. John's
cafeteria, I learned early on not to be too fussy about food.
Any meal was good enough for me.
My favorite TV show
was The Fugitive. Constantly running from
the law, the Fugitive had to be the loneliest man on
earth. Boy, I could definitely relate! Since we moved
all the time, I never developed a single neighborhood friendship.
Since the rich kids at school showed at best a passing interest in me,
mostly it was me and Terry for nine years. This is how I
became a loner.
I wasn't the only
person who was lonely. Mom could not stand to be without a
man.
Four months
after the divorce, Mom
married some bum named Tom Cook. What was she thinking?
It turned out he had a prison record although Mom didn't learn that
small detail until it was too late. This man was such a total
loser I asked myself over and over what did she see in him. Missing teeth, tattoos, drinking,
smoking, nicotine breath, more than enough
to make me find him repulsive. Tom Cook's idea of helping
to raise me was to teach me to smoke. After gagging and nearly
throwing up, I said no thanks the next time he offered. I remember the time he stole my silver dollar collection to pay for
alcohol. What a prince.
Thanks to
Mom's smart
mouth, Tom took to beating her periodically. Mom learned
to lock the bathroom door to avoid his drunken beatings.
After Tom broke the lock, she switched to crawling into bed with me for protection.
I thought she was coming to me for security, but I was wrong. The real reason she crawled into bed
was so the
dog would protect her. Tom never came near Terry. He
may have been a drunken lout, but he knew better than to take on our
loyal dog.
Tom was the first in a long line of men who made me feel
protective towards my mother. I would see her cry and feel
miserable because these men treated her so poorly. It upset me
no end that I had no way to stick up for her.
Tom lasted
six months.
Tom left thanks to a series of hot
checks he had written. The police did us a real favor by knocking on the door
one night. Tom was out getting drunk, but when Mom told him
about the visit, he turned ghost white. Tom left the next day
and never came back.
Good riddance.
Due largely to my
mother's inability to play office politics, we were always poor. Mom didn't have trouble getting jobs, but she sure had trouble
keeping them. Mom had one very bad
habit, her big mouth.
Unfortunately, the early Sixties were not kind to women who
dared open their mouth on the job. My mother did not take
orders well either. She would often suggest a better way to do
something. Needless to say, that rankled her bosses.
Another trick was to agree with her boss, then do it her way.
Nor did my mother handle criticism very well. She would often
respond with some sarcastic comment. Or she might disagree
with the criticism and argue with her boss. Not surprisingly,
my mother got fired a lot.
I don't recall any of my
mother's
jobs lasting more than a year at a time. Either she got
bored and quit or she wore out her welcome. Sad to say, we
became ridiculously dependent on my father's
$100 a month child support. The hardest times came during
Mom's occasional stretches of unemployment.
I would come home several times a year to discover the electricity had been turned
off. Or sometimes it was the water. The next time it was
the gas or the phone. In a day or two, Mom would receive my father's child
support money
and service would be restored, but now she didn't have
enough money to pay the rent. Sooner or later the landlord
would tire of her excuses and tell her to hit the road.
My mother's inability to
pay her bills explains why we moved all the time.
The worst part
of my childhood was the men. Tom Cook was definitively the
worst. He was a criminal, an alcoholic, a smoker, and a wife beater.
I still can't believe Mom married this guy. However the rest were
not much better. Mom was a bottom-feeder. She found men
who were strays and gave them a home. A month or two later
they were gone, but I was miserable the entire time they stuck
around. With one notable exception, I
detested every single one of
Mom's live-ins.
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10 Years old, fourth grade
guys and dolls at the alley theater
|
A key development took place after
Tom Cook left. Mom
volunteered to help with the Alley Theater production of Guys and Dolls.
She worked as a stage hand handling the
props and odd jobs. Age 10 and a half,
Mom decided I was too young to be left at
home, so she packed me into
the car and took me with her. I would do my homework
backstage, watch the rehearsals for a while, then get sleepy and
fall asleep in a chair. However, the noise kept waking me up,
so I complained. She said go sleep in the car. That
didn't work because I was scared. Mom's next solution
was to bring the dog with us. Poor Terry would be
left behind in the car while we went inside. When I got sleepy, I went to the car. As long as I had Terry with me, I
felt safe enough to fall
asleep in the car.
As I keep saying, where would I be today without Terry?
One night I noticed a
car following close behind as we drove home. Mom said don't
worry about it. It turned out to be some
guy from the play. They went into the bedroom. Stunned
by his presence, I heard
the guy leave a couple hours later. This guy was the first of
Mom's countless one-night stands that I knew
about. Mom must have had a good time. Since pregnancy was not a
concern, she felt free to work her way
through the rest of the cast members. The revolving door of
men
became standard operating procedure during her time at
the theater. I was too young to
understand, but Mom had brought men to our home
since
she couldn't take me to their place. Listening to my mother's
moans of pleasure was uncomfortable to say the least.
After a month of this I
put my foot down.
Sick of
watching Mom spend the night shuffling props and
flirting with her latest conquest, I told
her to just leave me at home. I said Terry could be my
babysitter.
Mom didn't object.
It was win-win for both of us. Now she could go to their place
instead and I no longer had to
listen to Mom moan. Plus she could stay out as long as she
wished and come home at any
hour of the night.
When Mom decided to
volunteer for the next play, I shrugged and
told her to help herself to happiness.
Just don't bring them home with her.
I find it darkly ironic that Mom's Alley Cat
ways began at the Alley Theater.
To this day, I hate any
mention of Guys and Dolls with a purple passion.
|
11 Years old, fifth grade
Athens
bar and grill
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|
Opa! In
the 5th Grade, Mom found a new hangout, the Athens Bar
and Grill down by the Houston Ship Channel.
After the
divorce, Mom wasted no time jumping off the deep end.
Her neglect gave me little choice but to become
self-sufficient starting at age 9. Forced to raise
myself, due to my lack of guidance I grew up twisted and
gnarled. However, I will say one thing. I was
very self-reliant at an early age. I got myself to
school, I did my homework without being asked, I stayed out
of trouble, I fed myself half the time, and I stayed home
alone on Mom's Alley-Cat nights. Except it wasn't the
Alley Theater anymore.
After two seasons,
Mom had fished out the pond at the Alley Theater. Having worked
her way through the entire cast twice, it was time to
switch venues. When I was 11, Mom began to hang out on
weekends at
the Athens Bar and
Grill.
This was Mom's favorite weekend stomping ground for the next year.
See if you can
guess which place I disliked more, the Alley Theater or the
Athens Bar. If you guessed Athens Bar, good job, but
you won't get any credit unless you can figure out why.
I will explain in a moment.
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Located next to ship
channel, the Athens Bar
was a favorite hangout for Greek sailors to let loose during their
brief stay here in Houston. I never saw the place, but from what I
gather, the Athens Bar was a lively nightspot. It featured
good food, good wine, Greek music, plenty of Greek dancing, and an
abundance of other Greek sailors to help liven the night. Although my mother was plain, she didn't seem to have any trouble picking up men. Mom would bring them back to our house
at night, then drive them back in the morning or the following
morning when their ship left.
I hated this period of
my life because every weekend I had put up some new guy living with
us. Where else was Mom going to take them? I complained
bitterly, but Mom didn't care. She liked the arrangement.
She liked the fact that these guys would be shipping out. Here
today, gone tomorrow, make room for another guy next weekend.
After each tryst Mom
would play music from Zorba the
Greek on the phonograph for the entire week. It helped get her in the mood for her next conquest. Mom eventually got tired
of
Europeans so she switched to Americans. After
her Greek Sailor period, Mom dated a black guy named Fred. Fred
lasted about two months. I was in the 6th grade when Mom
switched to Jewish guys. I must have listened to the Exodus
soundtrack
more times than any non-Jewish kid in history. The music
must have
rubbed off. I like Jewish people. I know there's a lot of
hate and prejudice towards them, but Jewish people have always been
extremely nice to
me, including several of my classmates.
One Jewish guy was
Murray the dentist. He was recovering from electroshock
therapy in the mental hospital. Murray was a kind man, very
gentle, but his mind was completely gone. He was so
frail and
helpless that I felt sorry for him. However I did not like
having Murray live with us. Like Fred, he lasted about
two months.
After Murray, Mom
continued her destructive
strategy of dating men with problems. Mom needed to be
in control, so she dated losers. Most of these
men came and went within a month, but some of them like Fred and
Murray needed a home so
they stuck around longer. The worst was Neal, the drunken taxi driver.
I will get to him eventually.
Personally I wish my
mother had stuck to
one-night stands.
I absolutely loathed my
mother's ill-considered attempts to force her men into my life. I
estimate there
were six or seven live-in boyfriends, but there
might have been more. To cope with the intrusion, I
spent a lot of time in my bedroom with Terry doing homework.
With every new man the wall between me and my mother added ten more
bricks.
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|
As I look back, there
were all kinds of aggravations during my childhood. The
constant moves to new homes, the insecurity of being left alone much
of the
time and the occasional loss of electricity were tiresome.
However, nothing compared to having Mom shove
these drifters down my throat. There were
at least 10 men I was forced to live with, probably more. Can you imagine the stress
of having some unwanted stranger come to live in your home? I was
furious. I could forgive Mom for a lot of mistakes, but her
decision to inflict her miserable love life on me was intolerable. I told
Mom I could live
with the one night stands, but please stop letting these jerks live
with us. When it was just Mom, me and the dog, life was
okay. Mom would reply that she was lonely. Sure
enough, Mom would go to a bar, pick
up some guy, and bring him home. Big
mistake. The next thing I
knew, he was living with us. Unbelievable. Without any say-so
in the matter, I was forced to watch with disgust as this revolving
door of losers came and went.
Actors, ex-cons, mental
patients, Greeks, Jews, Blacks,
Hispanics.
That's Mom for you. She was
a veritable United Nations ambassador in her choice of lovers. I told you
she was open-minded. You cannot imagine the
depths of the hostility I feel towards my
mother on this issue, but I think I've gotten my point across.
I complained no end, but Mom told me it was none of my business.
If my mother had just kept her constant need for men
out of sight, my childhood would have been so much easier.
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|
A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER NINE:
BLUE CHRISTMAS
Written by Rick
Archer
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|
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Rick Archer's Note:
I am in my 70's as I write
these stories. I wrack my brains, but for
the life of me, I cannot remember more than a
handful of positive memories about my mother.
I know for a fact that my
mother was a good woman. She did some very
kind things for a lot of people. For
example, when I was in college she married a
Mexican man who had nine children living on the
other side of the border. After he was
shot to death in a bar fight, my mother used her
skills as an immigration specialist to bring
those children over to the United States one at
a time.
However, when it came to
me, Mom had some sort of Blind Spot. I
have never quite figured out what her problem
was.
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|
almost 12, sixth grade,
September 1961
hurricane
Carla
|
1961 was a really bad year for me. It
was even worse for my mother. In fact,
I would have to say it was the darkest I
ever saw her.
In April 1961 Terry disappeared for nearly
three days to chase a female dog in heat.
It was only by luck that I heard the sound
of the dogs barking down the street.
The worry I experienced during those three
days was sheer agony. Convinced Terry
was gone for good, the pain I felt during
his Call of the Wild adventure was
unbearable.
Unfortunately, every time he escaped, I was
terrified I would lose him forever.
Considering his escapes always came on my
mother's watch, I wanted to murder the woman
for the misery she caused me with her
carelessness. The worst part came the
day I no longer believed her when she said it was accident. One is an
incident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern. We were up
to a dozen incidents.
It was bad enough with
those damn Greek sailors she brought home,
but this stuff with Terry was more than I
could bear. I could not believe my
mother would take chances with my dog.
I accused Mom of doing it deliberately, but
she always denied it. Now I didn't
trust her any more.
My mother knew damn
well that dog was the most important thing in the world thing to me, but
she let him out the door anyway and then blamed the dog for running
away. Her excuses infuriated me, but what could I do to stop
her? I
did not have a forgiving nature, so over time the bitterness grew to
the point where I became very cold to my mother. Finally I
came up with a better solution.
Terrified of losing my dog,
I
got in the habit of never letting Terry out
of my sight when my mother was home.
When I went to the restroom, he came with
me. When I went to the bedroom to
study, he came with me. This added
vigilance did the trick. Five months
had passed without another incident.
Mom had a new boyfriend. His name was
Fred. Fred was black, but so what?
I didn't care one way or the other.
Fred made Mom happy and that was all I cared
about. In fact, I liked the guy.
Even better, Fred had a house of his own, so
Mom spent the night over there when the urge
hit. Perfect.
In September
1961, a monster Category 5 hurricane named 'Carla'
was headed our way. I was nearly 12 at the time
and had just started the 6th Grade. Our TV was on non-stop. Together
Mom and I listened to the weatherman's dire
warnings with growing apprehension. As I would come to learn, most hurricane
warnings do not amount to much. I believe more often than not the weatherman
manipulates our fear so we will stay tuned through
the commercials. However, I had a hunch these warnings about Carla were no
hype. Sensing genuine concern in the weatherman's voice, he made me believe this hurricane was
more dangerous than
the rest. The man was right. Carla was the most powerful hurricane to
ever hit Texas. In fact, Carla is considered one of the ten
worst hurricanes in American history.
|
During its approach, the experts labeled
Carla the storm of the century. Get to safety. Heeding
the warnings, my mother decided to take
Terry and myself over to Fred's house ten miles east of our
apartment. His house was near Texas Southern University
in a black section of town.
I was not happy
about her decision. I strongly preferred to ride out the storm at
our own apartment. It may have been run-down, but it was protected from the wind by large
structures on either side. I pointed this out, but Mom disagreed.
She said she did not want to be alone in this
dangerous
storm without a man for protection. I rolled my eyes.
What utter bullshit. Why not tell me the real reason for our visit? However,
I didn't protest. I was scared enough that for once I gave her the benefit
of the doubt.
As predicted, Hurricane Carla was something else. Carla made
landfall near Victoria 120 miles to the southwest of Houston.
Our city was
mercifully spared a direct hit, but we were hit by the
dirty side of the hurricane. That meant lots of rainwater and powerful winds. Carla was quite
a storm. The winds howled and heavy rain pounded
on the roof mercilessly. However, I admit I did feel safe inside
Fred's
house. The storm abated somewhat around 10 pm that night.
The worst was over so I calmed down and decided to take a bath.
|
|
Wouldn't you
know it, Terry realized my mistake. I had forgotten to
bring him in the bathroom with me. Terry
immediately began scratching at the door. This was his signal to go outside,
so Mom
inexplicably opened the door. Sure enough,
Terry took off straight into the swirling darkness. He wanted to explore the
dangerous and exciting climate outside in the
worst way. I had just gotten in the
bath when I heard the screen door slam shut. I froze. I
had a bad feeling about that sound. I jumped out of the tub,
grabbed a towel and raced into the kitchen.
"Where's Terry?!!!!!"
Mom shrugged. "Oh, I let him outside.
He'll be back in a minute."
My eyes grew wide as an overwhelming panic
overwhelmed me. Less than 30 seconds had passed since the
door shut. Without hesitation, I
burst out the door despite the wind and torrential rain. I was drenched in an instant,
but I didn't
care. There I was soaking wet, practically naked, and
screaming like a banshee in the night. "Terry! Where are
you?!? Please come back, please!"
Alternately between
screaming and crying, I stood there
crying my heart out for minutes on end. The torrential rain and
strong wind did not even register on me. I was so terrified of
losing my dog, I paid no heed. Standing there in the dark, I screamed his name over and
over again. I peered vainly into the gloom, but there was no sign of Terry.
Finally I accepted the horrible truth. Knowing my dog like I
did, Terry had no intention of returning until he was good and ready. In his mind, no doubt this was the best adventure
ever! Only Terry could love a hurricane. Even though I had no
clothes or shoes, I would have chased him.
I would have run naked in the rain if I thought that would bring my
dog back to me. That's how much I needed him. But I didn't know which way
Terry went and it was pitch black. There was no way I could
chase him, not at 10 pm with this drenching rain and these dangerous winds
whipping debris in every direction. Realizing that pursuit was
hopeless, I gave up any
hope of finding him and
reluctantly went back in.
My mother was
nowhere to be seen. I suspect she was cowering in
Fred's bedroom knowing full well I wanted to murder her.
Numb with grief, I sat at the kitchen table for ten minutes with nothing on
but the wet towel covering my lap. There was a giant
puddle on the floor caused by my wetness. I was too
miserable to care. Ten minutes passed and I could not
take it anymore. I went back out there and called
Terry's name again for a good five minutes. With the
memory of the pain I felt during the Three-Day Escape, the
entire time I thought to myself, "Terry, please come back to me,
I beg you. Please don't do this to me again."
|
That damn dog! I
was certain that
Terry had planned this. Terry
knew I would chase him to end of the earth, so he waited... that's right, he waited!
Terry deliberately waited
till he had an opportunity to con my mother. Terry
had no respect for my mother. Fat chance of her chasing
him, right? Hell, Terry knew I would have chased him! Damn right,
hurricane or no hurricane, I would have chased Terry to the end of the
earth. But Terry was nowhere to be seen in this windswept
darkness, so finally I gave up my vigil. I went to my room and
buried my face in the pillow. Oh no. Not this
again. Where
in this god-forsaken night was my dog? My heart was numb.
I was paralyzed with the fear of losing my dog forever. How
was Terry going to find his way to Fred's house? He had never
been here before.
With that thought, a fury overtook
me.
Determined to confront my mother, I pounded on her bedroom
door and insisted she come out. When she appeared, Fred was behind
her. That was probably a good thing. Incredulous at what
she had done, I immediately lit into her.
"Mom, Terry is my
dog! Why would you do something like that!?"
I really lost it. I
became angrier at my mother than any time in memory. I
screamed, "Goddamnit, Mom! You have absolutely no
right to let my dog outside without me around!! How many times
have I told you this? Do you not understand that Terry is in danger
of getting hurt or lost!?!"
Those were strong words
from an 11 year old kid. Ordinarily my mother
would have lashed back, but this time she was strangely silent.
I stared at my mother in
total disgust, then realized I wasn't done yet. Full of raw
emotion, I let her have it with both barrels.
"Just
how stupid can you be? I'm sick of this, Mother! We've
been through this too damn many times. Did you even bother to think how
I would feel if Terry doesn't return?"
"Don't worry,
he'll
be back in minute, you'll see."
"Oh, bullshit, Mom!!! You
know damn well Terry took off for good. You were careless and
thoughtless and now I am scared to death I have lost my dog forever!
Do you ever even think? How could you do this me?"
The anger within me was
rising to a dangerous level. Fearful of losing control and
begin crying, I whirled in disgust
and
went to my room. What was wrong with my mother?
She knew the tricks that dog was capable of, so why wasn't she
more careful? This was an unknown neighborhood 10 miles from our apartment
in the middle of an intense hurricane. What if the dog got lost
and couldn't find his way back to Fred's house? Seriously, for an intelligent woman, there had to be a wire loose somewhere!
I am not much
for praying. Although I believe in God, prayer has
never come easily to me. Tonight I prayed. I
prayed all night long for Terry's return. But it was
no use; Terry did not return that night. I did not sleep. I was sick with
terror that I would never see my dog again. I went nearly insane with worry. Every fifteen
minutes I went back outside and called for my dog.
Fred had given me an umbrella, so I stood there
calling for my dog and wailing into the rain. Sick
beyond belief with worry and grief, I
was a pitiful sight. How would my dog ever survive
this wild night?? How would he ever find his way back to
Fred's house in
this strange neighborhood?
The hurricane's force
was finished by morning. The moment there was
light, I began walking around the neighborhood calling for Terry.
The foreboding dark sky was the perfect reflection of my
mood.
I could not believe the devastation. Water was
everywhere. Huge trees had fallen to
the ground. Tree limbs, leaves, and a mountain of debris
covered the landscape.
Many of the streets were flooded
and impassible. Not that it mattered. With the city
still hunkered down, there wasn't a
moving car in sight. I was the only person moving around in this
deserted world. As I feared, Terry was nowhere to be found. Noticing
the nearby bayou was swollen past its banks,
I worried that my dog might have drowned.
Would I ever see
my dog again? Under the dark cloudy
skies, I continued wandering in different directions around the
neighborhood. Hours on end I covered miles and miles without any shred
of luck. I would check back at Fred's house every now and then to see if
Terry had returned in my absence. No luck. Then I would
leave and try looking in a different direction. No
luck.
|
|
My fruitless search had
lasted for 12 hours, 7 am till 7 pm.
It was getting dark now, so I decided to give up. After an entire day of disappointment,
my
heart was heavy with dread. Even if he survived, Terry
had to be lost. My best friend in the
entire world was gone and I doubted I would ever see him
again. Forlorn, grief-stricken, I had
very dark thoughts for my mother. Needless to say, this
incident was typical of my childhood. Terry was my dog!!!
Knowing my dog loved to escape, my mother had no business putting my dog
at risk. All she had to do was wait five
minutes and I
would take Terry outside myself. But no, like a thoughtless idiot,
Mom opened the door and
out he went. Why would she do something so utterly
thoughtless?
When I returned
empty-handed, Mom said it was time to surrender. Since
his escape at 10 pm last night, Terry had been gone for 20 hours.
Mom said there wasn't much point in waiting any longer for his
return, so let's go home. I didn't want to go, but Mom said
that if Terry did show up, Fred would take him in and give us a call.
Fred nodded his assent so reluctantly I
gave up the search.
I noticed my mother was
quiet, shaken, regretful.
I think Mom was just as upset as I was when
Terry failed to return that day. She knew this time she had
gone too far. It was
incomprehensible that she would risk Terry's safety like she did.
Seeing that Mom was
crestfallen, in spite of my fury I stopped chewing her
out. What good would it do? It wouldn't bring my dog
back, would it? I cried softly all the way home.
I did not expect I would ever see Terry again. How would I ever survive this loss?
When we pulled up to our
apartment, I was shocked to see Terry sound asleep on our porch.
This was insane!! Not once this entire day did
it ever occur to me Terry might have come here. Elated at
first, a new fear overcame me when Terry did not look up as Mom pulled in.
What's wrong? Is he hurt? Is he dead?
Panic-stricken, I rolled down the window
and screamed "Terry!!" at the top of my
lungs.
To my relief Terry
lifted his head. It took him a while, but he slowly got up.
Good. I was glad he was sore. Served him right.
That damn dog was totally exhausted from his big adventure. The
moment I got out of the car, Terry came back to life. He
launched himself off the porch into mid-air and I caught him up in my arms.
Terry was not a small dog, so he practically knocked me down.
I didn't care; I was overjoyed that he was safe. It was a
powerful reunion.
|
|
Oh, did I cry. I cried my eyes out. When I finally calmed
down, I took a good look at him. What a mess! Terry was really bedraggled. His hair was matted and tangled
up with an assortment of grass, mud, twigs and leaves stuck in his
thick coat.
Terry was ravenous. As I put his food down,
the joy I felt was indescribable. I couldn't stop crying with
relief. But then I got mad at him too. Through
profuse tears, I chewed him out fiercely for putting me
through that ordeal. "How could you do that to me, you
stupid, terrible dog! You are by far the worst dog on
this planet! Do you hear me?"
I
continued to sob giant crocodile tears with relief as I watched him eat. That damn dog
could not have cared less about the agony he had caused me, so I
yelled at him some more
"You stupid dog! You are the
worst dog ever! I am so mad at you! I'm going to make
you sleep in the yard tonight on the muddy wet grass!! I
hope you are miserable! Plus I have some bad news for
you. This time I've made up my mind for sure.
Tomorrow I'm going to have you fixed. No more running
around for you. Serves you
right!!"
Of course I
didn't mean it. I just had to get it out of my system. After his meal,
it was time for a bath. Terry licked my face to
apologize and I started to cry all over again. Terry
slept in bed with me that night with my arms wrapped tightly
around him. The thought of losing my dog had been the
worst pain I had ever felt in my life.
|
I was almost as
exhausted as Terry. There was no way I was going to school,
but then the TV said all schools were closed. So I took Terry
for a walk instead. I laughed because he was so stiff. I wasn't about to give
that damn dog a single compliment to his face, but privately I was incredulous at Terry's
accomplishment. Our neighbor said Terry had been sleeping there
on
our doorstep all afternoon. I was amazed. After all, our apartment was
ten miles away! Heck, I could not have found this place on my
own, so how did Terry do it? Wasn't I supposed to be smarter
than him? Wrong. I would not have even known which direction to
head. So how did Terry know which
way to go?
It had to be animal instinct. What else could it be? I was
so impressed. Terry had accomplished
something that I could never match. Yes, using a map or asking
for directions, I could have done it. But without help, there was no way I could have found my way home from where we
had spent the night, much less during a hurricane. Ten miles is quite a
distance under the best of conditions, but Terry's journey had taken
place in the dark of night amidst a blinding, drenching
storm. Where did this homing instinct come from? How did he ever find his way
back under those
conditions?
Obviously my dog had powers I had not previously known about.
|
Collies are known for their intelligence. Back
when I cut my eye
out with a knife, for some reason they
bandaged both of my eyes. While I lay there blind in the hospital bed, I
asked Aunt Lynn to continue the book I had been reading, Lassie Come Home.
It was a story about a collie that crossed Scotland
on her own.
A poor family had sold Lassie to a man who took the dog to his farm
a hundred miles away. He proceeded to mistreat the dog badly.
Lassie missed her boy and his family, so she escaped and began
the long journey home.
I cried buckets as Aunt Lynn
read the story. Hearing me cry, poor Lynn didn't know whether to stop or
continue. She tried to stop, but I begged her to keep reading.
I could not bear not to know what happened next. I did not
realize it, but Aunt Lynn was also sobbing
the entire time. She couldn't decide whether her tears were for me or
for that poor lost dog in the book.
At the time, Lassie's story seemed ridiculous
to me.
Good story, but total fantasy. No dog
can possibly travel a hundred miles without getting permanently lost. However,
after what Terry had done, I changed my mind. How my border collie found his way home in
that storm is one of the great mysteries of my childhood.
Terry made me believe every word of that book.
Terry was the smartest dog I have ever known.
There has never been another dog like him. Terry was the main
reason I held on to a spark of decency during the tough times
ahead.
|
|
age 12, sixth grade,
October 1961
mom hits rock bottom
|
Needless to say,
following Terry's hurricane escapade, the frost that existed between
me and my mother now rivaled the Ice Age. I felt a real hatred
towards my mother for putting Terry in danger and causing me so much
anxiety. As usual, we never talked about it. Talking
about problems was not one of my mother's strengths. Nor mine
either. We barely spoke.
Oddly enough, the Carla
incident marked the last time my mother ever let Terry out. I
can only suppose she knew she crossed the line this time. More
than likely, she was just as surprised to see Terry survive the
night as I was and learned her lesson.
Sometime in October, she
and Fred broke up. Mom took it hard.
Sometimes Mom would
be in the bedroom crying uncontrollably. I would stand outside
the door riddled with insecurity. Here I am, 12 years old, 6th Grade.
What am I supposed to do? I had no idea how to console
her nor did I have anyone to turn to. There were no
relatives, no close friends, no neighbors to call for help when Mom
had one of her crying jags. I knew my mother
was a giant mess, but she and my dog Terry were all I had. Consequently I spent much of my
time in constant fear she would go off
the deep end.
Despite
my terrible resentment towards the woman, if I lost Mom, my worst
nightmare was getting stuck with my father. Ironically, that was probably his worst nightmare too!
I had already figured out my father
did not have a nurturing bone in his body, but the worst part
was that witch he had married.
I hated Stepmother with a passion, so the thought of
being placed with the two of them make me sick. I was almost
certain the first thing Stepmother would do was order my father to remove me
from St. John's. Considering my father already
considered my school was a waste of money, that was a given.
Then Jezebel would force me to abandon Terry.
She hated animals. Then she would systematically begin
to poison me.
Seriously
I would have died if I lost Terry, so my only hope was that
my unstable mother would somehow pull through.
No matter how bad things were at home, it doesn't
take much imagination why I strongly preferred to be with my
mother. She wasn't much of a mother, but at least she
cared about me. I had no similar illusions about my
father.
|
|
Like me, my mother was
prone to depression.
All year long something was wrong with her and she couldn't seem
to shake it. To this day, I have no idea why she went off the deep end, but her dark mood just
kept getting worse. I
prayed Mom would find a way to keep it together, but she wasn't inspiring any
sense of security.
One day in October Mom had a breakdown. Mom
couldn't take it anymore. No job, no boyfriend, and
her only child hated her. Once Mom started crying, she
could not stop. Recognizing she was badly out of control,
a real foreboding took
hold of me. It did not help that the world was made gloomy
by a torrential rain.
Suddenly
without warning, my mother jumped off her bed and rushed
from
our apartment without a word. I
was so frightened I was not about to let her leave in
that condition. I told Terry to stay in the apartment, then
left to
tail Mom. I was so worried about my mother it never
occurred to me to fetch an umbrella. I was instantly drenched, but I
wasn't going to let that stop me, not with Mom totally out of control.
As I followed Mom in the rain, I could tell she was deep in
crisis.
Mom walked to the edge of a swollen bayou and stared at the
swirling water for a long time. I hid behind a nearby tree and
watched. I trembled with fear that she was
going jump. If so, I was ready to jump in after her. After
a suspenseful five minutes of debate, she changed her mind. Instead she
threw herself face down in the wet
grass.
|
Covering her face with her hands,
Mom sobbed her head off while I stayed hidden. Her
mind and soul were so wracked with pain, Mom did not care
that she was soaked from head to toe. So
was I for that matter, but I was too paralyzed with fear to
worry about it. What should I do?
Should I go try to comfort her? Or should I continue
to monitor the situation? For fear of embarrassing her, I opted to stay hidden and keep
watching. However, if she moved one step closer to
that dangerous bayou, I was ready to tackle her.
Her crying jag lasted fifteen minutes, but it felt like an
eternity. Finally Mom rose to her feet. Mom was so wet and
muddy she resembled a Swamp Monster. Thankfully she
seemed a little stronger. Still hiding behind the
tree, I was gratified to see her look back towards our apartment.
After a moment of indecision, she walked home. The heavy rainfall
washed most of the mud off her, so she
didn't look quite so gruesome anymore. Once I saw Mom
enter our apartment project, I figured it was safe to assume she was coming home.
I took a different route and sprinted back to beat her.
I was in the shower when I heard the door shut. I
finished quickly because I knew she would want to take her
own shower. By
hiding my wet clothes under the bed, Mom never knew I had
been spying on her. I preferred to let her to keep her
dignity. I know she would not have wanted me to see
how forlorn she was.
Although
my mother's life was in crisis, she never confided in me
what the issues were. Bills, loneliness, self-esteem,
problems finding challenging jobs, problems keeping jobs, you name it. She
was overwhelmed. Whatever she was doing, it wasn't
working. She could not seem to cope. If I had to guess,
the bills were driving her crazy. She was heavily in debt.
I do have one
vivid memory to add. Years later Mom
told me she had once considered suicide. I asked what
changed her mind. Without hesitation, she said the
thought of forcing me to live with my father
was so horrible that she couldn't bear to do that to me. I have to believe she was referring to
this incident. Mom
wasn't much of a mother, but she sure beat the alternative.
Basically my mother had made a complete mess of her life since the
divorce. I alternated between concern for my mother and fury
at her incompetence. I fully admit I grew up twisted and
bitter, but you know what? I had my reasons!
The saddest thing of all is that we both cared about each other, but
were totally unable to express it.
|
|
age 12, sixth grade,
December 1961
BLUE
CHRISTMAS
|
December came and Mom still had not pulled
out of her tailspin.
Since
she did not confide in me, I have to assume
the issues were loneliness and a stack of
unpaid bills. Mom was constantly full
of despair. In
December,
Mom was crying all the time and could not seem
to snap out of it. Despite the fact that I was still
angry at her, I was also worried. Three days before Christmas, Mom made a startling
announcement.
"Get packed, we are driving to Dick and
Lynn's house in Northern Virginia!"
I was instantly alarmed.
Uncle Dick was Mom's brother. In 1959
I spent the summer with Dick and Lynn while my parents finalized their divorce.
They had been incredibly kind to me. As much as I
would love to see them again, a shudder ripped
through me. This was a very bad idea! For one
thing, our ancient car was in terrible condition and Mom knew it. I was not even sure
our broken-down car could make it that far.
I replied,
"Does Uncle Dick know we are coming?"
"No. It's a surprise."
My eyes bulged. I seriously did not want to do this.
It was freezing cold outside and we had the worst car imaginable
for winter driving. It was an unwieldy giant convertible
that resembled a German tank. The canvas roof was hardly going
to be able to keep us warm. Even worse,
the floor board in the back was so rusted out that I could
see the street pavement through the cracks.
The cold air blowing up from below was sure to make us miserable.
I was really scared, so I decided to see if I could talk my
mother out of this.
|
|
"Mom,
our car is in bad shape and it's freezing cold out there. Don't you
want to rethink this?"
"No. My
mind is made up. We are going.
Are you packed yet?"
"Mom,
Christmas is two days away. We will
never make it."
"Yes, we will, but not if you continue
to argue with me. Get packed and
get in the car like I told you."
What a shame I did not have a map available.
This was a trip of 1,350 miles in a beat-up car, no money, and freezing
cold.
"Are you sure about this, Mom? What is so
important?"
"Richard, did you not hear
me the first time? Get packed before I lose my
temper!"
My mother rarely spoke to me in a threatening way, so something was
wrong, something was very wrong. But what could I do about
it? Mom had a look of despair that said she was
determined to take this trip despite the odds
against her. Sick to my stomach, I reluctantly gathered every blanket in the house and
stuffed them into the car.
|
Mom said driving at night was the best way to make good time,
so Terry and I jumped in and we left at 1 am, December 23. Mom had
a choice between going through southern Louisiana or
northern Louisiana. Just our bad luck, she chose the northern route.
We did indeed make good time, but that changed dramatically
at 7 am the next morning. The moment we crossed into
Louisiana we saw snow flurries. In practically no time
at all, the flurries changed to heavy snowfall. The roads were covered
with snow and slush in no time.
At this point I asked an obvious question. "Mom, did
you check the weather before we left?"
"No. This was
a snap decision."
Heavy snow does not fall in Louisiana very often, but we had run smack dab into the worst winter storm
in the past twenty years. A simple weather check would
have revealed this disturbing obstacle, but we still had
time to turn around and head back to Houston. Unfortunately Mom refused to listen.
"Mom, if you won't turn around, will you at least pull
over?"
"No. I don't
want to waste any time. We will barely make it by
Christmas as it is."
I
stared at my mother incredulously. I had never seen
her like this. Mom was in a trance! At this
rate, she was going to kill us both. As the snowfall increased, I
continued to beg my mother to stop and ride out the storm at some
roadside diner. She disagreed.
Mom was determined to
continue, even when the car began to skid badly on the sleet covering the highway.
Fortunately the early morning traffic was very light in this
blizzard, but I was really upset by Mom's increasing inability to
control the car.
Our unwieldy car with its old tires could not hold the road.
We kept weaving back and forth. The car frequently
drifted across the median line for brief moments despite
Mom's best efforts to control the vehicle. The fact that Mom had so little
control over the car scared me to death. This went
on for an hour and I was absolutely terrified. Plus
the visibility was terrible. My eyes ached from
straining to see through the thick snowfall to spot oncoming
traffic. I complained bitterly, but Mom would not
listen to reason.
Finally I couldn't take it anymore.
I was afraid for my life, so I got in the back seat with
Terry. The moment I reached for the seat beat, I
regretted my decision. I had forgotten our front seat
had seat belts, but not the back. Too embarrassed to
crawl back in front, I stayed put. Soon I was freezing
to death from the winter air blowing up through the rusted
floorboard. When I complained, Mom said the heater had stopped working.
The car was colder than a refrigerator icebox. Freezing and
frightened, I
clung hard to Terry and shivered with cold and fear.
Every time the car skidded into the oncoming lane, I wondered if this was how I was
going to die. Or maybe I would die of permafrost.
My mother was taking an enormous risk.
Meanwhile Mom had started to cry. She knew this
was a bad mistake, but she could not force herself to turn
around. I looked at the woman. Poor Mom.
Her face was white with fear. Something had come
over her. Mom had gotten it through
her head that this suicide march was something she had to do. Hypnotized
like a mindless
lemming lurching towards a cliff, Mom was determined to plow forward
no matter what. Mom would not listen to me. She
lacked the presence of mind to stop or turn around while she still
could.
It was about 9 am.
We had been driving in these blizzard conditions for about
two hours. As huge snow drifts accumulated on the side of the road,
the car got harder to control on the ice and slush. Even though
Mom was barely driving 20 miles per hour, one time we
skidded much farther into the next lane than ever before.
Seeing an oncoming truck, my heart stopped at the danger we
were in. Mom was barely
able to get us back in our lane before a giant truck whizzed past us.
The driver beeped at us to signal his anger at
the near collision. This had been a really
close call. God only knows what might happen the next
time. Shouldn't this be warning enough? Surely
this close call was enough to snap my mother out of her
insanity.
"Mom, please stop the car and pull over before it is too late!
This is crazy. You
cannot keep doing this; we will be killed!"
Mom shook her head no. That is when I knew the woman was out of her mind.
Swerving into the other lane every four hundred yards or so, the car was a death
trap in these icy conditions. The only thing that
saved us was the sparse traffic. A few
minutes later, we came to a small town. This was a
perfect chance to stop, so I spoke up again.
"Mom, I beg you to pull over and wait out the storm until the
roads can be cleared! Please do this!"
Mom shook her head again. Nothing doing.
"Mom, what is wrong with you? What is so damn
important that you have to risk our lives? Will you
just talk to me?"
Mom did not say a word. Staring grimly ahead, she just kept driving.
Her life had to be in
serious crisis to take such desperate chances. As she
kept plowing ahead, Mom
was determined to follow her dangerous path even though
it meant
risking our lives. She was completely out of control.
"Mom, look, there's a diner. It's 9:30,
time to eat. Let's get something
to eat. Please??"
Nothing doing. Mom just kept rolling down the highway.
My heart sank as the town disappeared in the distance.
I felt doomed. With the snowfall continuing unmercifully, the icy road was
in the worst condition imaginable. Our worn-out tires could not seem to
grip the road for long. As the car constantly weaved back
and forth on the snowy highway, I experienced more fear than
any 12-year old kid should ever have to face. This was
D-Day fear, this was the fear that death could come at any
moment. I felt
so helpless stuck here with this insane mother.
She was struggling to control this
weaving car, but not having much luck. I was certain we would be killed at any
moment. And then it
happened.
|
|
Our car skidded badly across the
road!
Seeing a giant
oncoming truck, I was certain that death was imminent.
I screamed bloody murder and squeezed my dog to my
chest in terror. Our car had so much momentum
in the wrong direction, there was no
time for Mom to regain control. Instead she just kept driving in a
straight line across the road.
My life
flashed before me as our car passed directly
across the truck's path. It was an
insanely close call. Somehow the truck
missed hitting the back of our car by
inches.
Unable
to stop, our car plowed into a
ditch on the other side of the road. We landed
with a thud. Fortunately,
the thick snow accumulation in the ditch softened the blow of the
crash.
|
Mom's gutsy
move had saved our lives. However, now we
were stuck. The car was face down in a snow drift.
To my great relief, the car was still running.
The car had survived intact. Then came the bad
news. Mom
tried to back out, but there was no traction.
It was hopeless. We were trapped.
Mom broke down
in another one of her miserable crying jags. I
was crying too. I was trembling uncontrollably at our brush with death. I
did not know how we were ever going to get out of
this mess, so I just sat there in quiet
desperation. Thank God I had my dog. I
buried my face in Terry's fur just like I used to when I was a
little boy.
Mom could not
seem to
snap out of it. She just kept sobbing.
However, after ten minutes of crying, she stopped
long enough to tell me I needed to do something.
"Richard, I
want you to get out of the goddamn car and go get us a
tow truck!"
What??
Surely my mother wasn't serious... but she was.
A sick feeling came over me.
|
|
"Mom,
please do not make me do this. I am
twelve years old. I am just a kid. We
are stuck in the middle of nowhere. What
exactly do you
expect me to do?"
"I expect you to
do
what I said! Go
stand on the side of the road and hitch a ride
back
into that town we just passed. Get to a
station and ask a tow truck to bring you back. Terry and I will wait till you return."
Despite my desperation, I half-snickered at
my mother's promise to stay in the car.
As if she had better things to do?
"Mom,
I'm scared. I don't want to go by myself.
Why don't all three of us go?"
"Maybe it's time for you to grow up! Get
out of the car and flag down some help."
"Why
can't all three of us go?"
"Because no one will pick up two people and a
dog. However, they might take pity on a
kid."
I stared at my
mother as if she was out of her mind. That's
when
I realized she WAS out of her mind. Mom
had been out of her mind ever since we left
Houston. I could
not believe my mother was sending me out on my own
like this, but maybe she was right. I couldn't
think of a better solution, so on the spot I decided
to do this. I got out of the car and climbed
out of the ditch onto the road. Then I stuck
out my thumb just like I had seen Richard Kimble do
on The Fugitive.
Mom was
right. A shivering kid on the side of the road in a
blizzard is a pitiful sight, especially since
the car in the ditch screamed emergency. Sure
enough, almost immediately some man saw me standing there and
slowed down. When he pulled over, the man seemed
safe enough, so I accepted his offer for a ride to town. Ten
miles later I was in the nearby town and bringing
back a tow truck. I was filled with relief to
discover this risky move had turned out a lot better than I
expected.
To my amazement, the tow
truck was able to get our heavy tank out of the snow
drift. The truck took us back into town
whereupon Mr. Fontenot, the station manager, checked out the car. There was no damage.
We finally caught a break. However we
were not out of the woods, not by a long
shot. Those tires were no good in
these conditions, so Mr. Fontenot insisted Mom get some snow chains.
After what we had been through, Mom wasn't going to
argue. If
there was any silver lining to the accident, my
mother's trance-like defiance was long gone.
I suppose our
white-knuckle close call had jolted her back
to her senses.
Mom
let Mr. Fontenot put on the snow chains without telling him
she could not pay. She gambled the
manager would be reluctant to take the chains
back off once she told him the truth. You should have seen the look on
his face when Mom
told him she was broke and asked if he would accept
a check.
I was surprised too. I did not realize how
meager our funds were, so I was deeply embarrassed.
Mr. Fontenot had been so nice to me that I cringed when Mom admitted she
did not have the money to pay the
towing fee or purchase the snow chains. This
man had gone to considerable trouble to help us and
I did not like seeing him deceived by my mother's
lack of candor.
Mom told
Mr. Fontenot what little money she had left was for
gas. My eyes widened when she said we didn't
even have money for meals. Maybe that is why
she had refused to stop for breakfast. Then
she added, "But
if you will trust me, I will write you a check.
Once we get to Virginia, my brother will give me
money to cover the check. All you have
to do is wait one week before cashing it."
My
mother had a lot of nerve, but what choice did she
have given the jam she had gotten us in? Well,
actually she did have a choice. She could have
said something first before he put the chains on. Mr.
Fontenot
stared at my mother long and hard. You should
have seen the frown on his face. Mr. Fontenot was
hopping mad. Fortunately, to my
undying relief, Mr. Fontenot eventually nodded and
said okay. The kindness of this stranger
was a true blessing, a Christmas Miracle indeed.
I knew why
Mr. Fontenot
had agreed to help my mother. When the manager
had
first listened to my story, he
asked if I had been scared during the accident.
I told him how I had screamed in terror, then added I was still
shaking.
"And
you hitched here by yourself?" he asked.
When I
nodded, the manager smiled. "I am
very impressed by your courage, young man. I
have a son your age and I cannot imagine asking him to hitch a
ride in a storm like you just did. You took a
real chance, but then I suppose you didn't have much
of a choice."
While
Mr. Fontenot was making up his mind about
Mom's lack of funds, he glanced at me.
It was a covert exchange that suggested he
was asking if he could trust my
mother. Standing behind my mother where she
could not see me, I nodded
imperceptibly. With a faint smile of
acknowledgment, Mr. Fontenot nodded. He turned
to my mother and said okay.
When Mom started to cry at his
gratitude, she excused herself to the restroom.
In her
absence, I took
the chance to thank the manager. "Mr.
Fontenot,
we are in great debt to you. My mother is lost
right now, but she is a good person and I am sure
she will make that check good."
I felt a
little guilty saying that. To be honest,
I wasn't so sure we would even live long enough to make it to
Virginia. However, if we did survive, I imagined Uncle Dick
would help her out. At that, Mr. Fontenot did a
crazy thing. He reached in his pocket, handed
me $20, adding in a husky voice, "Just in case."
When Mom returned, I handed the money to her and
pointed to our benefactor. Mom was so
astonished, she burst into another round of tears
and impulsively hugged the guy. Mr. Fontenot began to smile
at my mother's heartfelt gesture. Personally, I think he
liked doing a good deed. His unexpected
act of kindness meant the world to my mother's
flagging spirits.
The snow chains made a huge difference.
We took it slow and there was no more
weaving. To my undying relief, we
stayed in the correct lane all the way to
Mississippi. That night Mom used some
of that $20 bill to buy a warm meal of
spaghetti at a diner in Vicksburg,
Mississippi, on the state line. I think
that meal tasted better than any meal I have
ever had in my life. Claiming I was
still hungry, I asked for extra spaghetti.
When the waitress wasn't looking, I wrapped
the food in some napkins and hid
it under my coat.
Mom had
enough money left over to get us a room in an inexpensive motel
next door. As I watched Terry gobble down his
spaghetti, I
was so grateful to still be alive. The three of
us slept in the same bed. I was so insecure I
squeezed Terry tight the entire night.
Fortunately, the road conditions were much better in the
morning. The highways had been cleared and the
snowfall was more flurries than anything else.
We no longer had to drive in constant fear for our
lives. After an hour of driving, Mom stopped at a gas station and had
them take the chains off. We were in the clear
after that and started to make good time.
|
|
Since
there was no money left for meals,
Mom drove straight through to McLean,
Virginia, a 900 mile trek in 21 hours. Where
she got her
stamina I will never know. We pulled into Uncle Dick and Aunt Lynn's
neighborhood at 4 am on Christmas Day.
However, to Mom's dismay, her car could not make it
up the steep hill due to the icy street.
She tried and tried, but the car kept sliding back
down. Disgusted, she parked the car and told
me to get out. Carrying our luggage,
the three of us trudged up the snowy hill hoping
the street above was the one we were looking for.
Thankfully, Mom had guessed right.
When we got to
their house, Mom didn't want to wake the family, so I
offered to look around. In the back of the house, I found an unlocked door to
their basement. I walked in and found another
unlocked door that led
to the downstairs den. After summoning Mom and
Terry, we plopped down on a couple of sofas.
The warmth of that room was heavenly. Safe at last.
|
To my surprise, a plump,
friendly dog came waddling down the steps to investigate. The
dog was a Lassie-lookalike who greeted us with her tail wagging.
Her named was Beauty according to her dog collar.
Beauty wasn't much of a watchdog, but she was a great welcoming
committee. As for Terry, it was love at first sight. Beauty
was in love too.
She was so excited to have a
boyfriend, the two of them
immediately began to play in the den. I had to calm
them down before they made a racket and woke
everyone up.
Seeing
how happy the two dogs were, I
rolled my eyes and said a sincere prayer of thanks. I
was not particularly religious in those days, but I had a strong
feeling someone had been watching over us. After what we had
been through, that was the only explanation that made a bit of
sense. I was
so relieved to be here I almost began to cry again.
This had been the worst ordeal of my life. It
was unbelievable to see it turn out well.
|
|
|
Dick and Lynn
never knew we were there till the morning came.
Surprise Surprise! It was Christmas Day and look
who Santa put under the Christmas tree. It had been
Mom's plan all along to throw herself on her brother's mercy. As
Mom hoped, Uncle Dick was incredibly generous to her.
He bailed her out of what had to be a serious financial jam.
In addition, Uncle Dick had some long talks with his sister.
I think those talks did her a world of good. I believe Dick and
Lynn saved my mother's life that Christmas. In
addition to helping her financially, even more important
they restored her will to carry on. I will always
love Dick and Lynn from the bottom of my heart for their
kindness.
We stayed at
Dick and Lynn's house for a week. The entire family
was so incredibly welcoming. I met my cousins Rick,
Dale, Tami, Todd for the first time and slipped effortlessly
into a Big Brother role. To their credit, none of them
seemed to mind that I hijacked their mother for an entire
week at Christmas.
While Uncle Dick was
counseling my mother, Aunt Lynn was doing the same thing for
me. Lynn lavished me with attention. For a
lonely kid like me who was dying to be noticed and
appreciated, it was more than I could handle. I will
be quite frank. I was so vulnerable that I fell deeply in love with Aunt Lynn
that Christmas. This was the first time I understood
what people mean by a mother's touch. Lynn made me feel
special, important. Best of all, she cheered me up.
|
After
the New Year, we drove back to Houston without incident.
However, my mother and I barely spoke on the way home. A wall had
grown between us that would never come down. I
am not a forgiving person. Back
when the car was stuck in the ditch, my mother
had screamed at me it was time I grew up.
So that's exactly what I did. I no longer had
a bit of confidence in my mother. Between her
thoughtlessness to let my dog run free during
Hurricane Carla, her
near-suicide at the swollen bayou, and now this suicidal death march
to Virginia,
things would never be the same between us. Due
to my ever-growing list of resentments, my mother's
authority was gone forever. If she asked me
nicely to do
something, I would invariably cooperate. But
the day had come when my mother could no longer order me to do
something. I
had been forced to grow up much too fast. So the
question is what kept me from going off the deep end.
The answer is
Kindness.
Uncle Dick, Aunt Lynn, Mr. Fontenot. And
William Powell, my English teacher. We will
meet him shortly.
|
RICK ARCHER'S LIST OF
SUSPECTED SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF KINDNESS |
|
004 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Rick's mother loses her mind and
nearly kills them both during the Blue
Christmas ride to Virginia. Fortunately, the kindness of a gas
station manager and Dick and Lynn give Rick's mother a fighting chance to
start over. |
|
003 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Unlucky Break |
1959 |
|
Father's affair leads to Rick's
education at St. John's, the most important lucky break of his life.
However, as time goes by, Rick's social isolation at a rich kid's school
turns him into a moody loner.
Fortunately, due to a series of small kindnesses, Rick will manage to
graduate at least somewhat intact. |
|
002 |
Serious |
Lucky Break
Coincidence |
1955 |
|
A sudden impulse to play arcade game saves Rick and his
father from instant death at the Stock Car accident |
|
001 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1955 |
|
Rick, 5 years
old, cuts his
eye out by foolishly pulling a knife in the wrong direction when his mother
calls out at the worst possible time. By coincidence, Rick's father lost one of his eyes at
the same age.
|
|
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER ten:
silver linings
Written by Rick
Archer
|
|
|
Rick Archer's Note:
"Talent and intelligence will not inoculate
anyone against the caprice of the fates.
Humans have a knack for choosing precisely
the things that are worst for them."
-- J.K. Rowling
So I
ask myself a question. Why is that? Why do
Humans have the knack for making incredibly
stupid mistakes? Finding the answer has
been my lifelong quest.
At age 12 I was far too young to
begin seeing the world from a Supernatural point
of view. However, the day would come when
I would interpret my mother's Hurricane Carla
and Blue Christmas behavior in a much different
light.
My theory of Cosmic
Blindness suggests a person can have their
common sense temporarily removed if Fate
calls for them to make a senseless action.
Who lets an untrustworthy dog out during a
hurricane? Who plunges blindly forward in
a blizzard in a car that cannot be controlled?
In both situations, the extraordinary stupidity
of her actions suggested my mother had lost her
mind. The sad thing is that I assumed she
really was just that stupid. I suppose I could have
accepted the usual explanations for my mother's
inexplicable foolishness except for one thing.
The worst was yet to come.
Not only would my mother
make two more mistakes equally as serious, the day
would come when I too would make a mistake so
utterly baffling that I began to wonder if there
could be another explanation for certain
mystifying mistakes.
|
|
Age 12, sixth grade,
January 1962
heartache
|
Upon my return to
Houston following Blue Christmas, I fell
into serious depression. Given how badly I needed a functioning
mother, imagine the joy I experienced when Aunt Lynn took me under her
wing. She took one look and
realized how frightened I was by my mother's condition.
Lynn proceeded to smother me with attention. I told
her all my problems and she understood. It
was wonderful. This was
the happiest I had felt in ages.
We
stayed at Dick and Lynn's until after the New Year. Then
came the
moment I had been dreading. The moment I got back in the
car with my mother, I was overcome with heartache. I
would miss Aunt Lynn terribly.
Lynn was the kindest, warmest woman I had
ever met. During our
brief time together, I fell head over
heels in love. I
understood more clearly than ever the
importance of a good mother. The
dark side, of course, is the knowledge of
Lynn's maternal superiority made it so much
more difficult to
accept my mother's erratic behavior.
What I
wouldn't give to have Aunt Lynn take my mother's place.
I
hate to be blunt, but the contrast between
Lynn's warmth and my mother's
self-destructive recklessness had placed her maternal mediocrity in a very harsh
light. To be honest, I was never the
same afterwards. I felt like an
escaped prisoner who is caught and forced to
return to his lonely cell.
On my way home to Houston I made a silent
vow. Georgetown University was right across
the Potomac River from McLean in Northern
Virginia. College
was still six years in the future, but there was
no doubt in my mind where I would be headed.
M y interest in Mrs. Ballantyne
increased dramatically following Blue Christmas. Despondent over
leaving Aunt Lynn, the moment I
saw Mrs. Ballantyne again, I wasted no time placing her on
the pedestal next to
Lynn. I needed a hero to give me hope. I yearned for a mother who would help me grow up
the right way, a mother who wouldn't risk killing
me, someone who wouldn't put my dog in danger. I
wanted a mother who would encourage me and
be someone I could trust.
|
Age 12, sixth grade,
1961-1962
Mr. Powell
|
During the 6th Grade, I was bolstered
by the kindness of my St. John's English teacher, Mr.
William Powell.
As my mother became
increasingly unraveled, St. John's was the only thing
keeping me intact. My father was nowhere in sight and
my mother was unstable. Fortunately, into the void
stepped Bill Powell, a very special man. Mr. Powell
could see I was deeply troubled, so he reached out in a
special way.
Mr.
Powell was young, maybe 25. This was his first year
teaching at St. John's. Our friendship developed out
of an unusual project he proposed. Fresh out of
college, Mr. Powell wished to encourage his 6th Grade
students to try creative writing. Early in the school
year, Mr. Powell said if we wrote a 100 page story, he would
type it up for us. As part of our deal, it was our job
to produce 20 pages a month. There were several
students who took him up on the offer, at least a dozen, but
they soon quit. This turned out to be such a difficult
project, only Nancy Paxton and I stayed with it to the
finish line.
|
My book was 'The
Power of Gold'. It was
a gruesome tale about Spanish conquistadors who ravaged helpless
Incan tribes during their ruthless search for gold. The Incas
had built a pyramid, then stored their treasure below
inside an underground cavern. The cavern was converted
into a booby-trapped labyrinth, something you might see in
an Indiana Jones movie. My story turned into a
neverending blood bath. Conquistador after
conquistador plunged to an agonizing death thanks to
disguised pits with bamboo stakes.
Since
I was an angry kid, I took delight in
describing one bloody death scene after another. Mr. Powell
saw past my anger. Well aware I was struggling
at home, he took me under his wing. But he
also played a trick on me. Once he saw I was
serious, he took advantage of my enthusiasm.
Mr. Powell wanted a plot, he wanted
dialogue, he wanted to know what
motivated my characters. Every time I handed
him garbage, he would red-line it and tell me to
write it again... and again... and again.
"Richard, good
writing is re-writing!"
I
was so sick of hearing that I could tear my hair
out! However, I wanted that
book in the worst way, so I persevered for five long months.
|
|
|
Mr. Powell was an excellent teacher, but he also
became my mentor.
He used this
project to teach me how to
write, but also as a way to keep a close eye on me.
Disconsolate over the woes of my troubled mother, I don't know what I would have done without him.
After I submitted
my first 20 pages in mid-October, he handed me back one single page.
It was a typed first page with the title of my book in bold
letters. Below it said 'The Power of Gold written by Richard Archer'.
He had typed this page up specifically to whet my thirst.
"Where's the rest, Mr. Powell?"
He wordlessly handed me back my original hand-written 20
pages with a sea of red ink splashed over every page and
notes in the margins. I
immediately protested, "But, sir, you
promised you would type my story!"
Mr. Powell laughed. "Yes,
I will type your story, but not till it's finished. I expect
you to have a
plot, tell your story in a logical fashion, and develop
characters. These 20 pages are a good start, but you've got a lot of work ahead
of you. Now go back and make the corrections I have
underlined."
With that, Mr. Powell forced me to learn the
value of delayed gratification.
I fantasized constantly about my brilliant ideas (or maybe not so
brilliant) appearing in a neatly
typed book. This project took a
lot of work, but it was wonderful because it gave me something to
keep my mind off my mother's problems. Mr. Powell
had the unique gift of
alternating praise with criticism. Two months
into the book, Mr. Powell threw
a real monkey wrench into my plans.
The meanest thing he ever did was demand I find new ways to
kill off the Conquistadors.
He came up with a new rule that I could not kill the evil
Spaniards in a way that resembled a previous death
scene. I immediately protested. "That isn't
fair! I'm writing this book, so I should have the
right to murder these evil men any way I want."
|
Did I mention
Mr. Powell had a sarcastic streak? "Listen,
Richard, in
order for me to read this story, it is your job to keep me
interested. Right now I am getting a little bored.
Creative writing calls for Creativity, something you
possess, but are too lazy to display. You are going to have surprise me once in a while, do you
understand?
By the way, I have yet to see a single woman mentioned.
Were there no women in the Incan
population? If so, how
exactly did the Incas reproduce? I would be curious to know
the answer."
Oh, did we
argue! I would beseech him, "Mr. Powell, why not let
me keep killing some more Conquistadors the usual way so I
can get this book over
with?"
Mr. Powell refused to back
down. No mercy. He would red-line vast passages with comments
like "No more bamboo pits", "No more falling rocks",
"I am sick of blow darts", and "You already killed a man off with a poisonous snake
back in Chapter Three." Mr. Powell drove me crazy!
But at the same time I saw his point. Mr. Powell wanted me
to be Creative, so I wracked my brains in an attempt to
please him. Desperate for new
ways to kill the Evil Ones, he gave me permission to place an
Incan
Minotaur in the labyrinth to eat people. God
bless Greek Mythology.
I had two weak spots.
The first was
being forced to edit my work. I hadn't bargained for this
rewrite business. However, I really
wanted that book, so I rose to the
challenge. I went back and rewrote several passages till each draft
passed his scrutiny. I didn't realize it at the time, but his
corrections were a test to see if I would stick with it. The other students
did not like being asked to do better, so they quit. I think Mr. Powell was disappointed at how
easily they gave up. However, I was secretly glad they quit.
Now that Nancy and I were the only ones left, I got a lot more attention.
Most of our visits were five minutes after class, but
once in a while Mr. Powell would have Nancy and I drop by
during lunch for longer talks. Sometimes I even
visited his office after school. Mr. Powell's praise meant the world to me. He was literally the only thing keeping me going.
And yet at the same time, Mr. Powell refused to ease up. If
anything, he
made me concentrate even harder.
|
"Richard, let's
talk about dialogue. I want to know what these people are thinking.
Why not let the Conquistadors
discuss how they plan to solve the mystery of the labyrinth? Why not let
the Inca warriors discuss their hatred of the invaders and their fears of
conquest? Find a way to make me care
about the Incas fighting to protect their treasure and their
homeland. Be sure to name your main characters and
definitely give me
a particular hero to root for. Plus I want to know
how the Incas built the pyramid in the first place.
Yes, you can use alien space ships that levitate rocks if
you wish."
In hindsight, I
suppose 100 pages was a very unorthodox teaching method. I have
often wondered why he made such an unusual offer. Mr. Powell was the youngest teacher I ever had, so I suspect this
was his first job out of graduate school. It was my impression
Mr. Powell wanted to be a teacher in the best sense of his
profession. He wanted to inspire, so his typing offer may have been an experiment.
I remember how Mr. Powell was thrilled to have a student who
sincerely wanted to learn how to write a story. By blessed
coincidence,
this was the most attention I had received in ages.
|
|
At this point in my
life, I had a mother who seemed hell-bent on committing suicide and
a father who abandoned me. Thank God this man took a special
interest. Can you imagine how much I appreciated the time Mr.
Powell spent with me? We developed a wonderful rapport.
However
I didn't make it easy for Mr. Powell. Typical me, I argued with him
all the time. He would put
thick red lines through entire paragraphs and say 'delete' or
'edit' or 'rewrite entirely'. I would scream at
seeing 20 pages reduced to 10 with an order to do better. At
this rate, I would have to write 200 pages just to get 100. Angry at being
made to do re-writes, I would complain my hand was getting a painful cramp
from all this do-over writing. Mr. Powell had no sympathy,
much preferring tough love and sarcasm. He would say great writers need to
suffer at an early age because suffering will make them better
writers. Irritated, I would argue my brain hurt from
thinking of new ways to murder people.
Mr. Powell would
laugh mockingly. "That's wonderful! Great misery makes for great chapters.
Find a character to give voice to your suffering. I cannot
wait to relish your pain."
In retaliation, I wrote
a chapter about a conquistador who had his hand cut off and how
badly it throbbed all the time. To his credit, Mr. Powell
actually smiled for a change. "I see you have found a way to
give voice to the pain in your hand. Have you ever considered
learning to type?"
My second weak spot was
my difficulty handling criticism even when it was constructive. We would argue
how to make my story easier to read.
Deep down I agreed with what he was saying, but if there was one glaring flaw in my
nature, I hated being criticized. I objected strenuously over
being forced to make so many corrections. "Mr. Powell, if you wouldn't
find fault with so many things, I would have been done by now.
Why are you making this so hard on me?"
Mr. Powell never gave
in. "Good writing is a lot more complicated than you think.
Right now you are just scratching the surface, so mistakes are
inevitable. Better to break your bad habits now before they
get set in stone."
I was not the
perfectionist Mr. Powell wanted me to be, so I tried his patience
sorely by defending my shortcomings all the time. To his credit, he
tolerated my constant objections to his corrections far more than most
teachers would. I wanted to quit. Oh, how I wanted to
quit. But I was halfway there and could not bear to see my
hard work go up in flames. We were well beyond the halfway point when I finally I figured it out. My
teacher was being hard on me because he sincerely wanted me to improve.
Once that light bulb went on, I never gave him another bit of trouble.
Well, that may be going a little far, but you get the point. Mr.
Powell wasn't easy on me, but he cared about me. That meant
the world.
Unfortunately, I hit a
crisis at Page 80. It was March and I had one month of writing to go.
However my
imagination was tapped out. I had gotten this far and I did
not want to quit, but try as I might, nothing new came to me. Two weeks passed and I could not think
of a
single new way to murder more conquistadors to extend my story to
100 pages.
Stupid me, I had killed off the Minotaur. Now what?
"Mr. Powell, I'm really
stuck. Why don't I stop here and write a summary? Will
that be okay? Why does it have to be 100 pages? If we
stop at 80, that would be fewer pages for you to type!"
Mr. Powell shook his
head. "No deal, buddy. That's not okay. Good writers often get stuck, but
they never give up. You might be a writer someday,
but not if you quit every time you hit a wall. Go back and try
again. You still have two weeks before the deadline."
|
|
Deadline?!?
Was Mr. Powell serious? I could not tell.
Unable to discern whether he was serious or just being sarcastic, I
panicked. Would he really do that to me? I did not have
the courage to take that chance, so I wracked my brains.
I was getting desperate.
Unable to think of a single new way to kill off the bad guys, I
caught a break. I was in the library and I noticed a book about dinosaurs.
That reminded me of a recent adventure
film called Journey to the Center of the
Earth based on a Jules Verne book.
Perfect! I had my
ending. The remaining conquistadors had found the gold hidden in the depths
of the pyramid. Just as they were ready to escape, I had a heroic Incan
warrior lead a T-Rex dinosaur straight to the Spanish. Sadly,
the Incan warrior died too, but his noble sacrifice saved the Gold from
the invaders.
My book wasn't original
and
it wasn't
Hemingway. On the other hand, every sentence had a subject,
verb, and adjectives in proper order. Each word was spelled
correctly. It had a plot and each event logically led to the
next. Mr. Powell had gone far out his way to teach an eager,
receptive boy how to write.
|
As footnote to this
story, someone who knew about my childhood struggles once asked why
I did not turn into a monster.
Considering my anger, loneliness and appalling lack of supervision, it was a
fair question.
The first thing that
came to mind was the memory of Mr. Powell. My teacher had found
a way to persuade a 12 year old boy to write a 100 page story.
Nor did it stop there. When I told him I liked to write, he said I should stay with it. A writer
writes, so if I wanted to be a writer, keep writing.
Mr. Powell added how proud he was. What impressed him the most
was my perseverance. This was quite
a compliment for an attention-starved kid like me. I wasn't just flattered, I was inspired!
Not
surprisingly, I worshipped the ground Mr. Powell walked on. He encouraged me to write
and
took the time to teach me 'how'. This is the kind of effect a gifted teacher can
have on a student. But Mr. Powell went much further than that.
He let me know he respected my effort and was pulling for me to
succeed. That meant so much!
I wasn't a bad kid.
I was just lonely, desperate for attention.
Mr. Powell's
act of kindness meant the world to me. How could I not be
grateful to my school?
By
the way, I still have that book. I
can't read it because it is too embarrassing to revisit my murderous
6th Grade mind. Nevertheless, my book holds a place of honor
as a symbolic reminder
why
my St.
John's education has been the great blessing of my life.
|
|
RICK ARCHER'S LIST OF
SUSPECTED SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF KINDNESS |
|
005 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Not only does a
St. John's teacher inspire Rick to become a writer, Mr. Powell's timely
intervention keeps an attention-starved boy from going off the deep end. |
|
004 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Rick's mother loses her mind and
nearly kills them both during the Blue
Christmas ride to Virginia. Fortunately, the kindness of a gas
station manager and Dick and Lynn give Rick's mother a fighting chance
to start over. |
|
003 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Unlucky Break |
1959 |
|
Father's affair leads to Rick's
education at St. John's, the most important lucky break of his life.
However, as time goes by, Rick's social isolation at a rich kid's school
turns him into a moody loner.
Fortunately, due to a series of small kindnesses, Rick will manage to
graduate at least somewhat intact. |
|
002 |
Serious |
Lucky Break
Coincidence |
1955 |
|
A sudden impulse to play arcade game saves Rick and his father
from instant death at the Stock Car accident |
|
001 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1955 |
|
Rick, 5 years
old, cuts his eye out by foolishly pulling a knife in the wrong
direction when his mother calls out at the worst possible time. By
coincidence, Rick's father lost one of his eyes at the same age.
|
|
|
Age 12, sixth grade,
April 1962
dad drops a bomb
|
The
triumph of having Mr. Powell hand me my
neatly-typed book in a fancy binder was
short-lived. The following week, Mr.
Four Seasons, the man who masqueraded as my
father, decided to make one of his quarterly
appearances. However, something
was wrong. Dad did not take me to
lunch. Instead today he took me over to a
corner in the Commons Room and we sat on a
couch.
The
moment he said, "I have something to tell
you," I stopped breathing. I knew what
was coming next. I had been dreading
this moment. Sure enough, Dad
proceeded to drop the bomb.
"I'm sorry, Richard, but I will no
longer be able to send you to St.
John's."
I was
in shock. "But Dad...."
My
father put up his hand. "Let me
finish.
As you
know, I am no longer obligated
to send you to St. John's. You have a
baby brother now. In addition we
recently purchased a new home. The
expenses of raising a family are exorbitant,
so to avoid going into debt any further this
is a move I have to make. However, I
will make you a promise. With the
money I save, I will open a savings account
in your name. That money will be
waiting for you when you graduate. It
will pay for your college education when the
time comes."
The
promise of college funding was a clever move
on Dad's part, but it was meaningless at the
moment because this school was operating as
my only support system. I
argued, I pleaded, I begged, I cried.
I explained that St. John's was the only
thing keeping me glued together. But
my pleas fell on deaf ears. It was
hopeless. My father refused to budge.
In fact, he cut things short. Dad
looked at his watch. "I'm sorry, son,
but I have to go. I have an important
meeting in ten minutes."
As I
watched him walk out the door, Goodbye St.
John's, Public school here
I come. And then the pain hit. I
ran upstairs to see if Mr. Powell was free.
Thankfully, he was in his office. To
his credit, Mr. Powell sat there listening
quietly as
I cried my heart out. I had told my
father the truth. My teachers really
were the only thing keeping me glued
together. St. John's was special.
I would miss my school.
|
Age 12, sixth grade,
April 1962
silver
lining
|
Following the 6th Grade, my father was no longer legally
obligated to pay my way to St. John's. This looked like
the end of it. My mother called Alan Chidsey,
the Headmaster, to give him the bad news.
To be honest, I don't think she had ever
spoken to him before. My father paid
the bills, not her. As far as SJS was
concerned, I had a mother, but she had been
invisible over the past three years.
Mom avoided St. John's like
the plague. She
knew the school was important to me, but she had as much in
common with those socialite mothers as she did with the King of Siam. As I rack my memory, I cannot recall a single
school activity my mother ever participated in.
The only time I can remember my mother visiting the
school other than to drop me off or pick me up was high
school graduation. So my guess is that Mr. Chidsey had
no idea who he was talking to when she
called.
The real reason
my mother
called Mr. Chidsey was to ask for a recommendation
on
a good public school for me to attend. Since Mom was
used to moving on the sly to avoid paying
back rent, she might as well
target a good public school for our next destination.
|
To my
mother's surprise, Mr. Chidsey said he wasn't sure.
However, would she mind if he checked on that and got
back
to her?
At the time, Mr. Chidsey did not know me from Adam.
I was no more than a name. There were 600 students at SJS; how was he going to keep
track of everyone?
My guess is Mr.
Chidsey was curious enough to check my school record,
so he used this 'get back to you' as an excuse to buy time. Noticing I
had made the Honor Roll for 12 consecutive quarters
stretched over three years, Mr. Chidsey did a double-take.
The thing to understand is that St. John's collected
Academic Gladiators the same way the University of Texas
football team coveted every good football player in the
state. Mr. Chidsey got back on the phone and told my
mother he did not want to lose a good student.
Mr. Chidsey offered a half-scholarship if Mom could pay
the rest.
Surprised by the generous offer, Mom thought it over.
There was no way Mom could afford this, but perhaps her
brother Dick would help. So, without telling me, she called Aunt Lynn
and Uncle Dick. To her surprise, they said they would step up to pay the other half.
Their kindness, of course, was largely due to a Silver
Lining. As I have pointed out, sometimes
Bad Luck turns into Good Luck. The car accident in
Louisiana was the stuff of nightmares. Serious Bad
Luck. On the other hand, while I was falling in
love with Aunt Lynn over Christmas, she became
very fond of me as well. Thanks to our time together, Lynn
understood how important St. John's was to me. Having
spiritually adopted me as her fifth child, Lynn persuaded her
husband to go to bat for me. This was huge.
The 6th Grade had been a very unusual year. At a time
when my mother was in crisis and I was floundering, the
kindness of Mr. Fontenot in Louisiana, Mr. Powell at St.
Johns, plus Uncle Dick and Lynn had made the difference.
Unexpected Kindnesses like these were the reason I made it through my childhood
intact. And don't forget Terry. He helped too.
|
|
RICK ARCHER'S LIST OF
SUSPECTED SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF KINDNESS |
|
006 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1962 |
|
When Rick's father refuses to continue paying for SJS in 6th Grade,
Uncle Dick and Aunt Lynn step forward |
|
005 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Not only does a
St. John's teacher inspire Rick to become a writer, Mr. Powell's timely
intervention keeps an attention-starved boy from going off the deep end. |
|
004 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Rick's mother loses her mind and
nearly kills them both during the Blue
Christmas ride to Virginia. Fortunately, the kindness of a gas
station manager and Dick and Lynn give Rick's mother a fighting chance to
start over. |
|
003 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Unlucky Break |
1959 |
|
Father's affair leads to Rick's
education at St. John's, the most important lucky break of his life.
However, as time goes by, Rick's social isolation at a rich kid's school
turns him into a moody loner.
Fortunately, due to a series of small kindnesses, Rick will manage to
graduate at least somewhat intact. |
|
002 |
Serious |
Lucky Break
Coincidence |
1955 |
|
A sudden impulse to play arcade game saves Rick and his
father from instant death at the Stock Car accident |
|
001 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1955 |
|
Rick, 5 years
old, cuts his
eye out by foolishly pulling a knife in the wrong direction when his mother
calls out at the worst possible time. By coincidence, Rick's father lost one of his eyes at
the same age.
|
|
|
Age 12, summer 1962 prior to
seventh grade
the
bookworm and his dog
|
In her 20008
Commencement Speech at Harvard, noted author J.K. Rowling
revealed her fascination with Greek Mythology.
“I cannot remember if I ever told my parents that I was
studying the classics. I suspect they found out for
the first time on my graduation day. Of all the subjects on
this planet, I think my parents would have been hard-put to
name one less useful than Greek Mythology when it came to
securing the keys of an executive bathroom."
When I read that quote, I grinned. When I was a kid, there
were four things I loved the most... chess, basketball, Terry,
and Greek Mythology. The Iliad and
the Odyssey, bring it on. I could not
get enough of Greek Mythology.
|
Greek Mythology helped me survive the bickering between my parents in the
year leading up to the divorce. As
an only child with no neighborhood
friends and dysfunctional
parents,
I became quite the
bookworm. As coping mechanisms go, thank goodness I
chose a healthy one. I spent a lot of time hiding in my room
at night to escape the tension. With no TV in my
room, I got
hooked on reading. Bad Luck/Good Luck. My
parents' animosity left me traumatized, but my reading
enthusiasm got me into St. John's. Another Silver
Lining, yes?
My favorite stories were about the invincible
Greek warrior Achilles. I reveled in his
Trojan War exploits and anguished over his vulnerable heel.
My favorite Goddess was Athena because she was the smart
one. I liked Odysseus because
his
Trojan Horse deception won the war for Greece.
Reading every book about Greek Mythology I could get my hands
on, I never tired of the many stories.
It was 1962 and summer had started. Age 12, I had just finished the 6th Grade at St. John's.
Thanks to Aunt Lynn and Uncle
Dick,
I was in a very good mood because I had just learned I would
be returning to St. John's. I would not see my chess
buddies till the 7th Grade,
so that left
Terry, basketball, and Greek Mythology as my summer
companions. With a grin I said, "Hey, Terry,
wanna learn to play chess?" Then I changed my mind.
He was so smart he would probably beat me.
|
|
|
I
loved Terry with every ounce of my being. Terry was
such a wonderful dog.
No matter what I did, Terry always wanted to be by my side.
We went everywhere together, including the
neighborhood park where I practiced basketball every
morning.
However, I couldn't play basketball the entire day. I
needed something to read. One hot summer morning in
early June, the Iliad and
the
Odyssey were calling to me. I decided to
visit the
downtown library for a Greek Mythology fix. It wasn't far,
two miles, a
twenty minute bike ride at most. As I got ready, Terry
stared at me expectantly.
"No, Terry, you can't come
with me. It is too dangerous to take you downtown with all that
traffic. You need to stay here."
Terry immediately began to pout. That dog had my
number, so I relented. Since it was the start of
summer, I was in no hurry. So I decided to try an
experiment. I put Terry at the end of a long rope so
he could run along beside my bike. Keep in mind we
were headed DOWNTOWN. Busy streets, many cars, lots of
moving parts to watch out for.
This idea really wasn't very smart, was it? But you
know what, Terry and I were a heck of a team. Terry
listened to me without question. All I had to do was
speak his name sharply and he would freeze. Since
Terry was smartest dog I ever knew, I decided we could pull
this off. So I took a chance. I rode my bike on Bagby, a not so busy one-way street. I took it slow and made sure to keep
Terry between my bike and the sidewalk. However, once we hit the
downtown
skyscrapers, the traffic was too intense.
I got off
my bike and we walked the rest of the way, half a mile. I tied Terry
to an oak tree outside the Library,
then went inside to collect 12 books, the maximum allowed.
Half the books were Greek Mythology, half were Hardy Boys mystery books
and maybe one or two about baseball. Typical boy
stuff. While I was there, I joined the Summer Book Club. I
put the books in my bike basket, collected Terry and off we went.
Since Bagby was a one-way street, on the way home we
switched to Brazos, another one-way street. There was little traffic as
Terry ran alongside my bike.
|
As I
was riding home, a delivery truck passing on
my left
swerved out of its lane and clipped my
left handlebar.
The accident was not my fault. My guess is
the driver didn't see me as he made a right turn. I
was probably in his blind spot. I went flying out of
control. Landing on my right hip, I hit the pavement hard.
The truck was pulling a U-Haul
trailer behind
it. One wheel of the heavy U-Haul went directly over my right ankle, cutting
it to shreds. It was a bad injury that immediately began
bleeding.
In addition to my ankle, my bruised hip was killing me.
Although I was badly hurt, I was more worried about oncoming
traffic. Unable to walk, I had the presence of mind to
crawl on my stomach to the curb. As I writhed in
agony on the edge of the street, Terry came over and stood guard.
Poor dog, he was so worried about me.
I inspected my ankle.
I did not think it was broken, but it
bled heavily and throbbed like crazy. There was no skin left and I
could see the exposed bone. Yuck!
Just then a
kind lady rushed out of her store to say she saw the whole
thing and had called for an ambulance.
Grateful, I gave her my mother's number at
work. Christine, the nice lady, picked up my bike and took it to her store.
While she was inside, she called my mother to meet me here. Soon
Chris
returned with water for me and Terry. Seeing
how scared I was and suffering
with pain, Chris kept me company. As Terry
and I waited for help under the hot Texas sun, she collected my library books which
were strewn all over the street. We did not have long
to wait, ten minutes at most.
|
|
When the ambulance showed up, the
two men who got out were very aggressive.
Without a bit of explanation, they tried to grab me and put me on a cart.
I was lying on my left side on the grass because my right hip hurt too much to
sit
up. From my prone position, I put up my left hand to signal
them to slow down. "Hold on, guys!! Wait a minute! What about
my dog? He's coming with us, right?"
The moment I protested, Terry
heard the strident tone in my voice. He immediately went
on alert. It was
amazing to watch him go into action. Terry possessed a magic
power. I called it 'The Look'. I had seen
it before. Mom had married this lout named Tom Cook
back in the 4th Grade. I couldn't stand the guy and
had a smart mouth. Anytime Tom Cook got provoked and came near me, Terry would
point his nose and stare directly into Tom's eyes. Mind you,
Tom Cook was a tough guy, an ex-con. But when Terry
gave him 'The Look', Tom Cook invariably backed off.
Now the same thing happened here. The moment Terry tensed up due to
the urgency in my voice, the men froze.
Terry was not growling or showing his
teeth, but he intimidated them both with his direct gaze.
It was pretty amazing to see Terry hold his ground.
Seeing the
warning in his eyes, the two men got the message. They practically fell over in their haste to step back.
I smiled grimly. Tears welled up with the realization
my dog would protect me with his
life.
Once they backed away, Terry instinctively took up a position
between those men and me. He was unwilling to let the emergency personnel anywhere near
me from that point on. Meanwhile, I was not about to leave without my dog.
Yes, I was badly hurt and in great pain, but I
wasn't in any immediate danger. I could live with a
broken ankle, but I could not live with a broken heart. I
needed to protect my dog first, foremost, and forever.
From a safe distance, the men asked me to tie up
Terry. Despite my pitiful condition, I was able to laugh
at the absurdity. Here I was
lying on the curb of a hot city street with a badly damaged ankle
and a hip so numb I could
not move. In addition there was
a small puddle of blood collecting on the street from my
injured ankle. Nevertheless these guys were asking
me to help them with
the dog. Sure, guys, I'm gonna hop up and solve
your problem. The thing is, in their mind, Terry was my problem,
not theirs. We had
a stand-off.
Meanwhile my situation had turned into street theater.
Several by-passers had collected to watch the drama. I noticed their fascination with the unusual tension
between a hurt boy, his dog, and two determined men.
Fortunately, I still had my typical defiance to rely on.
But first I needed a stronger position to negotiate from. From my prone position on the ground, I
grimaced and forced myself to sit up
a little.
Now we began to argue.
"Look, mister, I am not going to tie up my dog.
Furthermore I am not leaving without him. Why can't we
just take the dog with us?"
"No way!!
You're gonna have to leave
the dog here, young man."
"Why can't he go with us?"
"We can't put a dog in
our ambulance! There are rules. It's not hygienic. We will lose our job!"
Realizing how serious they were, I
suddenly felt sick in my stomach. "Are you
guys crazy? There is no way I am going to leave my dog behind!!"
The men were frowning and had their arms crossed.
One of them said, "Look, kid, I'm sorry, I know how you feel, but
why don't you leave your dog with that lady?"
Christine offered to take Terry, but I shook my head.
Terry was the original escape artist. There was no way
I would trust her to hold Terry. He would escape, then
have no way of knowing where they took me. Staring at the men, I spoke up as firmly as I could.
"Listen
to me. I
am not leaving my dog behind. That is not going to happen.
Dogs have feelings too. Right now my dog is very
worried about me. If Terry sees me get in your
ambulance and sees you drive away, he will go berserk with
fear for my safety. I am not going to torture him like
that. Furthermore, my dog is a born escape artist.
If he escapes trying to find me and I somehow lose my dog, I will
never forgive myself as long as I live. He's coming
with me or I am staying here till my mother shows up."
It was a speech worthy of Winston Churchill. My
audience clapped and cheered with approval. However,
the two men were unmoved. They meant what they said. They believed their job
depended on getting their way. I was
panic-stricken because I feared they would use force to put me
in the ambulance. Then I realized as long as Terry was
next to me, that wasn't going to happen. So I brought
Terry closer to me and put my arms around him. This reinforced the
message that if I go, he goes too. These men clearly did not understand my
extreme loyalty.
They would have to knock me unconscious before I would leave my dog. This dog was the most
important person in the entire world. Losing
Terry would be
unbearable. I would rather lie here bleeding in the
street till my mother showed up than take any chance of losing my dog.
Terry was my best friend... my only friend... in the whole
world. I had my life wrapped around him.
So, after a pause, I
asked again, "Why
can't we put Terry in the ambulance with us? He won't cause a
problem, I promise."
"It is
against the rules! An ambulance must be kept
clean. We're not going to put a dirty dog in the
vehicle."
I shook my head
in frustration. "I don't see your point. I
crawled on my belly to the curb. Now I am lying here
on the grass. My
dog is no dirtier than I am. If you can take me, why
can't you take him? I'm not leaving without
him, so you guys can go, just go, I don't care. I will lay here
on the ground till my mother comes. And you better not touch me. You will have to fight my dog to get to me."
The two men
looked at each other. There was tacit agreement
that neither man wanted anything to do with my dog, so they
retreated to a safe distance to talk it over. Terry was not
dangerous. I had never seen Terry
bite someone. Nor did he
snap or bark at someone. He had growled once or twice, but
only with good reason like the time Tom Cook raised his hand to strike my mother. So far Terry had not growled at
these men. However, he had that uncanny way of paralyzing them
just by staring. I was
so proud of Terry for guarding me. Terry was the
reincarnation of Old Yeller. No one
would dare touch me if Terry thought I was in danger. Terry would
sacrifice his life to protect me. Well, that made
two of us. Our loyalty went both ways. I was
willing to risk losing my leg to stand up for him.
Well, maybe not 'stand up', bad choice of words
considering
the moment.
But you know what I mean. I was ready to stay here as
long as it took to protect him.
My biggest fear
was I might lose control of the situation. The
pain was so terrible I feared I might pass out. Then
these guys might be able to sneak up from behind, grab
the long rope that was still attached to Terry's collar and
subdue him. The thought of losing
Terry was too much to bear, so
I cracked. No more tough kid; I began crying. Talk about
crocodile tears! I cried my eyes out at the thought of losing
my dog. I pulled Terry to me and buried my face in his fur so the people could not see how
upset I was. I could recover from my
injuries, but not from losing Terry. There had been far too
many times when this dog was the only friend I had in the
world.
Those tears
turned out to be my saving grace. As the
drama mounted, this spot had turned
into quite the spectacle. The onlookers stayed glued to
see how this test of wills was resolved. Seeing the crowd of
pedestrians, cars slowed down to
see what all the fuss was about. Some of the cars
pulled over and people got out to get a better look. I
guess there were at least twenty people watching the
drama unfold. And what
a sight it was, pure Hollywood. A wounded kid lying helplessly on the
ground with his loyal dog defending him from two very large,
very
determined men
acting like insensitive bullies. Just then, a man
in the crowd spoke up for me. He hollered,
"C'mon, you guys, can't you see the kid is crying?
Let the damn dog ride with the kid in the
ambulance!!"
With that,
everyone cheered. Suddenly the
entire throng followed the man's lead and voiced similar
sentiments to the ambulance drivers. I didn't see this coming,
but I was grateful. Seeing that so many people were on my side
helped restore my determination. With the crowd urging them to
do the right thing, one ambulance guy looked at the
other in frustration. But they still wouldn't budge. Now
they threatened to leave me laying
there. That didn't work. Despite my ever-increasing pain, I
barked, "Then go! Just leave! That's fine with me,
I don't care. I am not going to leave my dog!"
This stand-off had gone on for easily ten minutes. I was hurt, crippled and bleeding, but I
remained defiant.
Not that it did me any good. The men would not relent,
but they did not leave either. They knew they could
get in trouble if they left
an injured kid lying
there. Feeling myself weaken, I was increasingly scared they might pull a trick.
Choking back tears, I said,
"You men don't understand!! I would
rather take the chance of losing my leg than lose my dog! This
dog means everything to me!"
The crowd loved
my heroic protest. Seeing how upset I was, the crowd stepped up the
pressure. One guy hollered, "Do the right thing!
Let the boy keep his dog!" Several people agreed. They raised quite a racket and I could see the
men wavering under the sway of public opinion.
Sensing this might be the moment to try again, I said, "Hey guys,
what if I said 'please'? Please, guys, please
let my dog come with me. He's my best friend in the
world. He won't cause you any trouble, I promise."
Well, that did
it. The crowd cheered some more and the men finally relented. When they said
Terry could ride with me in the ambulance to the hospital,
the onlookers roared their approval.
Recognizing their role in helping me get my way, I saw two guys
in the crowd
shake hands to acknowledge their accomplishment. Despite my
pain, I smiled as I watched the two strangers take credit. You know what?
They had a right to take credit. Given how strongly the ambulance drivers held their ground,
I don't know if the men would have backed down without the
heckling. Just then, a couple
people in the crowd said 'Thank you' to the drivers. That helped ease
the tension. To my surprise, now that they were
the good guys, even the ambulance drivers grinned
a little. Good grief. What
a circus.
Now it was time
to get me in the ambulance. First I handed Terry's
rope to Christine. Next I gave Terry a kiss on
the nose and a pat on the head. I reassured him in a soothing voice, "Don't
worry, Terry, I'm okay. These men won't hurt me."
Then I asked the two men to slowly come over one at a time and shake my hand.
I made
a show of smiling at them and thanking them for helping me.
Hearing the changed tone in my voice was how I let Terry know they were on my side now.
Sure enough, Terry got the message and relaxed.
The two men
looked at Terry, then looked at me. One of them asked,
"Is it safe?"
I nodded.
"Terry won't hurt you, I promise."
When it was time to
pick me up, I said in a firm voice,
"Terry, Stay!" Terry was so unbelievably intelligent, he did exactly
what I asked. Terry stood still next to Chris and watched as the men lifted me
onto the stretcher. Once the men had me on the gurney inside the ambulance, I
clapped my hands and said, "Terry, come here!" With that, Terry jumped
in the ambulance and Chris placed the rope inside the
vehicle. The
crowd
roared with approval! They laughed and cheered.
Too much fun! I rolled my eyes. Here I am
practically on my death bed and these people are cheering
for my dog. Or maybe they were cheering for both of us.
They could see why I had stood up for my dog. Now that the
tension was gone, one of men in the crowd shouted out, "Hey,
kid, you've got one heck of a smart dog!"
I grinned and
nodded. Then I publicly thanked the two drivers for helping me.
Both guys were smiling now. This was going to be okay. Now that I was in the ambulance,
Christine came up and placed the library books
she had
collected on the gurney. I was glad to get those books back. In
the drama, I had forgotten all about them. Then Chris grabbed
my hand in an affectionate way and said, "Well, young man, it looks
like you'll be needing these
books this summer. You take care of yourself and that great dog of yours."
I
smiled wanly and thanked her. Then I remembered to ask a
question. "What about my bike?"
"Your
mother is headed over here. She can pick up it
and I will let her know you are going to Jeff Davis
Hospital."
"Thank you,
ma'am. I am really grateful for your help. I will remember what you did for
me."
The ride to
Jefferson Davis Hospital didn't take long. It was only
a mile from my accident. Before entering the
hospital, I asked the men to wheel the gurney over to a shade tree next
to the entrance. They lowered my stretcher to the ground so I
could tie Terry up. Sick with fear
of losing my dog and knowing how worried Terry was, I hugged
him and told him to wait for
my mother. It broke my heart to see him tugging at the rope
trying to follow me into the hospital. The poor dog was so
worried about me. I was his entire world. Terry
had wrapped his life around me. Leaving him hurt like hell, but I made sure not to cry
and raise his anxiety. However, my courage
didn't last very long. Once inside the
hospital, I broke down badly. Separated from my dog, I wasn't
so brave any more. Not at
all. I could not stand the fear of leaving
him out there alone. What if somebody called the
dogcatcher? What if someone let him loose? My worst fear was that Terry would chew through the rope. My helplessness to protect my dog was too much for me to
bear, so I cried profusely.
A tall black
woman named Emma heard me
crying. Emma thought I was in serious pain and came over to
comfort me.
She was surprised to find I was crying for my dog, not my
injury. Between sobs, I begged the
sympathetic E.R. nurse to please give Terry some water and tell him I was okay.
Terry was capable of chewing through rope, so I asked her to
check for bite marks. Emma smiled
and said she would check when she had a moment. When
she said that, I also made her promise to tell my mother where to find
Terry in case I passed out from my considerable pain.
Emma
squeezed my hand and told me not to worry. I cannot
begin to express how grateful I felt towards that nurse.
The kindness of strangers like her and Christine who
phoned my mother made such a difference that
day.
After the nurse left, I laid there in a constant state of worry for
my dog. I hated being so helpless like this. I had no idea whether the nurse had done what I asked. Fortunately,
Emma did indeed go take a look. She came
back ten minutes later and said Terry had water and was doing fine.
She said Terry was a great dog and that he had even let her pet
his head.
|
|
With a
big smile, Emma added, "When I asked
your dog if his name was Terry, he actually licked my
hand! I reassured Terry that you were okay.
Gosh, I think your dog actually understood what I was
saying!"
Choking back tears, I whispered
huskily, "Oh, thank you so much,
ma'am. It is killing me not being near him right now."
Emma took a shine to me and kept me company. "You really love
that dog, don't you? I have never seen a boy care
more for his dog in my life. Don't worry, things are going to be okay.
You're hurt right now, but I know you will heal just
fine. You'll be chasing that dog again in no time."
As the nurse was talking to me, Mom showed up.
Relieved to find that I was relatively okay other than the
pain, Mom reassured
me she had found Terry and
put him in the car for safety. "Don't worry, I locked
the car doors. Terry is safe."
"But what about the heat, Mom? We can't let him
suffer."
"I found a
tree to park
under so the car won't get too hot. Plus I rolled down the
window a bit. Let me speak to the doctor first, then I will drive him home and come back if that's
okay."
That made sense. Our apartment was at most ten
minutes away. "Absolutely, Mom, take Terry home and come back. Don't
worry about me. I have a bum ankle and a bruised hip.
They said they would give me something for the pain once you
arrived. I'll
be okay."
Once Mom
found that I was more worried about the dog than myself, she was incredibly
touched. Now my mother
started crying too. You know what? My
mother wasn't a bad person. She may have been an emotional
cripple, but there is no doubt she loved me. I regret so
much that we constantly butted heads throughout my childhood.
|
Age 12, summer prior to
seventh grade
yet
another silver lining
|
This
story had a happy ending. Nothing was
broken and surgery was unnecessary.
Just lots of bed rest. In addition,
there was a Silver Lining. Because
there was a witness, Christine who had helped
me by the curb, the insurance company
settled quickly. Mom used the
settlement to get out of debt and was
deliriously happy. She even thanked me
for getting hurt which I thought was odd.
Sure, Mom, always glad to take one for the
team.
Terry
and I spent June and most of July in bed
while I recovered. The bad news was
that basketball was out of the question.
The good news was that I had 12 books to
keep me company. In short order, I
read every book under the sun. My
favorite story was reading how Penelope,
wife of Odysseus, waited ten years for him
to come home after the Trojan War. Now
that's loyalty! There were dozens of
suitors vying for the hand of Penelope, so
when Odysseus saw that, he used his bow and
arrow to clean house. I thoroughly
approved. Always pleased to read a
story about an Archer.
|
|
Despite my accident, I was in a very good mood. Thanks
to Uncle Dick and Aunt Lynn, I would be returning to St.
John's. In addition, now that her bills were paid, Mom
wasn't quite so nuts anymore. Even better, she got a
job she liked working for a veterinarian. Meanwhile Terry and I had a fine time together. Since I
could hop on one foot well enough to fetch peanut butter sandwiches,
I wasn't in any danger of starving. Nor was Terry. He got a
big hunk out of every sandwich. That was our deal.
I made sure to put extra peanut butter on Terry's slice just
to torment him. I would laugh as Terry went nuts
twisting his tongue to lick the sticky peanut butter off the roof of his mouth.
After all the times he drove me crazy with his escapes last year, Terry
deserved it.
Terry had a special spot beside me on the bed.
A boy and his dog. As Terry slept contentedly, I read book after book.
In July, Mom was nice enough to drive me to get a fresh
supply of books. I easily won the library's
summer book club reading
contest. It took two months, but my ankle healed just fine. The companionship of
my dog made my suffering bearable. As long as I had Terry
beside me, I would be okay. Peanut butter, Terry, and Greek
Mythology. Hey, that
turned out to be a pretty good summer!
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER eleven:
invisibility
Written by Rick
Archer
|
|
|
Rick Archer's Note:
St. John's was where I
discovered the power of a simple act of
kindness. It seemed like every
year, a different teacher came along at
the right time to straighten me out. Looking back, I now realize my life would have been so much worse without my gifted teachers.
My teachers were the
only reason I did not turn
into a bad kid. I realize that is a strong statement, but I
think it is true. For nine years, my teachers did small
yet incredibly special things to
keep me on the right path. Not once did anyone notice their
quiet contributions to my life. They did
not pitch in for glory, they did it for all the
right reasons.
Last
year it was Bill Powell. This year it was
Ed Curran.
|
|
Age 12, seventh grade,
September 1962
mother and
daughter
|
Following a summer spent
mostly in bed recovering from my ankle injury, I began the 7th Grade
full of optimism. Thanks to the kindness of Aunt Lynn and
Uncle Dick, I had a new lease on life following my father's decision
to stop paying tuition. I marveled at my good fortune.
Dick and Lynn had four children, all of whom attended public school.
And yet they were paying 50% of the SJS tuition so their nephew in
another state could attend an expensive private school. The
sacrifice involved was so immense that this felt like a miracle of
sorts.
On the first day of
school I noticed a new girl in my first period class. She was
warm, quiet, pretty. I wondered who she was. St. John's
was very difficult to gain admission to. A core group of my
classmates had entered SJS in Kindergarten. Most of them
returned automatically every year without fail. However there
were occasional openings if for example someone's father had been
transferred elsewhere to a new job. As a result, there was
invariably one or two openings at the start of each new school year.
The new girl's name was
Katina Ballantyne. She introduced herself the first day since
her locker was right new to mine. Due to the alphabetic
proximity of our last names, we would say good morning to each other
every day for the next six years. One morning I saw Katina get
out of her car along with several brothers and sisters. Then a
woman got out of the car to give Katina and her older brother some
instructions. When I looked to see who Katina's mother was, I
surprised to realize this was the same lady I had been watching for
the past three years in the Commons Room. Aha! I had
finally discovered the identity of the anonymous lady I admired so
much.
The day would come when
Mrs. Ballantyne and Katina would play a key role in my life.
Strangely enough, since mother and daughter had secretly been
objects of interest to me for many years, I found it disconcerting
that out of all the people in my school, these two would be the ones
to change the direction of my life.
|
|
After I met Katina, one
day I asked why her mother was at the school all the time.
Katina told me her family had seven children at the school, more
than any other family. I was astonished. For heaven's
sake, no wonder Mrs.
Ballantyne was at my school all the time!
I immediately
grinned. I had heard of stay-at-home mothers, but never a
live-at-school mother.
"What are their names?"
I asked.
"Michael's the
oldest. He's in the 11th Grade. Dana is in the 8th
Grade. Marina is one year behind me in the 6th Grade.
Christie is in the 4th Grade. George and Lisa are in the
Lower School across the street."
Due my
fascination with their mother, I added
Dana and Marina to my
watch list. Like their mother,
Dana, Katina, and Marina were friendly and warm to everyone.
They were down to earth and thoughtful of
others.
Despite their enormous talent, not one of them
displayed any egotism whatsoever.
Over the years, I went
out of my way to identify the other Ballantyne children as well.
Same thing.
Although I had
no direct interaction with any of the children, from my close
vantage point I could see each of the children
conducted themselves with extreme dignity. They accomplished
extraordinary things and they did it the right way - they earned it.
During my time at St.
John's, the Ballantyne family
was the most famous family in
the whole school. There were many talented individuals, but
no family rivaled the Ballantynes. The Ballantyne
clan was the SJS answer to the
Kennedys.
|
|
|
My admiration for Mrs.
Ballantyne continued to grow. For the past three years, it had
been Mrs. Ballantyne's leadership with the Mother's Guild that
impressed me.
It seemed to me Mrs. Ballantyne was most socially
gifted person I had ever come across.
I liked the way she
laughed and took charge. Now that I had a chance to
see her children in action, my emphasis switched to her role as
mother. Mrs. Ballantyne had the odd habit of patrolling the
hallways. I know this for a fact because I would pass by her
at least two, maybe three times a week on my way to class.
Every now and then I would see her encounter Katina, Marina or Dana
in the hall and briefly say something to them in passing. The
interaction was always marked by warmth and smiles. It was
obvious to me that Mrs. Ballantyne had their complete respect.
The seven Ballantyne
children achieved tremendous
success in
academics, athletics, and leadership.
Each one
was smart and confident.
Each one excelled in one school activity after another.
The Ballantyne
children were always being named
captain of this or prefect of that.
It was my observation that they deserved their accolades. In
my opinion, like their mother, they were born leaders.
In a nutshell, the seven
children were great kids!
They received the respect of their peers because they deserved it. No snobbery, no airs, no pretensions. I never
saw a single incident where a Ballantyne child acted in any way
other than exemplary. I am sure they weren't perfect, but I
never saw any reason that would call my high regard into question.
I feel compelled to state again that my
interest in this family was benign.
Watching dynamic people was something I did because I was
lonely.
I watched them because I wanted to know why the Ballantyne children
were so successful. Maybe I could learn something.
Furthermore I was convinced
my life would be so much easier
if I had a mother like theirs in my corner. If I had to
pick someone to be my mother, it was going to be Aunt Lynn or Mrs.
Ballantyne.
Ultimately my hero
worship was not complicated or difficult to understand. I longed for a strong mother like Mrs. Ballantyne.
Watching her was a wish fulfillment of sorts.
|
Mrs. Ballantyne
gave me the impression she was closely involved
in each
of her children's careers at the school.
Through the grapevine, I would overhear 'Mrs. Ballantyne' stories about how she made sure her sons and daughters lived up
to her high expectations. I would wryly note that if my own
parents had any expectations for me, I certainly wasn't hearing them.
After watching the accomplishments of one Ballantyne child after
another, whatever Mrs. Ballantyne said or did, it worked. Seven children,
seven success stories.
It is important to the story to understand I
never did a single inappropriate thing in
regards to Katina and her mother.
There was absolutely nothing sinister in my
interest. Although I was very drawn to
both mother and daughter, it was due to my
admiration for Mrs. Ballantyne. I made
sure to conduct my observations from a
respectful distance. Same for Katina.
I definitely liked Katina, but refused to
invade her privacy. Although Katina
was friendly to me, always cordial, that was
the extent of it for six years. I was
interested in Katina specifically because I
had singled her mother out as the best
mother at St. John's.
|
The presence of Katina in my
classes offered me a simple vantage point to confirm my theory of her
mother's talent first-hand.
I concluded that Katina was special. She became the major reason
why I felt that Mrs. Ballantyne was a superior mother. Katina always conducted herself with so much poise and grace. There is an old
saying, 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' Katina definitely brought great honor to her parents
and her mother in particular.
A cursory glance at the 1968 yearbook says it all. Katina was
all-conference in field hockey, she was captain of the
volleyball team, she played lead in The Music Man,
she was a Prefect, she was in the choir, and she was editor of
the yearbook. I would venture to say she was the most
respected young lady in our class. Oh, by the way, Katina was an honor student
too.
Despite
all this success, Katina remained level-headed and even-tempered.
I never once saw a streak of meanness or pettiness. There
were no airs or snobbery emanating from this young lady.
Furthermore, as far as I was concerned, every one of Katina's brothers and sisters were the same way - talented,
generous and humble. They never once abused their popularity to get an edge.
Be it the classroom,
the playing field, student politics, or activities, the talent
and leadership of the Ballantyne children permeated through the
school. Whatever they accomplished in the classroom
and on the playing fields, in my book they earned it fair and
square.
It doesn't take a
genius to conclude these seven children had some pretty special
parents. This explains why I admired Katina's mother so
much. I understood what an accomplishment it was to raise
so many gifted, wonderful children.
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|
As I will explain shortly, the 7th Grade was
the year I began to slip into Invisibility.
Since no one ever noticed me, prior to class
or during lunch, I would overhear
conversations between various classmates.
Whenever someone mentioned Katina's mother,
my ears always perked up.
One day I used my
invisibility to overhear Katina talking to a
girlfriend about her mother's iron will.
Katina was almost trembling as she told the
story. There had been a fierce
argument between Mrs. Ballantyne and one of
Katina's sisters concerning a young man the
sister was dating. I think he was at
least six or seven years older and Mrs.
Ballantyne did not approve. In her
opinion the young man was much too old for
her daughter. The daughter,
strong-willed like her mother, completely
disagreed. The ensuing battle led to
considerable thunder and lightning in the
Ballantyne home. From what I gathered,
Mrs. Ballantyne won the argument.
|
Age 13, seventh grade,
1962-1963
underdog
|
The 7th Grade was
the year that I began to feel like an Underdog.
I don't suppose it will come
as a surprise to reveal that I compared myself to Mrs.
Ballantyne's gifted
children all the time. I wanted to be just like the
Ballantyne children.
I wanted to be respected. I
wanted to be admired. I would have traded places with any one of
them in a heartbeat, maybe give The Prince and the Pauper
story an exciting new twist. To a lesser extent, I felt
the same way about a lot of my classmates.
In the nine years I
went to Saint John's, it wasn't the cars, it wasn't the
mansions, or any of the incredible wealth I saw on a daily basis
that got to me. It was watching the Ballantyne children
grow into the finest young adults any parent could ever wish to
have that hurt the worst. I ached to be given the chance
to prove I belonged in the same league as these kids. I
yearned to show them I was just as bright, just as athletic, and
just as decent as they were.
I would have given
anything to be liked and respected like the Ballantynes.
|
For a kid with a struggling
mother, no father, for a kid who felt like he
had a social disease, watching the superiority of the Ballantyne
clan created an envy that was difficult to bear.
Mind you, these
conclusions were drawn from distant observation. I tell
anecdotes throughout my story, but there will not be any
anecdotes about the seven Ballantyne children. Why not?
Am I protecting their reputation? No, not at all.
The reason there
are no stories of the Ballantyne children is simple enough.
Our paths never crossed. Not
once. I did not belong to the social circles
of the Ballantynes or most of my other classmates.
Furthermore, since I barely participated in
any school activities, there was little reason to interact. I didn't play sports.
I didn't sing, I didn't act. Nor did I sing or join
any organizations. The Ballantyne
children and I simply had no reason to interact.
I imagine I was
just as invisible to the Ballantyne children as I was to the
other 220 members of the Upper School.
I was an outsider looking in.
Oddly enough, Katina
was my closest
academic rival. We were both Honor students who traded rank
periodically.
Throughout our SJS careers, Katina was one notch ahead of me or
one notch behind. Since I was so acutely conscious of protecting
my own academic standing, I never took my eye off her progress,
especially once we reached high school.
|
|
|
We were trained
as
classroom gladiators. Like fighting ability in
ancient Sparta, academic performance was worshipped at St. John's.
A major
reason for the school's
exemplary academic record was its skillful use of head-to-head
competition. St. John's students quickly learned to compete or
be weeded out.
In Sparta, the
weakest babies were dumped on the side of the mountain.
There was an interesting parallel at St. John's.
At the start of
every school year, I would note the lowest performing
student in my grade often did not return. Were these
students asked to leave or did they leave of their own free
will? Was their absence a deliberate move to create
space for a stronger candidate such as Katina to take their
place?
I never knew the answer, but
their disappearance made a
strong impression on me. This was an environment where the
toughest survived and the weakest were banished to public
school. Every one of my classmates was brilliant in his or
her own way. We we were encouraged to compete. Using our minds and our willpower, we fought on a daily basis to be the
best and improve our
academic standing.
My competition with Katina
was never acknowledged between the two of us. In fact, I doubt
Katina even cared what my grades were. More than likely, this
preoccupation was completely one-sided. There is a good chance my
existence
was not even on her radar. This is not said to be critical of
Katina, but rather I
was just as invisible to her as I was to everyone else. Our paths simply
didn't intersect. Katina smiled and said hello every morning and
that was the extent of it for six years.
|
That said, I kept a
close tab on
Katina, especially once we reached high school.
I watched her grades
like a hawk.
When test results
were handed out, I made sure to take a peek at Katina's score.
Wouldn't want
Katina to sneak up me, now would I?
Let me say this again. Katina never said nor did a mean
thing to me in my life. My fixation on her had more to do
with her mother's mythical standing in my mind than anything Katina ever did.
Now that we have that clear, Katina became a symbol to me.
She represented everything that I wanted,
but didn't have.
I resented Katina because I believed I had ability
equal to hers, but felt like an underdog because she had so many advantages.
•
Katina had a
dynamic, caring mother. I had a mother who was
a lost soul.
•
Katina had a father. I had a picture of a
father.
•
Katina had a family. I had no one.
•
Katina
had friends. I had acquaintances.
•
Katina had brothers and
sisters to study with at night, to have chats with. I had no one.
•
Katina had a support system to cheer her up if she had a bad day. I
had my dog and my basketball.
How was I supposed to stay ahead of Katina when she
had all those advantages? I developed an envy towards Katina that
troubled me. That envy was extended to all my classmates. I
began to feel like an Underdog. As well I should. I
occupied the lowest rung of 7th Grade social ladder, a dubious
honor that would be renewed every year till graduation.
The weird thing is, every time I tried to fight my way out, something
absolutely terrible happened to knock me back down again.
I resented bitterly the uneven playing field.
Darn it, I believed I had just as much talent as the Ballantyne
kids and every other kid at St John's! Unfortunately,
considering all my disadvantages, the classroom was the only
place where I could prove it. But in sports and the
social arenas, I was a total loser... and we will soon learn
why.
What if? How
would my life change if I had a mother like Mrs. Ballantyne?
It wasn't fair!
Why couldn't I have a mother like Mrs.
Ballantyne?
I often wondered what I could have accomplished if I
had a mother like Mrs. Ballantyne to encourage me. It drove me
crazy realizing how much my own social awkwardness, my feelings of being
inferior, and my lack of
confidence held me back. All that time, I firmly believed with a
parent like Mrs. Ballantyne, I could have overcome those obstacles and
taken my rightful place alongside her illustrious children. If I had a
superior mother like Mrs.
Ballantyne, maybe I could have been a student leader like Katina
instead of the Invisible Kid.
But for all my hopes
and wishes, I never came close.
I had to practically raise myself and I wasn't doing a
very good job of it. My whole life boiled down to me,
myself, and I. Imagine how well I would do if I just had a little
help. Would it be asking too much to have just one parent to
praise me now and then? Yes, these were the dark thoughts and sad fantasies of a lonely,
introverted, troubled boy wrapped inside a thick shell of misery.
My acute envy turned
me very bitter.
|
Age 13, seventh grade,
1962-1963
lord of the
flies
|
Something very distressing happened in the
7th Grade. I would have never believed
it possible, but my favorite teacher Mr.
Powell fell to pieces. It was one of the most upsetting things to ever
happen to me at St. John's. I could tell from the moment I entered
his English class at the start of the year that something
had gone badly wrong in his life. For some reason, he
just wasn't the same man.
This is strictly conjecture, but towards the latter part of the
6th Grade, Mr. Powell had increasing trouble maintaining
discipline in his class. His problem started with his
tendency to give individual attention to the
students. Our classes were not large. Class size
varied from 12 to 16. Mr. Powell
would give us an in-class writing assignment. Some of us took
writing practice seriously, but others could care less. As we worked on
the day's
project in class, Mr. Powell liked to roam from desk to desk and make
comments. The next thing you know, he and the student
would begin discussed some issue. With his back turned, the
other students would take advantage and start to talk to
each other. Mr. Powell would frown, maybe even ask for
silence, but he never quite put his foot
down. Consequently this
problem escalated. Once they saw what they could get away
with, several students would resume whispering the moment he turned
his back. I could hear
them and surely he could too. However, Mr. Powell failed to confront them.
Instead he tried to talk over them. Pretty soon, we had an entire class of smart
alecks.
In nine years, this
was the only time I ever
saw something like this occur. By the time the 7th
Grade rolled around, the problem was even worse. When I saw Mr. Powell raise his voice and holler at
various students to shut up, I could tell something was
badly wrong. After
that, students began to argue and talk back.
This prompted Mr. Powell to become increasingly sarcastic
and tense. This poor man was cracking up before my
very eyes. It tore me to shreds to see my beloved
teacher humiliated like this. His
biggest problem was that he had been too
soft, too eager to please back in the 6th
Grade. Maybe too inexperienced as
well. Once Mr. Powell lost the respect
of my classmates, he was never able to get
it back.
What hurt the most was my rapport with this
kind man in the 6th Grade did not extend to
the 7th Grade. Something had robbed
Mr. Powell of his spirit. He used to
call me 'Buddy' in a friendly way,
but even that changed.
I was confused about an assignment, so I asked a question in
class. I believe Mr. Powell thought I was turning on him just
like the rest. Mr. Powell snapped at me in a harsh
voice. "What's
your problem, Buddy? You have a problem with what
I just told you to do?"
Whoa! What
demon has taken possession of this man? When he saw
the hurt in my eyes, Mr. Powell knew he had overreacted.
But he didn't apologize. He answered my question
curtly, then turned his back. Something had snapped in
this poor man to turn him so cold. I felt very sorry
for him. Mr. Powell knew it was hopeless. He
never returned after
Christmas break.
When we studied
Lord of the Flies the
following school year, I thought about Mr. Powell all the
time. The book suggested we all have a dark streak
barely held in check by respect for the rules. St. John's was the epitome of order and
discipline. Respect for the teacher was so ingrained
the thought of students rebelling like this was
inconceivable. And yet that is exactly what had taken
place. Some of my classmates were unbelievably
hostile. Once Mr. Powell allowed several
students to allow their inner barbarian to surface, he was
never able to regain control. I began to
visualize my teachers as skilled lion tamers. Now that
I knew some of my classmates lacked the self-discipline to
control themselves, I realized there was a real skill to
keeping these teenage hoodlums under control. To tell the
truth, I was angry at them. Their
lack of respect and self-discipline had turned this kind and gentle teacher into
a very bitter man.
Sad to say, something similar was happening
to me. Not in quite so vicious a way,
but more like a decision to ignore me.
As my loneliness increased, I decided I had
to try to do something to get noticed.
So I turned to my favorite teacher for
advice.
|
Age 13, seventh grade,
1962-1963
ed Curran
|
Ed Curran was my favorite all-time teacher. Mr. Curran
had a strong nurturing side. He was the only man at St. John's I ever knew who
ever put his arm around
my shoulders. He did more to help me cope with my problems than any
other person I knew.
I met Mr. Curran in
the 7th Grade. He was my Math teacher. I was first drawn to
Mr. Curran by his outrageous
sense of humor. He was a real character, definitely the
funniest teacher I ever met. Mr. Curran kept us in stitches.
He was responsible for the single most
incredible teaching technique I ever
encountered.
It was time to learn how to divide
fractions. What is the value of 1/4
divided by 1/3? The answer was 3/4,
but we had no idea how to accomplish this.
We were all struggling so Mr. Curran devised
an interesting way of explaining the
solution. To divide fractions, he told
us to invert the fraction and multiply.
Invert? What is that? For some
reason, we weren't getting it. For
dramatic effect, Mr. Curran shook his head
in mock despair. With a smile, he
called us 'misguided simpletons'.
That definitely got our attention.
Elite St. John's students were not used to
being insulted. But we had enough
rapport by now to know he was teasing us.
Then Mr. Curran said our difficulty had
forced him to resort to a drastic teaching
technique known as 'The Deadly Orroz Method'.
When Mr. Curran asked Peter to come up
front, we all
grinned. This was turning out to be a lot better than we
expected. What on earth was our crazy
math teacher up to? Peter was the
smallest boy in class. He was not so sure
about this, but decided to cooperate. Mr. Curran
ratcheted up the suspense by having Peter stand on top of his desk.
Then Mr. Curran climbed up on the desk as well. Now our eyes were
bulging. This looked pretty scary! With both of them
standing up there, Mr. Curran warned us
again this was a very dangerous method. Take my word, we were starting to believe him. So was
his victim. Peter was white as a ghost.
|
|
Mr. Curran asked
Peter a question. "So, Peter, are you brave? Just how brave are you? Are you
willing to risk your life to teach your ignorant classmates how to divide
fractions?"
First we were simpletons. Now we were
ignorant. Did we resent the insults?
No! We LOVED Mr. Curran! We were 13 years old and Mr. Curran
was the master of slapstick humor.
He made us laugh so much he could insult us anytime he wished and we would
think it was the funniest thing a teacher had ever said. And
it usually was. He cracked us up all the time with his quips
and antics. If anything, his put-downs had the desired effect
of heightening our fascination.
Mr. Curran gave Peter a solemn look.
"Are you ready to do this, Peter?"
Peter gulped, then
nodded his permission. In truth, Peter was so scared he
couldn't speak. To everyone's surprise - including Peter - Mr.
Curran reached down, grabbed Peter by the ankles and flipped him
upside down. We gasped. Wow!! Peter was dangling
over the edge of the desk upside down! His shirt came out and
his belly button showed. If Mr. Curran dropped Peter on his
head, he was a dead man. While
red-faced Peter remained dangling upside down by his ankles, Mr.
Curran smiled at the class and calmly said the
correct way to solve fractions is to flip them over. Aha, we
thought, so that's how you do it! Light
bulbs went flashing all over the room.
But Mr. Curran wasn't
done yet. After the laughter and
hilarity subsided, did Mr. Curran put Peter
down? Nope. He was waiting for something... waiting... waiting.
Peter yelled,
"C'mon, Mr. Curran, please put me down!"
"Soon,
Peter, soon. The most important question of all has
been not been asked!!"
|
Worried about the plight
of upside down frantic dangling Peter, we
racked our brains. What could the Question be?? Finally
Nancy Paxton raised her hand. She asked, "Mr. Curran,
why is this called the 'Orroz Method'?"
Mr. Curran smiled
broadly. Someone had finally taken the bait. "Thank you,
Nancy," he said. Mr. Curran promptly asked two
boys to come forward and hold Peter steady while he turned the boy upright.
As Peter gasped with relief,
Mr. Curran said, "You see, my
youthful scholars, when you turn Orroz back up again, he becomes Zorro!!"
There was a huge
collective gasp.
Due to the current TV show, the mythical Zorro was hero to us all. Huge guffaws and
laughter ensued. To thunderous applause, Mr. Curran helped Peter
get down from the desk. From that point on, we called Peter by
his new nickname, 'Orroz'. Peter loved his new-found fame. This
unforgettable moment became his red badge of courage.
How Mr. Curran ever
thought of that stunt, I will never know. There was definite magic to his
madness. The Orroz Method worked like a charm. Any
time I wanted to divide fractions, I flipped Peter-Zorro
upside down in my mind, then multiplied.
|
|
While other St. John's instructors preferred
the no-nonsense approach, Mr. Curran was a
genius for his ability to use humor and
warmth to communicate with us. He
loved to tease and get us all excited, but
the amazing thing is that he never lost
control of his class. Mr. Curran
proved a class can be fun and still be
effective, maybe even more effective due to
the fun. We paid close attention
because we didn't dare miss a single word
our charismatic teacher had to say.
Mr. Curran was a master at combining fun and
learning.
|
Age 13, seventh grade,
1962-1963
the
invisible boy
|
The 7th Grade was
different than before. We were teenagers now and developing an
increased social awareness. I learned that the fathers and
mothers of many of my classmates knew each other. I learned
that families took vacations together. Families met for dinner
at their country club. Then came the toughest realization that
my classmates did things together outside of school. There was
a whole world out there involving St. John's students that I could
not participate in. To some extent Katina played a role here.
It boggled my mind to see how instantly liked she was.
Practically in no time at all Katina was friends with everybody.
Every morning I would come to school
and catch glimpse of Katina as she walked arm in arm with her
sister into the building. At lunch time I would see Katina
chatting happily with all her friends. Then Mrs.
Ballantyne would walk by and I would wonder what I could accomplish if I had
someone like her for a mother. Feeling eclipsed by the continuing brilliance of
Katina and her other
children, I would conclude every viewing with the same wistful
lament, "Why can't I have a mother like that?"
Tormented with
loneliness, I couldn't take
it anymore. In November 1962 I decided to go see Mr. Curran. I had never spoken
to him privately,
but I trusted him. He had been nice to me in class, so maybe
he wouldn't mind if I talked to him about my problems. I
stayed after class one day and complained about how
lonely I was and how few friends I had. Mr. Curran was very
concerned about me and asked a few questions. Once he
understood my situation,
he came up with a pretty good idea. Mr. Curran suggested I
join the Boy Scout troop affiliated with St. John's. Since I
knew several of my 7th Grade classmates were already members, I
decided to give it a try.
As it turned out, Mr.
Curran was a genius. There were seven boys from my class who
were already involved. I finally had a chance to hang out with
these boys outside of school. To my neverending relief, I was quickly
accepted into the group. For the next three months, I had fun
participating in Scout activities. And then one day it all fell
apart.
|
In January 1964 we had a
weekend camping trip deep in the Texas pine forest. They
rented a bus which picked us up at school on Friday afternoon and
took us to the campsite. I wasn't feeling well plus it was freezing cold.
However, I wanted to be with my new friends so badly I decided to go
anyway. Not a good idea. It began raining heavily
the moment we arrived. One degree
colder and we would have had snow. I forgot to
bring a raincoat. I got wet pitching the tent; that was my
downfall right there.
I shared a tent
with two other boys. There was no
let up in the heavy downpour, so we had no
choice but to huddle in our tents. Unfortunately, our tent was
no match for the intense cold.
Since my sleeping bag was of low quality, I could not
seem to get warm. That first night I
shivered constantly. By the time it was Saturday
morning, I was so sick my body ached all over.
Soon I had a fever and was in real pain.
I was scared. I could not remember ever being this
sick and we would not be leaving till Sunday 2 pm.
I wasn't sure I could wait that long.
I was a serious candidate for pneumonia, so thank goodness I caught a break. I heard that Fred, one of my
classmates, wanted to go home. Fred complained
that he did not like the constant rain and cold.
The moment I found out
someone was coming to pick Fred up, I borrowed a boy's raincoat and
braved the heavy downpour to reach Fred's tent. I begged Fred
for a ride home to my apartment. I felt like such a quitter,
but I was afraid that whatever I had was too serious to tough out.
Fred took pity on me and agreed to help.
|
|
As I sat
shivering in my tent, I passed the time trying to figure
out how Fred got word to his parents. This was a
remote location in the middle of nowhere. No phone
poles, no buildings within ten miles. Maybe one of
the scout leaders drove somewhere to call. Another
possibility is that Fred had a portable phone. Did
portable phones exist in 1964? Who knows. I
was too sick to remember to ask.
Two hours later
I was astonished to see an enormous black limousine
drive up the muddy lane to the campsite. It was
the most surreal thing I had ever seen. Out came
a uniformed driver in water boots. Carrying a
giant umbrella, he walked with extreme dignity to fetch Master Fred. Offering a spare pair
of water boots to Master Fred, the driver used the umbrella to
shelter the boy back to the car. Every boy in the
camp peered in astonishment out their tents as Fred navigated pouring rain and deep mud puddles
completely untouched. Once Fred got inside, he stuck
his feet out the car and let the driver pull off his boots. I was
terrified Fred would forget me. I was so scared I
was ready to plunge through the driving rain and deep
mud puddles to get to the car. That's how bad it
was. Fortunately, to my undying
relief Fred said something to the driver, then gestured
to me waiting in a different tent. With that, the driver
dutifully returned to me. After I put on the water
boots, the driver escorted me to the car as well.
I very much appreciated the giant umbrella.
With a huge touch of envy, everyone
realized I was leaving too. They stared in amazement at the spectacle. If I hadn't
been in so much pain, I might have even smiled.
This was a scene straight out of a Richie Rich
comic book.
When I reached the car, Fred told me
to sit in front. Fred explained he did not want to
risk catching whatever I had. I am not
sure if Fred cared how the driver felt about his
command, but I was in no mood to discuss
the issue. I dutifully sat up front. Right now I was barely
hanging on. After giving the driver my address,
I
quickly fell asleep in the delicious warmth of the car.
Sleeping the whole way home,
the driver woke me
up when we got to my apartment. I was so
weak, it took me a few seconds to
get my bearings. However, the moment I
became alert, I groaned. I had made a serious
mistake. Ordinarily I would have asked Fred's
driver to drop me off at one of the really nice homes a
few blocks away like I usually did. I had
previously used this trick one time when a classmate's mother
offered me a ride
home after a birthday party. However I had been so
groggy I forgot to give the driver my fake address. By sleeping the whole trip, I was unable to
catch my mistake and redirect the driver
to an upscale location. Too late now.
Sure enough, Fred was in
shock.
As the limousine idled
in front of my run-down apartment building, Fred's
eyes bulged at the deteriorated condition. Broken
shutters, worn-out steps, peeling paint, crumbling stucco, weeds galore.
Stunned by what he saw, Fred concluded
this must be the ghetto he had read
about. Shaking his
head with incredulity, Fred asked,
"Do you really live
HERE??"
After
reluctantly
admitting the truth, I died a million deaths as a look
of horror
crossed
his face. Fred felt so sorry for me that I instantly hated myself. The driver
also felt sorry for me. Risking his health, he got
out to help
me stagger from the car to the curb. Mumbling
my gratitude to the driver, I noted
Fred's wide-eyed stare of astonishment. I groaned.
How could I have been so stupid? On the other
hand, as weak as I was, dropping me off somewhere else
probably wasn't a very good idea either. Maybe it was just
as well.
In my
condition, it took a monumental effort to climb the
steps. When I finally made it to the top, I
looked back. To my surprise, the limousine was still there.
Fred had
rolled down his window and stuck his head out to get a better look. He was gaping at me in utter
disbelief. It irked me that
Fred was lingering. I believed Fred wanted to make
absolutely sure I was not pulling his leg. He
wanted to be certain I really did live here before driving
away. Despite my pain, I felt a wave of bitterness come over
me. What did Fred expect to see, a horde of bats, rats and
cockroaches scurry out
the front door? I will never forget that moment.
Fred's face was covered with the most profound look of
pity ever directed at me. He gave me a
funny little wave goodbye and then the car took off.
I shook my
head in disgust. Welcome to the Real World, Fred.
Mom
was so alarmed she called the doctor and he visited me at home
later that same afternoon. After a big
shot in the butt, I slept for 24 hours. As a
precaution, Mom held me out of school for a couple days.
When I returned, I got mad when not a single boy from
the scout troop asked
how I was feeling. Not just that, some of them gave me the cold shoulder. It was so obvious
that I was being snubbed. The
timing was unmistakable, so I had a hunch Fred had said something.
Who could blame him? I imagine it was shocking to
discover I lived like a pauper compared to his wealth of
Croesus. I doubt that Fred said
anything to be mean or snobbish. Fred wasn't that kind of guy.
But what was done was done, my secret was out. Up
till now, everyone assumed I was one of those
middle-class sons of a college professor like several
other SJS scholarship students. Nope. Guess
again. Fred had concluded I was from the ghetto.
I was not middle class, I was from the lower class. Who wants
a poor kid as their friend?
Angered by
my treatment, I dropped out of
the Boy Scout troop. Bad move. Now I was
shunned even more. Word spread and I did not
receive a single invitation to a birthday party or
swimming party for the rest of the school year. Nor was I invited to spend
Saturdays with boys at their homes like I had in the
past. Whatever happened to our weekend basketball games?
One boy had his very own basketball court. He
lived close enough that I could ride my bike.
That disappeared too.
Was this really happening or was it my imagination?
As time passed, there was no longer any doubt. I decided the best explanation for my isolation
had to be Fred's whispers.
Due to a
terrible misfortune, I had become invisible. I had disappeared in plain sight and there wasn't a
damn thing I could do about it. To be honest, no
one was outwardly mean to me. Instead they simply
forgot I existed beyond the classroom. Now
that I was no longer included in private social events, I felt
like the boy who watches parties through a window.
Except I didn't even get that close. My only interaction with classmates
took place at lunch. No one minded if I sat next
to
my classmates. I was not disliked, just ignored. Since I was invisible, they had no reason to
be guarded around me. That is how I was able to overhear
my classmates tell stories about
what was going on in their lives.
Last weekend
four
boys met
at the River Oaks Country Club to watch a pro
tennis match. Three boys went to Memorial Country Club
to practice their golf swings. Three girls went shopping at
the mall on Saturday. Someone's father drove six
boys and girls to the beach house in Galveston for a
weekend beach party and sleepover.
Next Sunday there was a big
birthday party at someone's mansion for twenty kids.
Three families were headed to someone's condo in Aspen
for skiing over spring break. One boy looked
forward to a summer trip in
Europe with his family. Another boy was going to summer camp. Another
boy spoke about a cruise trip to Alaska.
Why did I
torture myself like this? If I had a brain, I
would go sit by myself. But it was my nature to
observe. Years ago I had
watched their mothers from afar. Now I was watching
their sons and daughters from afar. I had been reduced to
vicarious participation. I wasn't angry. A
better word would be resigned.
My classmates had their own lives to lead and it
wasn't their job to worry about my wish to be included. Besides,
they had problems of their own,
so why should they worry about my problems too?
But it was frustrating to be unable to find a way to
participate. I
was there, but I wasn't there. I
was no longer part of their world.
Finally I
couldn't take it anymore. Tired of being ignored,
I noticed two boys playing chess at lunch and a third
was watching. They were the middle class
scholarship boys I mentioned. Curious, I went over
to watch. Pretty soon one of them offered to play
me. He was surprised when I won. Before
lunch was over, I had made some new friends. I
would sit with these guys for the next five years.
As for the
rest of my classmates, I felt as
significant as a light fixture.
I accepted I was not worthy of their interest.
I did not know how to tell jokes. I had no funny
stories to relate and no fancy vacations to brag about.
I avoided making the evening social phone calls that
everyone else took for granted. My inability to be part of the gang
intensified my
feelings of inferiority. I
believed I wasn't good enough to be included in the social
lives of my classmates. In countless small ways,
I got
the message that I did not belong at this school.
|
WAS MY INVISIBILITY A SUPERNATURAL EVENT?
|
Mr. Curran's suggestion should have worked.
I was well on my way to being accepted as
one of the gang when I got sick. If I
had the presence of mind to offer the fake
address as I had planned, even in the
condition I was in I am sure I could have
walked the three blocks necessary to get
home. Was this a case of Cosmic
Blindness? Perhaps. On the other
hand, it was tough to be alert considering
how sick I was.
I decided to add this event to my List for
two reasons: Impact and Weirdness. The
Impact was devastating. This was the
year my feelings of inferiority took hold.
However, it was the Weirdness factor that
made the difference. I will explain
further as we go along.
|
RICK ARCHER'S LIST OF
SUSPECTED SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF KINDNESS |
|
007 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1963 |
|
Boy Scout
Debacle. Mr. Curran's suggestion backfires when a serious illness at Boy
Scout camp and Rick's fake address oversight leads to Invisibility at Rick's school |
|
006 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1962 |
|
When Rick's father refuses to continue paying for SJS in 6th Grade,
Uncle Dick and Aunt Lynn step forward |
|
005 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Not only does a
St. John's teacher inspire Rick to become a writer, Mr. Powell's timely
intervention keeps an attention-starved boy from going off the deep end. |
|
004 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Rick's mother loses her mind and
nearly kills them both during the Blue
Christmas ride to Virginia. Fortunately, the kindness of a gas
station manager and Dick and Lynn give Rick's mother a fighting chance to
start over. |
|
003 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Unlucky Break |
1959 |
|
Father's affair leads to Rick's
education at St. John's, the most important lucky break of his life.
However, as time goes by, Rick's social isolation at a rich kid's school
turns him into a moody loner.
Fortunately, due to a series of small kindnesses, Rick will manage to
graduate at least somewhat intact. |
|
002 |
Serious |
Lucky Break
Coincidence |
1955 |
|
A sudden impulse to play arcade game saves Rick and his
father from instant death at the Stock Car accident |
|
001 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1955 |
|
Rick, 5 years
old, cuts his
eye out by foolishly pulling a knife in the wrong direction when his mother
calls out at the worst possible time. By coincidence, Rick's father lost one of his eyes at
the same age.
|
|
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER twelve:
licking my wounds
Written by Rick
Archer
|
|
|
Rick Archer's Note:
Most people take
Coincidence for granted. Not me. I
take each Coincidence very seriously.
There is a famous quote about Coincidence.
"Coincidence is
God’s way of remaining anonymous."
Some say if you replace
the word 'God' with the word 'Karma',
this becomes an Eastern axiom. A similar
quote reads like this:
“Coincidence is
when God works a miracle and chooses to
remain anonymous.”
Having studied Coincidence
practically my entire life, I have come to
associate Coincidence with Fate. I will
speak more on this subject, but for now I will
leave you with my favorite story about
Coincidence.
|
THE
CHURCH CHOIR COINCIDENCES
|
The
strange story you are about to read
appeared in the March 27th, 1950, issue of Life Magazine.
This took place in Beatrice, Nebraska, a small
agricultural community about 450 miles due east of
Denver, Colorado. The
population in 1950 was around 5,000 people.
If you have any doubt as to
its authenticity, visit the Internet and
decide for yourself.
|
|
This story begins with a series of 9 mundane delays
which caused 17 members of the Church Choir to be
late one evening. Since one person in four was
late on any given night, it seemed odd to have 17
different people be late on the same night.
What made this even stranger was that no one was on
time, not even the choir leaders.
|
|
The
First Delay
March 1,
1950, was a
bitterly cold day in windswept Beatrice, Nebraska.
Reverend Walter Klempel knew that the evening's 7:20 pm choir practice would be quite
uncomfortable unless he heated the church ahead of
time.
So that afternoon Reverend Klempel visited West
Side Baptist Church to light the furnace. Reverend Klempel then returned home to change clothes and
have dinner. As usual, he left the door
unlocked
so anyone who wished to come early could come in out
of the cold.
At 7:10
pm that evening, as was his custom, he rose from reading his
Bible to drive to the nearby church five minutes
away. However,
just as he was about to leave, his oldest daughter Marilyn Ruth, 18, cried in dismay when she
discovered her dress was soiled.
Her
mother said not to worry; it would only take a
few minutes to iron another dress.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel and Marilyn Ruth
would be late.
THREE
PEOPLE ARE DELAYED ON THEIR WAY TO CHURCH
|
|
|
|
The Second
Delay
Ladona
Vandegrift, a high school student, did not want to leave until
she finished a nagging geometry problem. This knotty
problem had really gotten under her skin. Ordinarily Ladona was the most punctual member of the choir.
In fact, she was typically early for choir practice.
But not tonight.
Tonight would be the FIRST TIME Ladona had ever been late
for choir practice.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth
plus Ladona
FOUR PEOPLE
ARE DELAYED ON THEIR WAY TO CHURCH
|
|
|
The
Third
Delay
Royena Estes
was ready to leave on time. However, to her
dismay, her car wouldn't start on this cold Nebraska
night. That was odd. It had started just
fine the previous day which was just as cold.
Royena's
sister Sadie suggested they call their neighbor Ladona
Vandegrift for a ride. To their
relief, a phone call revealed the ordinarily reliable Ladona
was still at home. At first they were pleased to
catch her, but then Ladona asked them to
wait. Ladona said she would pick them up when she
solved her
frustrating math
problem. Ladona's geometry issue would make all three
young ladies late.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth, Ladona
plus Royena and Sadie
SIX
PEOPLE ARE DELAYED ON THEIR WAY TO CHURCH
|
|
|
|
|
The Fourth
Delay
Since Mrs. Leonard
Shuster was always among the most prompt of the choir
members, ordinarily
she and her small daughter Susan would have been on
time tonight. However, Mrs. Shuster had received a
last minute phone call from her
mother asking for a favor. This forced Mrs. Shuster to
make an unexpected detour over to her mother's house to help her
mother get ready for a missionary meeting.
The delay
caused Mrs. Shuster and Susan to be late for choir
practice.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth, Ladona, Royena, Sadie,
plus Mrs. Shuster and daughter Susan
EIGHT PEOPLE ARE DELAYED ON THEIR
WAY TO CHURCH
|
|
|
|
The Fifth
Delay
Herbert Kipf was
a lathe operator. He was late because he wanted to
finish writing a letter.
When asked later
why finishing the letter was so important, Kipf replied, "Funny
you should ask. I can't
think why."
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth, Ladona, Royena, Sadie, Mrs. Shuster, daughter Susan
plus Herbert
Kipf
NINE PEOPLE
ARE DELAYED ON THEIR WAY TO CHURCH
|
|
The Sixth
Delay
Machinist Harvey
Ahl got distracted. His wife was away, so he was busy
watching his two boys that evening.
Mr. Ahl was
planning to take the two boys with him to choir practice, but
ended up playing with his sons and lost track of time.
By the time
Harvey Ahl looked at his watch, to his surprise he realized
he was already late.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel and Marilyn Ruth, Ladona, Royena, Sadie, Mrs. Shuster, daughter Susan, Herbert
Kipf plus
Harvey Ahl and two sons
TWELVE
PEOPLE ARE DELAYED ON THEIR WAY TO CHURCH
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The Seventh
Delay
Marilyn Paul was
the choir pianist. As an important member, she planned to arrive half an hour early to
practice her songs for the evening. However,
Marilyn
was feeling tired, so she decided to take
a nap after dinner. Marilyn fell into a deep sleep.
At 7 pm,
Martha Paul, Marilyn's mother, awakened her.
However, Marilyn fell right back to sleep. At 7:15 pm,
Mrs. Paul was annoyed to see Marilyn was still asleep.
This forced her to awaken
her daughter again.
Mrs. Paul was
fit to be tied. As choir director, she was adamant
that everyone be punctual. Now her own daughter
had made them both late.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth, Ladona, Royena, Sadie, Mrs. Shuster, daughter Susan, Herbert
Kipf, Harvey Ahl, his two sons
plus Marilyn Paul and Mrs. Paul
FOURTEEN
PEOPLE ARE DELAYED GOING TO CHURCH
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The Eighth
Delay
Lucille
Jones and Dorothy Wood were best friends in high school.
They were also neighbors who rode together for choir
practice.
Lucille had a
strong reputation for punctuality.
However on this night she had become mesmerized by a
radio program. The 7:00-7:30 pm program of This
is Your Life featured the life story of Edgar Bergen,
the famous ventriloquist and puppeteer. Lucille
simply could not tear herself away from the program
until she knew the complete story.
Meanwhile
Dorothy waited patiently as Lucille stayed glued to her
radio program.
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth, Ladona, Royena, Sadie, Mrs. Shuster, daughter Susan, Herbert
Kipf, Harvey Ahl, his two sons, Marilyn Paul, Mrs. Paul
plus
Lucille Jones and Dorothy
Wood
SIXTEEN
PEOPLE ARE DELAYED ON THEIR WAY TO CHURCH
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The Ninth
Delay
It was a
cold March evening indeed. As the stiff Nebraska
winter breezes stirred the trees outside, stenographer
Joyce Black dreaded facing the cold night air.
Although Ms. Black lived right across the street from the
church, for some reason she could not seem to
force herself to go outside in the cold for the short
walk. Just thinking about the brief
three-minute walk made her shiver.
So Joyce
Black delayed leaving until the last possible moment. She remained in her cozy warm house
until finally her conscience kicked in and told her to
get up and get moving.
When later
asked about it, Joyce Black replied she was feeling "just
plain lazy".
Reverend
Klempel, Mrs. Kempel, Marilyn Ruth, Ladona, Royena, Sadie, Mrs. Shuster, daughter Susan, Herbert
Kipf, Harvey Ahl, his two sons, Marilyn Paul, Mrs. Paul, Lucille
Jones, Dorothy Wood plus Joyce
Black
Nine
separate delays caused SEVENTEEN PEOPLE to be late to
Choir Practice.
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It was really cold that night. Since Joyce
Black lived right across the street, she wanted to
delay leaving till the last minute.
At 7:25 pm,
Joyce finally forced herself to face the cold.
At
the exact
moment Joyce opened her door to cross the street,
the night lit up in fire!!
The
night turned scarlet in a violent burst of flames
and Joyce was knocked off her feet by the shock
wave. From her porch, Joyce stared in
horror as a massive explosion rocked the church.
Joyce
covered her mouth and shook her head in despair. Right before her eyes, the West Side Baptist Church
had turned into a burning inferno.
The
horror was so overwhelming,
Joyce
screamed in fear. Someone
had surely been killed, more likely the entire
church choir. Joyce knew this for a fact.
These people were never late!
As
inspectors would later discover, the entire building
had been
instantly demolished by a gas leak that caught fire. After the supporting
walls were pushed outward, the heavy wooden roof came crashing
straight down.
Joyce Black felt
sick. The combination of the fire and collapsing roof
would have been fatal to anyone inside. There
was no possibility of escape in a blast of this magnitude.
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Choir
practice was scheduled for 7:20 pm. The
church exploded at 7:25 pm.
Any person
who made it to the church on time would surely be dead.
|
Meanwhile...
At the same
moment Joyce Black was staggered by the explosion,
seven different cars
carrying sixteen people were late getting to the church
due to the curious delays.
Every single member of the choir was saved from a
fiery death because they were still on the road.
The powerful
roar of the explosion was so loud that it was heard in
every corner of Beatrice. Each choir member
distinctly heard the loud roar as they drove to
practice. They were deeply
worried because the sound of the blast had come from the
direction of their church. They
understood if it was the West Side Church which had blown up,
then someone
had to be hurt or killed. A couple people were
close enough to witness the event. One woman said she was so shocked
by the explosion she
nearly drove off the road.
One by one, the
choir members arrived at the burning church to
behold the crimson
flames. Shocked and full of fear, it crossed their minds how
fortunate they were to have avoided a fiery
death. Thank goodness they were
spared, but their thoughts quickly turned to their friends
at risk. At this point, they were certain someone
had lost their life in that fire. The only
question was how many.
However, they
need not have feared. Due to a very strange set
of coincidences,
not
one person perished in the flames.
Standing in the parking lot
despite the cold, the choir members huddled together and began to take
count with each new arrival. Once the entire choir
group
arrived, the group was stunned to realize every
single person had been spared.
Goose bumps and a profound sense of awe overwhelmed
each individual. Tears of gratitude poured out.
As their nerves slowly recovered, the members of the choir
began to compare stories. It became apparent
that each reason for lateness was quite ordinary and
completely unconnected. When viewed separately, these
various delays were unremarkable.
Yet when each
reason was laid side by side with the other reasons, a strange hush
came over the group. They were in awe as they
calculated the enormity of this series of delays.
Someone estimated the odds. Typically one person in
four was late on any given night. To have 17 different
people be late on the same night had to be at least one in a
million. Or maybe one in a billion. No one had
any idea how to calculate the likelihood. All they
knew was this was an unbelievable event. Everyone in the group was
convinced these weird delays had been "an Act of God."
“Coincidence is
when God works a miracle and chooses to
remain anonymous.”
Or so they say. I will return to
this subject frequently and let you draw your own
conclusion.
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Age 13, second half of seventh grade,
spring 1963
the touch
football game
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The Boy
Scout debacle was devastating because it made me feel
like I did not belong at St. John's. I had never
felt that way before. Now that
I had judged myself inferior, how was I supposed to combat
that? I was a loner by
nature and now I was a loner by circumstance. To avoid
further embarrassment, I kept to myself
outside of class.
This self-imposed alienation prevented me from acquiring the
various secrets of popularity. I never discovered
a way to become interesting. I never realized the
benefits that come from learning to listen. I had
no idea that offering sympathy, encouragement, and
compliments was a way to establish rapport. I never told a story,
I never cracked a joke.
I never acquired the knack of showing interest in other
people or how to start a conversation. I avoided the
telephone like the plague. If this dangerous trend
were allowed to continue,
my social skills would remain in arrested development.
Let me add I was self-centered to a fault. It
never dawned on me that my classmates might be pretty nice if
I gave them a chance. Truly, if I was lonely, a
lot of it was my own fault. I simply lacked the confidence
or the skills to make friends.
The only
place where I felt any pride was
academics, but even here I felt handicapped.
I was competing with the smartest children in
the city. These students were not only
brilliant, they had every
advantage anyone could ask for. It became crystal clear to me that I was a huge underdog
at this school in every possible way.
The rainy Boy Scout campout became the beginning of 'me against the world'. However, I
did have one advantage. As my
bitterness grew, I became
determined to prove to myself that I was their equal.
Someday I wanted my classmates to accept me.
Unfortunately, to do that, first I had to find a way to
overcome all these problems.
Mr. Curran was
sympathetic when I explained how his Boy Scout suggestion had
failed. He even agreed with me that I was being ignored.
He had noticed a distinct cold shoulder towards me from several boys
during English class. Mr. Curran said I should not give up.
Don't let the behavior of two or three boys get under my skin so
easily. Unfortunately at the moment all the fight had been
knocked out of me. I decided it was easier to return to my
Loner ways for the time being.
Although the
first half of the 7th Grade had turned out miserably, my fortunes at
home had improved.
It started when the truck trailer ran over my ankle. Once the
insurance money cleared Mom's sizeable debt, she turned into a
different person. My mother got a new job in the famous
Houston medical
center. She liked her boss. He was a doctor over at
Baylor medical school who was so busy he could not see straight.
Once he realized how smart my mother was, he was comfortable letting
her run the office her way. He also paid her well. Mom used the extra money to move us to a nice
apartment in the Montrose area. I was excited to live here.
Located two miles from St. John's, this was easy
riding distance on my bike. Out of eleven different homes
during my nine years at St. John's,
the apartment on Hawthorne was my overwhelming favorite. In
addition to new home and new job, Mom found a new boyfriend.
His name was Miguel Rodriguez. As usual I was not consulted
when Miguel came to live with us. However, once I discovered
that Miguel was a kind, very gentle man, I withdrew my protest.
However, he and I did not talk much. Miguel, a carpenter by
trade, was here illegally from Mexico and could barely speak a word
of English. Mom had a lot of fun teaching him English by
watching TV and translating. Miguel would live with us for a
year and a half. This became the happiest time ever for my
mother during the St. John's years. I might add it made my
problems fitting in at St. John's a lot more bearable.
In the spring, one Sunday afternoon something weird
happened in my neighborhood. Terry and I were taking a walk.
Tree-lined Lanier Junior High was
situated right across the street. This was Terry's favorite place to
visit. I was 13 at the time. On a whim, I decided to circle
to the back side of Lanier. To my surprise, there was a huge touch football game being played on
the football practice field. I did an immediate double-take.
I had never seen anything like this before. There were easily a
hundred people there, almost all men. They were making quite a
spectacle with their raucous cheering.
Mesmerized, I stopped to watch them play. I
soon became confused.
Something was wrong, but I couldn't
figure out what it was. While Terry wandered around
sniffing every patch of grass in sight, I played a game called 'What's Wrong with this Picture?' For one thing, the
players moved very awkwardly. Their motions were stiff, not at
all fluid. Since they didn't move like athletes, I had the impression some of them had never
played football in their lives. Another odd thing was they
were playing 5 on 5. Why would 100 people come out on a Sunday
afternoon to watch 10 spastic guys play touch football? Furthermore, their demeanor was
strange. For lack of a better word, these grown men were 'silly'. I noted that every time
the ball carrier was down by touch, every player on the field would pile
on top and scream with delight. Usually a couple of nearby
spectators would run out on the field and jump on top for good
measure. The sight of a giant human
pyramid with 15 or so bodies writhing in happy ecstasy was nothing I had ever seen before. With their hysterical squeals of laughter, they sounded more like girls
than men.
Speaking of girls, I
wondered why there were hardly any women other than the
cheerleaders. I
also noticed the crowd went wild at the end of every play no matter
what happened. Can you imagine screaming at the top of your
lungs for an incomplete
pass? These men did. They would hug each other and jump
up and down. This scene was totally weird. I had never
seen men scream quite like this. I noticed there was a lot of
drinking going on. Maybe they were all drunk. Whatever
the reason, this football game was beyond weird.
There was something strange about the
female cheerleaders. Waving their pom-poms furiously, they
were definitely the
most enthusiastic cheerleaders I had ever seen. However, even from a
distance I could tell they were
really ugly. Big! Husky! What was wrong with these
women? I can't say I felt threatened, but I didn't feel safe
either. After all, I was outnumbered 100 to one. Ill at ease, I refused to budge from my vantage point
50 yards away. However, I wanted a better look
at those weird cheerleaders, so I bravely moved a little closer. I freaked out when I saw
hairy legs! Hairy legs?? What kind of women are these?
I couldn't believe my own eyes. In fact, if I didn't know
better, um... yup, sure enough, those cheerleaders looked like men wearing
wigs. What is going on here? Now that I was closer, I
could also understand the words to their raucous cheers.
"Hi ho, hi ho,
c'mon, let's go! Hit 'em hi, hit 'em low, C'mon
fairies, hit 'em in the cherries!"
Now I was really confused. What
kind of cheer was that? About this time, a tall, rather slender girl left
the crowd and came over
to talk to me. She was really pretty and I smiled as she
approached. At age 13, girls were on my mind a lot these days.
Terry looked up and saw her coming. On cue, Terry trotted back to
check her out.
To my surprise, my border collie growled protectively. I was stunned.
I had never heard my dog growl at a stranger before. That was
so weird!
Understandably, Terry's warning stopped the
girl cold in her tracks. I told her not to worry, Terry had never
bitten anyone. She wasn't convinced so I put my hand on Terry's
head.
Terry calmed down, but decided not to leave my side. That
was unusual. Why was he protecting me? And from a girl no less. Nothing made sense. Meanwhile the girl stuck
around. She was very
friendly, so I asked her what was going on.
She said this touch football game was determining
the championship between two rival bars in the Montrose area.
She invited me to come sit on the bench and watch the game with her. Recalling Terry's growl
and those weird cheerleaders,
maybe that wasn't such a good idea. I couldn't put my finger
on it, but something was definitely wrong here. I politely said no thanks,
adding it was time I headed home. I wistfully noted her
disappointment. Gosh, she was pretty. Too bad she wasn't
my age.
This event made
quite an impression on me. A championship football
game? Considering how hard they laughed and giggled in those
giant pileups, it didn't look like anyone was
playing to win. I had absolutely no idea what to make of it,
but I was really curious. I didn't have a father
to ask and I didn't care to ask my mother, so the next day at school I tracked down Mr. Curran in his
classroom. He was the only person I trusted to ask for an
explanation.
"Mr. Curran,
something really strange happened in my neighborhood
yesterday. Can I talk to you about it?"
Mr. Curran
was not sure what he was getting into, but nodded.
"Go ahead, Dick."
(Author's Note: I
changed my name from Dick to Rick in the 10th Grade. We will
get to that later)
After I told
him the story, I asked if he understood what was going
on. Well, of course Mr.
Curran turned red when I asked him to explain. How does a
teacher
explain a risky subject like homosexuality to a lonely teenage boy?
Mr. Curran looked very worried. After all, we were
alone in a classroom on school premises, a sure recipe for
disaster if someone walked in and overheard our topic. After some thought, he decided to help me out,
appearances be damned. In a low voice he said
those were men who preferred the company of men over women.
"But, Mr. Curran, what
about that girl who talked to me?"
"I imagine that was a young boy dressed as a girl."
My eyes
bulged. "Really? She sure looked like a girl!"
Mercifully for Mr.
Curran, the buzzer rang announcing I had one minute to get to class. The look of relief on his face said
it all. Saved by the Bell!! Fortunately, I learned
enough to get the general idea. This was the first time
I was exposed to the Houston's thriving gay community. Little
did I know Mom's new Montrose apartment was located in the epicenter
of Houston's thriving gay community. The early
Sixties was an era when things were still hush hush. However, this odd incident was clear proof
the Montrose area I lived in was 'Gay' long before the big secret came out
the closet in the Seventies.
I had no idea at the
time, but I had
put Mr. Curran in a precarious position by asking him to explain.
Mr. Curran took a real chance by answering my question candidly.
I later realized this was the sort of topic that could have gotten him in serious
trouble. For example, the witch hunt in
Salem Village started with false rumors started by a teenage girl
that spiraled out of control. What would have
happened to Mr. Curran if I had naively relayed 'Guess what Mr. Curran
told me?' to another
student at lunch? The boy might have passed this strange story on to
his parents or other students and teachers complete with Mr.
Curran's explanation.
I think Mr. Curran deserves credit for having the courage to
explain things. He had taken a real chance
covering a taboo subject on school premises. Just the fact
that he was speaking to a troubled, quite lonely boy ALONE in a
classroom would have opened him up to suspicion.
Nevertheless, our talk
turned out to be a special
moment. Still licking my wounds over the Boy Scout debacle, I
had been avoiding Mr. Curran because I didn't want him to insist I
try again to make friends. However, I
was so glad he had helped me understand the touch football, that led
to a breakthrough. Realizing how much I missed talking to him,
I got in the habit of hanging out for five minutes after English
class once or twice a week. Mr. Curran used our time to
convince me my best solution was to participate in after-school
activities next year in the 8th Grade. So that's what I would
do. I would start by going out for the 8th Grade football
team.
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A SIMPLE ACT OF KINDNESS
Chapter
thirteen:
shipwreck
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A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER thirteen:
shipwreck
Written by Rick
Archer
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Rick Archer's Note:
Mr.
Curran had been the sole bright spot of the 7th
Grade. But even he was running out of
patience. Tired of listening to me
complain, he told me to do something about it.
His advice was to quit feeling sorry for myself
and try participating in school activities.
With an entire summer to
think it over, I decided Mr. Curran was right.
Living so close to St. John's, I did not need to
depend on my mother for transportation.
Since I did not mind riding my bike home in the
dark, I could stay at school as late as
necessary. I targeted four activities:
football, basketball, school play, and spelling
bee.
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Age 13, eighth grade,
September 1963
8th Grade
football
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The upshot of
the 7th Grade Boy Scout Debacle was a devastating loss of self-esteem. Everyone
I knew had it better than me, even my three scholarship
chess buddies who were
just one rung above me on the social ladder.
Okay, so I'm not good enough to be part of the In-Crowd.
That happens to a lot of people, not just me. But I
was so angry over being excluded,
I did not handle it
very well. I stuck to myself and developed a serious "Me
against the world" chip on my shoulder.
I knew there was something wrong with me, but I could not
figure out what it was. How do I correct a personality
flaw when I don't know what to correct?
Frustrated, I was haunted by the feeling that maybe I just
wasn't good enough. Since I was inferior, why even
try? The thought of developing a friendly personality
without a guide was beyond hopeless.
Feeling overwhelmed,
I needed
a
recipe for success. Since there was no
recipe to be had, I gave up. Why bother learning how to
be friendly? It's no use, no one's going to give me a
chance anyway. Feeling Invisible, from that moment on, I stopped sitting
with the In-Crowd and returned to the chess table where the boys were
almost as shy as me. I suppose
you could call us the Nerds. All four of us were clueless when it came to confidence and social skills.
Our idea of fun was to play chess at lunch and study like
crazy out at night. I enjoyed hanging out with these guys. And yet
the entire time, I continued to glance over my shoulder at
the Cool Kids and wonder how I could become accepted by them.
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The
summer break between the 7th and 8th Grade
did me a world of good. I found a
nearby park known as Cherryhurst.
Located in a very quiet, almost serene
neighborhood, I felt safe letting Terry roam
at will while I practiced basketball.
One day
a neighborhood boy named Ken came over and
asked to join me. Sure. Next
time Ken brought a friend. Now there
were three of us. The friend knew a
friend. That made four of us.
All summer long we played one-on-one or
two-on-two basketball games. Please
forgive my lack of modesty, but I dominated.
I was taller, faster, more aggressive.
And I was a good shooter.
Clearly
the change of scenery was good for me.
Being king of the Cherryhurst basketball
court did wonders for my confidence.
For the first time it crossed my mind that I
was pretty good athlete.
I was a tall, rugged boy
with the size necessary to excel.
But
would I be any good at football? For
that matter, would I even be allowed to
play? After all, I had a blind eye.
The coaches had prevented me from playing
football in the 7th Grade. Football,
they said, is a rough sport and I lacked the
peripheral vision necessary to keep track of
danger.
|
Now, however, I saw
football as my ticket to regain standing
among the Cool Kids. That gave me a
reason to insist they let me play.
Believing this might be a
way to make some friends, I showed up for
football try-outs. My coaches panicked
the moment they saw me.
Ixnay,
nada, ain't gonna happen. My 8th Grade
football coaches refused to let me play due
to my blind eye. I was really upset.
This was my big chance to hang out with the
other boys my age, but I was being told to
forget it. Of course I protested, but
my coaches were worried I could get hurt by
being hit from my blind side. Since I
knew better than they did, I persisted in my
request. Finally Coach Skip Lee gave
in. After my mother signed a waiver, I
was allowed to play football as an
experiment. I played defensive left
end to protect my blind left eye.
Positioned at the extreme left side of the
defense, this way I could see any danger
coming at me from the right side.
Worked like a charm.
I could see each play as it developed and
react accordingly. The SJS boys were
divided into four teams and we took turns
playing each other. My team was
undefeated and I was named to the All-Star
team on defense. When several
teammates congratulated me, I felt much
better. No longer Invisible, my plan
was working to perfection. So now it
was time for the All-Star game. The
best players from two teams squared off
against the best players from the other two
teams for bragging rights. And guess
who my teammates were? The Cool Kids.
And guess who we were playing against?
The other Cool Kids. This was my big
chance.
During the game a receiver
set up wide to my blind side on the left. After
watching him run downfield,
I completely forgot about the receiver. Instead I turned my attention back to the quarterback who had the ball
and was running towards me. Unbeknownst to me, once
the receiver was behind my back, he turned around and came back to
me from behind. I had no idea he
was there. Just as I was about to tackle the ball
carrier, the receiver pulverized me with a brutal block. Ordinarily I would brace myself for a hit, but
since I never saw the boy coming, he completely leveled me. I had never been hit so hard in my life.
Although it was a clean block, the blow knocked me unconscious. I guess I was out for a
minute or so. When I finally came to,
I was really woozy. The first thing I saw was one of my coaches giving me that 'I told you so' look. I
asked to be allowed
to play the rest of the game and the coach reluctantly said okay. I am proud to say I made a goal-line tackle on
the last play of the game to save the victory. And with that,
my football career was over. Getting knocked cold had taught
me a lesson, so I didn't argue with my coaches any more.
Oh well, so much for my dreams of football glory.
My strong play indicated I had the ability to
play football. I could have made friends on the team and
perhaps come out of my shell.
However, due to the blind eye, I lost a perfect opportunity to
shed my cloak of Invisibility. Well, no matter, I told myself.
Maybe the school play will work out better.
|
Age 13, eighth grade,
October 1963
8th grade
school play
|
My next adventure was
the 8th Grade play, Pirates of
Penzance. What did I know about acting? I
decided this was a giant waste of time, so I
skipped the try-outs. But then one
morning Katina suggested I give it a try. Our lockers were side by side, so
she mentioned they were looking for a boy to play a drunken
pirate. Katina thought I would be terrific. Hmm.
Maybe she's right. I could see myself full of
swagger. Besides, my blind eye would come in handy.
I was the only kid in the school who
wouldn't object to a black patch over my eye. Mr. Chidsey, the Headmaster, was
our director. This was the first time
we had ever met. He greeted me warmly
and said he was
pleased to see me join. He agreed with Katina that I
was perfect for the role.
To my surprise, I was having a great time pretending to be a
pirate. I liked waving my sword around
and acting fierce. I even received a
compliment from Mr. Chidsey who appreciated my enthusiasm. He
was so tickled, he gave me a line. I
would scream, "Get your swords, mateys,
it's time to fight!", then fall over a
waist-high bar in a drunken stupor.
Brando would have been envious. I was
a natural.
Unfortunately, there were problems at home. Throughout our nine years together,
periodically my mother would invite various boyfriends to
come live with us. I can remember six of them, but I
have a hunch there were more. I detested these
men. However, there was one exception. To my surprise, Mom found one guy I
liked. His name was Miguel Rodriguez, an
immigrant from Mexico. Miguel was the single
most important reason Mom settled down after her horrific
year during the 6th Grade. I was very grateful to this
man for helping Mom return to her senses. In all, Miguel's
year and a half stay in my life was only stable time of my
childhood after the divorce.
One night there was a serious argument.
Miguel never raised his voice, but Mom was
screaming at him. I had no idea what
was wrong, but this was very upsetting.
Unfortunately, I did not know a word of
Spanish, so I was helpless to know what was
wrong. After hours of conflict, she told Miguel to get out, leave, get out of her
sight, don't come back. It was a terrible moment.
I will never forget the look of pain and
sadness in Miguel's eyes when he left.
I think he truly loved my mother. What
a terrible way for this warm relationship to
end.
When I came home from school the next day,
as I feared, Miguel's closet was empty.
Two hours later, Mom came home from work.
"What happened?", I asked. Mom didn't
want to talk about it, but I kept at her to
explain. Losing her temper, Mom went
in her room and slammed the door. I missed
Miguel, Terry missed Miguel, and, judging from my mother's
endless stream of tears in her bedroom, she missed him too.
At first I assumed Miguel had ditched Mom. However, this made no sense
because I had not witnessed any sign of discontent on his
part. Unwilling to take no for an answer, the
following night I kept
asking till Mom
admitted the truth. Miguel had a habit of returning to Mexico for
the weekend every two or three months. Mom had been suspicious
for some time. One night she finally got Miguel to
confess he had a wife and
children back in Mexico. His trips to Mexico were made to reassure
his wife, speak to the children, and share his earnings.
From what I gathered, Miguel was just as good to his family in Mexico
as he was to my mother and me.
Mom could not handle this blow to her pride,
so she went off the deep end. The
problem with anger is that defiance allows
you to say things you don't really mean.
However, once you cool off, suddenly you
realize this was not the smartest thing to
say. Mom's temper combined with her
big mouth is what kept costing her jobs.
Now it had cost her the man who I would say
was the love of her life. Devastated by her
self-inflicted loss, Mom was beside herself
with regret. Missing Miguel terribly,
night after night she questioned her rash
decision to throw him out. Considering
she had been getting the lion's share of
Miguel's love, some women might have been
willing to look the other way. Not
Mom.
From where I stood, my mother had made a colossal mistake.
She wasn't the same without him.
Miguel's departure led to the most serious
knock-down, drag-out fight with my mother
since she let Terry escape during Hurricane
Carla. The argument started innocently
enough. "Mom, we are having our first
dress rehearsal Friday night. It
starts at 7 and we will be there till 9 pm.
Would you mind driving me and picking me
up?"
In a bitter tone, Mom snapped at me.
"No. I'm going dancing Friday night.
You can stay at school, then ride your bike
home."
"Mom, I don't want to wait at school from
3:30 when school ends till 7 pm. I
want to come home, eat dinner, relax, then
go back."
"Fine. I
will drop you off and you can get a ride
home with one of your friends."
That remark really upset me. I didn't
have any friends. The last time I got
a ride home with a friend was with Fred,
i.e. the Boy Scout Debacle. Since none
of my chess friends were in the play, there
was not a single person I knew well enough
to ask for a ride.
"Look, Mom, there is no one for me to ask. Rich people live where other rich people live. No one
lives near us. Who exactly am I going to
ask to go out of their way to drop me off?"
"All right, I will
drop you off at 7 and you can take the
bus home."
"I have a better idea. Why don't you
come pick me up, then go dancing at 9:30?"
"I don't have time
for that. Look, I already told you
I have plans. I am meeting Nancy
for drinks and then dancing at the Last
Concert Cafe. What's wrong with
your bike? You can ride your bike
to St. John's at 7, then ride it home
when you're done."
"I don't want to take my bike. It's
late, it's nighttime."
In a certain 'don't bother me' tone
of voice, my mother replied, "You know damn
well you ride your bike at night whenever
you feel like it. Look, Richard, don't
be so stubborn. I don't have time for
this. Do you want me to give you a
ride there or not?"
That is when I snapped. I don't know
what came over me. The best
explanation was the reservoir of anger
towards my mother as deep as the ocean.
Whatever the reason, I lost my temper.
"Hey, Mom, don't bother. I don't
want your help. It wasn't my fault
that you threw Miguel out of the house, but
you don't need to take it out me!"
Now it was my mother's turn to hit the roof.
"I am sick and tired
of defending my decisions to you all the
time. Besides I have a right to go
dancing tonight if I want to. All you
ever do is criticize me! Maybe it's
time to stop thinking about yourself for a
change! You have to be the most
selfish, self-centered child in creation.
I didn't tell you this, but Miguel left
because of you."
Now it was my turn. "You're wrong
about that. Miguel and I were friends.
I know exactly why you are going dancing.
You need to find some new asshole to come
live with us. Why don't you admit it,
you were an idiot to tell Miguel to leave.
That was even more stupid than letting my
dog out in a hurricane."
That was a vicious thing to say, but I was
angry. Mom was so stunned by my
impertinence she just glared at me.
Finally she spoke up.
"What did I
ever do to deserve a foul-mouthed brat
like you? I never thought I would
say this, but you're worse than your
father. Hey, I know how to solve
your problem. What do you have,
like, one line? Wow. One
line. It shouldn't be too tough to
replace you. Why don't you quit
the play? Then you wouldn't have
to ride your bike and be inconvenienced
at night."
I seethed at that remark. No other kid
at my school had to put up with this crap,
so I rebelled. "All right, Mom, that's
a great idea. If you're not going to
help, then I will quit the play."
And with that I whirled and turned to Terry.
I needed to leave before things got even
worse. "C'mon, Terry, let's go for a
walk."
Mom
had dared me to quit, so that is exactly what I did.
On the following afternoon I spoke to Mr. Chidsey after
rehearsal.
He begged me to stay. When I say 'begged', I mean
that. It wasn't that he needed me.
Far from it. He asked me to stay
because he knew this play was what I needed.
What's worse, I knew he was right. I
was crushed to see how much he wanted me to
stick around. Mr. Chidsey wasn't angry at me, but he was
perplexed. He could tell I wasn't being straight with him.
After reminding me I was perfect for the role,
Mr. Chidsey said it would be tough to replace
me at such a late date. Consumed
with guilt and regret, I knew I had done the wrong thing, but I was too
ashamed of myself to change my mind. The aftermath was
horrible.
I hated myself for not having the guts to go back to apologize
and offer to resume the role if he would let me. Mom was mad at herself for chasing off
the man she loved, so she took it out on me. I was mad at Mom
for being such a jerk, so I took it out on Mr. Chidsey. But
mostly I was just hurting myself.
|
Age 13, eighth grade,
October 1963
8th Grade
basketball
|
Next up
was basketball season. I was a shoo-in
to make the team. I was the tallest
boy in my class and I loved basketball with
all my heart. Furthermore, I had some
talent. The big question was how much
of a handicap it would be trying to play
five-man basketball with only one eye.
Well, there's only one way to find out,
right? Except that I never got my
answer. That is because I quit the 8th
grade basketball team for the same reason I
quit the school play. When I found out
some of the away games were late at night,
my mother gave me the same line... take the
bus home. That really rubbed me the
wrong way. For one thing, I did not
know the bus routes to get home from these
different schools. I was worried about
getting lost at night. I also hated
the thought of that some of the routes might
require getting a bus transfer downtown and
having to contend with winos, weirdos and
homeless people. I resented getting
home at 11 pm on a school night. So I
decided to ask one more time and that led to
another screaming match. When Mom
refused to give in, I threw a temper tantrum
and said I would quit basketball if she
wouldn't help. Mom said go right
ahead.
So
that's what I did. When I quit, Coach
Killjoy had a much different
reaction than Mr. Chidsey. He chewed me
out something fierce. "For Christ sake,
Archer, against my better judgment, I went
out on a limb and let a one-eyed kid try out
for the team. Do me a favor, don't
change your mind. I don't need the
headache."
I was
really taken aback by the man's hostility.
I never liked him anyway.
Nevertheless, I immediately regretted my
decision. Huge mistake.
What in the hell was wrong with me? I lived for basketball.
I wanted to play basketball with every fiber
of my being. But thanks to my big
mouth, my dream was lost. The sad
thing is that I did not even know our team would
ride a bus. Why didn't someone tell
me? When I found out, I was furious at myself
for this dumb mistake. So far this
year I could not seem to do anything right.
|
Age 13, eighth grade,
November 1963
8th Grade
spelling bee
|
Here in November, I was pretty much mad at
the world. Discovering that the
basketball team rode in a bus was the last
straw. Why didn't anyone tell me
before it was too late? I just assumed
the parents were responsible for
transportation. At the very least I
should have asked someone. Well, there
was nothing I could do about it. Just
add it to the list. There had to be a
dark cloud hanging over me.
For lack of anything better
to do, I thought about entering the 8th Grade Spelling Bee. I had come
close to winning the past two years. Maybe this would be my
year. But probably not. There was no way I was beating Nancy
Paxton, a formidable opponent. Nancy and I had become friends during our work
on Mr. Powell's 100-page book project. Since we were the only two
students to stick with Mr. Powell's project, many times he would sit us
together and take turns analyzing our work. Thanks to our
interaction, Nancy was more or less
the only girl who ever chatted with me outside of class. I had a
lot of respect for Nancy. I got the
impression from Mr. Powell that Nancy was a
gifted writer. As he once said, "Nancy
has a way with words."
I had finished second in the 6th Grade
spelling bee to Nancy Paxton. Second place wasn't bad,
especially since I respected Nancy. But I wanted to win, so in the
7th Grade I buckled down and
studied even harder. I literally gave it everything I had, but it
was not enough. To my dismay, I finished second to
Nancy again. This time I took my defeat hard.
Now it was time for the 8th
Grade spelling bee, but my heart wasn't in it. If I could not
beat Nancy with my best effort, what was the
point of trying again? I studied for two nights in a row, but I
was racked with doubt. I had
lost the Spelling Bee two years in a row to Nancy. What made
me think I would do any better this year? I hate to admit this,
but my problems were adding up. I hated that my blind eye had
cost me football, I
hated that Mom had chased Miguel
away, I hated that she had gone off the
deep end again, I felt guilty for letting Mr. Chidsey down, I hated
myself for needlessly quitting the basketball team, and now I was setting myself up
to get thrashed by Nancy Paxton for the third year in a row.
So I got disgusted and said forget it. In no mood for further humiliation, I skipped the 8th Grade spelling
bee altogether.
Two days after the Spelling
Bee something kind of strange happened.
Nancy stopped me in the hall. With a smile, she said, "Hey,
Dick, how did you do in
the spelling bee?"
Nancy caught me completely off
guard. I stood there flat-footed and said nothing. At first I was angry
at Nancy because I thought she was taunting me. But she
didn't have that look on her face. Something was wrong.
Nancy didn't seem to know I had skipped the event. Irritated,
I barked at her. "You know damn well I wasn't in the spelling bee, Nancy. I didn't feel like doing it this year."
Surprised by the rebuke, Nancy looked hurt.
The strangest look
came over her face. "Oh my goodness, I'm
sorry, I didn't know! I
decided not to go out for the spelling bee this year because I wanted you to win!"
What? Now it was my turn to be
flustered. Is she serious? It took me a few seconds to catch on, but then
I became overwhelmed by waves of shame. First, I
hated myself by
resenting Nancy for beating me all the time. Then
I hated myself for not realizing Nancy was actually trying to be my friend.
Now I hated myself for biting her head off. What the hell was wrong with me?
Unsure what to do, I didn't say a word.
I just stared at her as I tried unsuccessfully to deal with my
embarrassment. Nancy probably realized I had quit due to
her superiority. I didn't want her pity. Rather than open myself to more shame,
without a word I
turned my back and walked away in a huff. I regretted what I did
almost immediately. Nancy had made an
effort to reach out to me, but all she got in return was a moody
jerk. I just couldn't take it anymore. This was the
third situation in a row where I had screwed
up. God, how I hated myself.
|
Age 13, eighth grade,
december 1963
a talk with
Mr. Curran
|
A week passed
after my hallway run-in with Nancy. She had not said a
word to me since. I also had the feeling she was
deliberately avoiding eye contact in class. My
self-loathing was off the charts at this point and I was
having trouble living in my own skin. Feeling
desperate, I tracked down Mr. Curran and told him what I had
done.
When I finished,
Mr. Curran spoke up.
"If you knew what you did was wrong, why not go to Nancy and apologize?"
I took a deep breath.
"You're right, sir, that's what I should have done. I should
have figured out what I wanted to say, then
go apologize to Nancy. Did I do that? No. Instead I
said nothing. If I had swallowed my pride, I think
Nancy and I could have been friends.
Too late now."
"No,
it's not too late. Just go talk to her.
Explain the circumstances, she'll forgive you."
"Come on, Mr.
Curran, what am I supposed to say? 'Gee, Nancy, all
you ever do is beat me, so I was too afraid to challenge you
again.' I feel like such a loser."
Mr. Curran
nodded. "I see your point."
"Even if I don't
confess the real reason I quit, Nancy is bound to guess.
Besides, Nancy already knows I can't beat her. Since
she was unwilling to deliberately misspell a word to let me
win, she did the next best thing and stepped aside."
"Is it
really so terrible to admit to a girl that she is very
smart?"
"No, I don't
have any problem with that. There are several girls
who make better grades than me. The problem is that I
can't see any way to regain Nancy's respect. She knows
I quit because of her. Then she made things worse by
admitting she felt sorry for me. Then I made things
worse by hurting her feelings."
"Did it ever
cross your mind that maybe Nancy did that because she
likes you?"
"Maybe, but it's
too late now. Even if I apologized, I would be too
embarrassed to take it any further. Desperation seems
like a tough place to try to establish a friendship."
"I don't
agree with you. I think honesty is a great place
to start a friendship. I think you should go tell
her you are sorry you bit her head off, then try
complimenting her. Tell Nancy how much you admire
her talent. You might be surprised by her
reaction."
"Yeah, that's
probably a good idea. Let me give it some thought."
Afterwards I did
think about it. But I never found the courage to say
something. Keep in mind that I was not a brave
kid. I had incredibly low self-esteem at this point
and no confidence whatsoever around girls. Confessing
my inadequacy to Nancy was a mountain too high to climb.
Christmas Break was around the corner. It was easier
just to say nothing and try to forget about it. These
past four months had been sheer hell. Some of it was
my fault, I suppose I could blame some of it on my mother,
some of it I could blame on my blind eye. There was
bad luck and bad timing as well. Too bad I dropped out
of the school play. The moment I quit playing a
pirate, my life had been a Shipwreck ever since. In
hindsight it seemed like my problems in Fall of the 8th
Grade were a continuation of the Boy Scout Debacle in the
latter part of the 7th Grade. When all was said and
done, 1963 was one hell of a tough year.
Footnote on
Nancy Paxton. Nancy had made an effort to reach out to
me, but all she got in return was my dark side. If I had swallowed my pride
and apologized, I think
we could have been friends.
God forbid, I might have even learned something about girls
in the process. However, that was the road not taken. Over the next four years till graduation, Nancy
and I never had another personal conversation. She went her way and I
went mine. No wonder I was so damn
lonely all the time. I was so full of of self-pity it
never dawned on me some of my classmates might be pretty nice if I gave them a
chance. Truly, if I was lonely, a lot of it was my own fault.
I simply lacked the confidence or the skills necessary to make friends.
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF
KINDNESS
CHAPTER fourteen:
downward spiral
Written by Rick
Archer
|
|
|
Rick Archer's Note:
At this point, I was
supremely angry at myself. Throughout my childhood I had a
tendency to be self-critical. However, I took it to extremes at
this point. Criticizing myself night and day, my feelings of
unworthiness seemed to multiply. When I wasn't blaming myself for
all my problems, I blamed my mother. Believing she was responsible
for my downfall, I added more
bricks to my Wall. What did my mother
say about dropping out of the play? Nothing. What did my mother
say about quitting basketball? Nothing. What did my mother
say about skipping my third year of spelling bee? Nothing.
Meanwhile all I did was quit
this, quit that. I could not believe I had turned into such a
loser. Reeling out of control, I was caught in a terrible downhill
spiral. Was there any way I could possibly reverse this negative
momentum?
|
|
Age 14, second half of
8th grade, January 1964
Mrs. Ballantyne
|
Returning to school after the Christmas
Break, I overheard an odd conversation
involving Katina Ballantyne. She and I
were sitting fairly close as we waited for
class to start. Due to my fascination
with Mrs. Ballantyne, when Katina mentioned
her mother to her girlfriend, I decided to
listen in.
"Last night my
mother was really mad. She chewed
out my older brother Dana for a poor
grade on a test. Mom was mad
because Dana had tried to use weight
lifting after school as his excuse. Mom
did not buy any of it. She was
angry at Dana for slacking off on his
homework in a class he didn't like.
Mom wasted no time giving Dana a piece
of her mind. She said, 'What a
bunch a bullcorn!
Listen,
Buster,
boo hoo hoo, life isn't fair. You deserved that
grade because you didn't do the work!'
When Dana
protested that Mom was being too hard on
him, she picked up right where she left
off. 'Young man, I don't
believe in happy teenagers. And I
don't want any more of your lame
excuses. You are going to work
harder because I said so!'"
Katina giggled a
little. "Poor Dana, he never knew what hit him!"
I thought about that story for days.
Mrs. Ballantyne didn't pull any punches, did
she? Obviously the lady was a strong
believer in tough love. Not once had
my own mother ever chewed me out like that.
Considering I blamed my mother for many of
my problems, I sometimes wondered what my
fantasy best mother in the world would have
done to turn me around. After listening to Katina's story, I
was certain Mrs. Ballantyne would never have allowed me to play last
semester's quitting
game. More likely Mrs. Ballantyne would have given me a
strong dose of Reality Therapy similar to
Dana's.
|
|
Mrs. Ballantyne had a reputation as
someone who got things
done. She
was rumored to be
controlling and
strong-willed in addition to reasonable and
persuasive. That made sense. I
am not quite sure how else one accomplishes
things in life without asserting one's will
when necessary. That is why some
people are called 'leaders'.
Most of the
time Mrs. Ballantyne was charming, but she could also
be forceful
when called for.
Katina's
story reinforced that picture in my mind.
I was convinced Mrs. Ballantyne had a sledge
hammer in her tool kit in addition to her
assortment of persuasive charms. I
decided I never wanted to cross swords with
Katina's mother.
It crushes me to say this, but Katina's story
initiated another round of Poor Me.
The contrast between this dynamic woman and
my struggling mother broke my heart.
Why couldn't I have a mother like Mrs.
Ballantyne? Yes, life isn't fair, but it would be so much easier
if I had a mother like Mrs. Ballantyne to urge me to keep fighting. I
was sick and tired of being such a loser.
|
Age 14, second half of
8th grade, January 1964
the chipped
tooth
|
A major reason for my
Invisibility had to be my chipped tooth. In the 6th Grade, a
boy named Maverick came running up from behind in the hallway and
jumped on my back. Unable to brace for the impact, Maverick
knocked me to the floor, chipping my front tooth in the process.
Unfortunately, my mother
was short of funds. The tooth was left
chipped for two years. So here was the problem.
Neither my mother nor I had any idea the message this untreated
problem sent to the entire school. There was no such thing as
an imperfect child at St. John's. These boys and girls lacked
for nothing. If there was a problem, it was fixed immediately.
So here I am wandering around with a chipped tooth,
eyes that don't match, cheap glasses, cheap clothes, and the worst
haircut in school. This was equivalent to
wearing a billboard that said 'Have you noticed there is a Poor Kid
who goes to school here?'
When I was in the 7th
Grade, Mom worked as the secretary for an administrator at the
dental branch of Houston's Baylor College of Medicine. In the
process, Mom befriended a black dental
student named Marion Ford. I believe Marion was the only
person of color in the entire program, so I am sure Marion
appreciated my mother's friendship.
Mom liked Marion a lot
because he was a real character, so she dated him for a
while. Mind you, interracial dating was bold stuff here in
Houston back in the early Sixties. For that reason, they made
sure their fling took place behind closed doors.
My mother lost contact
with Marion due to a flare-up at work. Her boss told her to do
something his way and she disagreed with him, saying her way would
work better. After this sort of run-in took place for the
third or fourth time, Mom got fired. So long, Marion, it's
been fun, but I've got to run. And so time passed.
To my profound irritation, they made us take
Latin in the 8th Grade. Latin?
What the heck do we need to learn Latin for?
A far better use of our time would have been
a course in typing or auto mechanics, but
no, we are Preppies and the mark of Preppie
Excellence is Latin. Fortunately, I
got a very sweet woman named Mrs. Randolph
as my Latin teacher. Mrs. Randolph, 50, was a
gentle lady with white hair and a constant smile. She had a
hunch I needed a friend, so she always had a
kind word for me.
|
|
One morning around noon I
went to Mrs. Randolph's room to ask a question. It was
November 1963. Mrs. Randolph was alone
at her desk.
As usual, she had a big smile for me. She got
up from her desk for a chat. Just then, someone threw open the door
to
announce President Kennedy had just been shot, adding that his
wounds might be fatal.
Mrs. Randolph and I looked at each other in shock. Grief-stricken, Mrs. Randolph took one step
forward and fell. Seeing her stumble, I was able to catch her.
Unable to stand under her own power, she would have hit the floor
without my support, so I held on to her. That is how weak
Mrs. Randolph was.
Then she buried her face in my shirt and began to sob miserably.
Now I was overcome as well, so the two of us
cried in each other's arms for the longest time. It was a
truly sad
moment, but it was also very touching for her to trust me
like that. We were no longer student and teacher, but rather
partners in grief. I loved that woman so much.
|
|
In January 1964 my
mother took a look at my chipped tooth and frowned. "How long
have you had that chipped tooth?"
"Two years."
"We need to do
something about that. I have an idea."
Mom figured her friend
Marion had graduated from dental school by now, so she looked in the
phone book. Next thing she knew, Mom was talking to the new
Doctor Ford. By coincidence, he had just opened his practice
last month. Mom asked him for a favor. Would he willing
to fix my tooth for a reduced price? Sure! Dr. Ford said
it would be an honor to lend a hand. Would half-price be fair
enough? Mom said that would be perfect.
Marion Ford was a
trailblazer. Despite growing up in a Houston ghetto, in 1954
he became one of the first African-Americans ever admitted to the
University of Texas. Out of a desire to give back to his
community, Dr. Ford had decided to open his clinic in an area known
as the Fifth Ward.
There is no other way to
put it, the Fifth Ward was a violent place with a lot of angry
people. Boarded up homes, few resources, vacant lots with
overgrown plants and littered with trash. This is where poor
people lived, which makes it all the more remarkable that Dr. Ford
was able to excel.
|
When Mom told me she had
scheduled an appointment with Dr. Ford for the upcoming Saturday morning, I was
overjoyed. However, there was one catch. Mom said she
had to work a temporary job on Saturday. I would have to take
the bus. Well, I wasn't too keen on taking the bus, but I said
okay. If getting my tooth fixed meant taking the bus, sign me
up.
It turned out Mom had
played a dirty trick on me. She had gotten me to commit before
I knew what I was getting into. I had assumed Dr. Ford's
office was on the nice side of the tracks. Wrong. The moment
Mom handed me an address that was located on Lyons Avenue in
Houston's Fifth Ward, I freaked out. Dr. Ford's office was in
the same tough neighborhood he had grown up in. Oh my God!
As it turned out, I like
Marion. I knew him from when
he and Mom dated about a year ago. Whenever Marion
came to pick Mom up, he went out of his way to speak to me. He was
very outgoing and I liked his wry sense of humor. Ordinarily I don't
like to be teased, but Marion had a way of making me laugh. Not only that, I could tell he
had taken a shine to me. Marion noticed I was struggling with
something, so he asked Mom what my problem was. After she
explained my strange Rich Man-Poor Man situation, he felt a kinship
of sorts. Since Marion had been an underdog his entire life, one
day he took me aside to give me one of those 'If I can do it, you can
do it' kind of pep talks. Marion explained how rough
things were for him, you know, life in the ghetto. Poverty, crime, broken families, dog
eat dog, drugs, prostitution, the works. Marion's
encouragement had cheered me up at the time. However, that
did not mean I actually wanted to see where he had grown up.
The thought of visiting this tough ghetto had me badly intimidated.
"Mom, are you crazy?
I am fourteen years old! Do you really expect me to take the bus
all the way out there? What if I get lost? What if I get
robbed or beat up? Marion once told me there's a mugger standing on every
corner!"
Mom glared at me in
disgust. "You have too good an imagination. Nothing
is going to happen to you. You have ridden the bus to school
many times over the years, so you know how to make transfers. You get on the bus,
you get off the bus, you walk one block to Marion's office. Do
you want your tooth fixed or don't you??"
What choice did I have?
Of course I wanted my tooth fixed. So I hopped on a bus early
on a Saturday morning. It was a really long trip that involved two
bus transfers. Fortunately I left at 8 in the morning, so I
got there early for my appointment. There was no secretary to
greet me,
but it was no trouble to find Marion hard at work. Marion
stopped what he was doing and greeted me with a big hug.
"Where's your
mother?" he asked.
"She had to work
today, so I took the bus."
"Really?
That's a long way. Aren't you the brave soul!"
I think Marion was proud of me for
having the nerve to go so far out of my comfort zone. However,
there was a snag. Marion said he had an emergency walk-in he
was working on. Would I mind waiting a little? No, of
course not. It turned out that Dr.
Ford's office was located in his home. Fresh out of dental
school, this was the best he could afford. I didn't care that
the place wasn't fancy. However, I was bored out of my mind.
That left me with two choices, do my Latin homework which I had
brought with me or walk around outside.
|
Mrs. Randolph had given us a difficult
weekend assignment. We were supposed
to memorize the Lord's Prayer in Latin.
"Pater Noster qui es
in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum."
"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be
thy name."
I loved Mrs. Randolph, but I hated
memorization. Disgusted, I went outside to wander around
Marion's spacious front yard. To amuse
myself, I began chunking loose rocks at a large oak tree with the
sidewalk right behind it.
Being left-handed as
well as blind in my left eye, I naturally focused my vision to the
right. Consequently I never saw a black kid walking down the
sidewalk on my left. Part of my problem is that his progress
was concealed by a tall hedge of ligustrum bushes. Wouldn't
you know, my next throw went off target and skidded right across the
path of this black kid. The rock did not hit him, but it came
close. The young man stopped and stared at me in disbelief.
He gave me a look of pure hatred. What is a white kid doing
in his neighborhood? Or should I say why is this white kid
stupid enough to be throwing rocks at him? By the look on his
face, I was in
big trouble.
|
|
|
Mind you, I already knew
the reputation of this area. The Fifth Ward was teeming with
tough kids. For example, the famous boxer
George Foreman grew up just a few blocks from where I was standing.
He was a street fighter from the day he could walk. The Fifth Ward was Foreman's training ground. He spent his
entire childhood brawling with anyone who dared to take him on.
Not only that, Foreman is the same age as me. For all I know,
back in the early Sixties that could have been the future heavyweight champion of the world
staring at me. Probably not, but here's my point. Any
kid who grew up in this tough neighborhood surely knew how to fight.
So now I ask my Readers
a question. Do you think I knew how to fight? Are you kidding me?
At an age when this black kid probably got in a fight every other
day, I was learning the Lord's Prayer in Latin. Which, I might
add, I began to recite this very moment as my knees trembled. I was in the
8th grade at a sheltered prep school where kids fought with words, not
fists. I had never swung a punch in my entire life and right now I was staring at the meanest, most hostile-looking
boy I had ever seen in my life. Not only was he bigger than me, this guy
was really mad. Full of fury, he proceeded to stomp across the
lawn.
Panic-stricken, I
strongly considered running back inside Dr. Ford's office.
However, fool that I am, I decided it would be better just to
apologize. However, as he came closer, I was starting to
regret that decision. I
was facing a formidable opponent. He was two inches taller
and maybe a year older. I had no chance of beating this guy in
a fight.
|
Stopping a couple feet
away, the young man wasted no time. In
heavy black accent, he said, "What you doin' throwin' rocks
at me, white boy? Put your hands up, you and me gonna fight."
I did raise my hands,
but only in protest. Using my open hands to get him to calm
down, I said, "I am sorry that rock came so close, but I
was not throwing at you. I was aiming at that tree and I
missed."
"That's bullshit,
sucka.
You threw that rock right at me. I saw you do it, so cut
the bullshit. We gonna fight."
With that, I
lowered my hands as a gesture of peace.
"No, I am not to going to fight you. I
don't want to fight you and that's because I am telling the truth.
I did not throw that rock on purpose, I promise. In fact, I never
even knew you were there until after I threw the rock. That's because
I am blind in my left eye."
With that, I jabbed my
blind left eye hard with my forefinger to prove my point.
Seeing him wince reflexively, that
got his attention. Seeing his confusion, I quickly
added, "I'm not
lying to you, I'm blind in that eye. I was looking at the
tree, not at you. I never saw you coming."
If there was one thing
St. John's had taught me, it was how to be polite. Sure
enough, thanks to my rather unusual explanation, some of the steam had
left the young man. He was still suspicious, but not inclined
to start swinging without checking things out some more.
Seeing his hesitation, I pressed my advantage and continued to talk my way out of this fix.
"Please listen to me,
I am not
your enemy. There is no reason for us to fight."
"You afraid to
fight me, honky. You know you gonna get a lickin'."
"No, I am not afraid
[a total lie], but I am still not going to fight you. I
would fight you if there was a reason, but there is no reason.
I was not trying to pick a fight with you."
The young man wasn't
done yet.
"You a goddamn sissy. You're a
stupid, cracker ass white
boy. You just don't want to get your ass whipped. Quit talkin'
and start fightin'."
"Look, I do not want to fight you. I am not a racist, I am not a bigot. I mean you no harm.
I am sorry about throwing the rock."
I stuck my hand out, but
the young man ignored it. Instead, he looked puzzled. "What
you even doin' here, white boy? Are you lost? Did you
take the wrong bus? Or did
someone drop you off hopin' to get you killed?"
I actually half-smiled
at that remark. But his wisecrack gave me an idea. Opening my mouth, I
pointed to my chipped tooth. "I took the right bus,
not the wrong bus.
I'm here to get my tooth fixed by Dr. Ford. He's black just
like you, but I don't care about black and white. To heck with racial stuff, people need to get along."
The young man looked at
the sign on the door. "You here to see the dentist?"
When I nodded yes, that
took the remaining fight out of him. I guess the old adage
about soft words turning away wrath was true. The young man
had lost interest in beating me to a pulp. To my credit, I did
not back up, so I guess that earned me a little respect as well. In
addition, I am sure my body language communicated sincerity.
"Yes, I'm here to see
Dr. Ford. He's a friend of my mother. Look, I'm sorry
this happened. You have my word I did not throw that
rock at you. It was accident. Please don't be mad at me."
With that, I stuck out
my hand again. This time he reluctantly shook it, then quickly let go.
After that, he looked at me incredulously. He gave
me the kind of look one might reserve for an extraterrestrial.
Located in the most dangerous ghetto in the city, this spot was the
absolute heart of darkness. He had probably never seen a white person
within five miles of this spot other than a cop. Shaking his
head in consternation, the young man shook his head in disbelief.
After a perplexed roll of his
eyes, he abruptly turned and walked away. With that, I wasted no time
retreating to the safety of the office. With a sigh of relief,
I collapsed in a chair. The crazy thing is, I think my blind
eye and chipped tooth had come in handy. After all these
years, I had finally found a silver lining in having a blind eye.
No doubt this was the
weirdest line of bullshit that black kid would ever hear in his
life. Except it was true. I think he sensed that.
Meanwhile, I needed to
calm down. Noticing my Latin book, I started reciting the
Latin Lord's Prayer in earnest. "Sed libera nos a malo..."
Deliver us from Evil. Amen to that. For the next 30
minutes I concentrated further on my assignment. Isn't it
funny how things work out sometimes? I had suddenly found
comfort in an assignment I had not wanted to do. I still know
that prayer in Latin to this day. That's how deeply my fear
that day etched this prayer into my memory.
|
When I told Dr. Ford
what had happened, his eyes grew wide. "Dick, are you
out of your mind? You had no business standing your ground
with that young man. I know the kind of thug you were
dealing with. Met a few of them growing up around here.
He could just as easily have pulled a knife on you."
Dr. Ford
paused for a moment to shake his head
at my close call. "Do me a favor. If
that ever happens again, the next time I hope you will have the
sense to run." Then he grinned at me. "On the other
hand, why bother? Ain't no way you're gonna outrun a black boy."
I stuck out my tongue in mock defiance. "Thanks a lot,
Dr. Ford. I can run pretty fast when I'm scared."
At that moment
he
broke out in a mischievous grin. "You can call me Marion
like you used to. After all, you and I are
friends. But goddamn it, too
bad that black boy didn't knock a
few of your teeth out like he was supposed to."
Marion paused to see if I would catch on.
I just stared at him in bewilderment.
"What are you talking about?"
Marion began laughing as hard as he could.
"Don't you get it? Last month I hired
that same boy to kick some ass around here. I
said I would give him ten
bucks for every busted tooth he brought me. Fastest way to grow my business.
Then you had to ruin everything by apologizing. You
must be one hell of a fast talker!"
Frowning and grinning at the same time, I
replied, "No, I showed him my chipped tooth
and said I was going to give him one too."
"Yeah, sure, like
I'm going to believe that."
Now we both laughed. And with that, it
was time to work on my tooth. Marion
did a good job. I still have the same
cap today.
|
|
Age 14, second half of
8th grade, February 1964
juvenile
delinquent
|
Basketball, school play, spelling bee.
I had boxed myself into a corner by dropping
out of one activity after another.
Depressed out of my mind, I
hated myself. When I
got tired of hating myself, I hated my mother. When I got
tired of hating my mother, I hated my classmates because they
were so damn lucky to have all that wealth and
privilege.
Mom worked late on
her current Medical Center job. I was left unsupervised till 6,
sometimes 7 pm every
night. As they say,
idle hands are the devil's workshop. Every afternoon became the perfect time for
my next pity party. I felt sorry for myself because everyone at school
had money and I didn't. One day I was riding my bike home and
realized I didn't have money to buy the latest issue of
Superman comic book. Not a problem. I stopped at a
convenience store and read the comic book off the rack.
The owner saw me and
chewed me out. "Hey, kid, if you want to read the comic book,
next time
drop a dime on the counter first."
Angry, I left. I
came back the next day and pocketed the issue when the owner wasn't
looking. Since he had been mean to me, that justified stealing
the comic book. And with that, I began my life of crime. I used my
underprivileged status
to justify stealing comic books on a regular
basis on the way home. This lasted about two weeks until one
day the same owner caught me. He came up from behind just as I
was getting on my
bike. Reaching inside my coat, he grabbed the comic book.
Stunned, like an idiot I just stood there. This gave the man
enough opportunity to
roll up the magazine, then slap me silly with a brutal blow to the
side of my head. He hit me so hard I fell to my knees.
As I scrambled up from the sidewalk, he screamed at me.
"Don't you ever
come back to this store again!"
Deeply shaken, I grabbed my bike and rode
off as fast as I could. I should have learned
my lesson, but I didn't. In December I started stealing candy
bars instead.
Every now and then on the way home from school, I
would stop at Weingarten's, our neighborhood grocery store.
After locking my bike, I would go inside and stuff a few candy bars
in my pocket. Later I would
eat the candy bars while I
took Terry for a walk. If I was in a good mood, I might even
give Terry a bite. This went on for a couple months.
However, somewhere around the 10th try I got
caught. One day in January, a
plain clothes
cop came up from behind, grabbed me by the collar and hauled me to
the storage area in the back of the store. I thought I was being sneaky
and careful, but he snuck up from my blind side. I was so
stunned I never said a word. I was 14 at the time and
completely terrified.
The cop dragged
me into a caged area where they stored their cigarette
cartons.
The cage was enclosed by wire which created
a zoo-like effect. As employees passed
by, they would stare at me and the cop as we
sat together inside the cage. I figured out they had to lock up their cigarettes at
night to keep employees from stealing them. In my
case, the
effect of being thrown into a cage made me feel like I had
just been placed in a jail cell. Thank goodness he
didn't lock the door or I would have freaked out even more.
Once we were inside
the cage, the cop reached inside my jacket and watched grimly
as six candy bars worth about $1.50 spilled to the floor.
After looking twice to make sure no one was
around to watch, he
cuffed me hard on the side of my head and yelled, "What
the hell is wrong with you, kid!?"
Talk about déjà
vu. This cop and the guy who smacked me with the comic
book were birds of a
feather. Same blow to the head, same contempt. I
was stunned by the hard blow and humiliated by the rebuke.
That got my attention. However, this time I wasn't
getting off lightly. No getting on my bike to make
my escape. Trapped here in this cage,
the feeling of being imprisoned
weighed heavily on my thoughts.
No,
the cop did not lock the door, but he did block it with his
body.
As he wrote up a report, this man chewed
me inside out and upside down. He referred to me as a 'juvenile
delinquent'. Then he began to talk to me about he
would be taking me to jail
downtown. The worst part came when he brought up
the Gatesville Reform School for Boys. Gatesville was
a fabled juvenile detention center near Waco where the worst
boys in Texas were sent for incarceration. When he
said that, I felt sick in my stomach. Once he realized how
gullible I was, the cop said he expected the judge would
probably send me there. That is when I really
panicked.
The plain
clothes cop smirked at me. "Hey, kid, do you know how
to fight? If you don't, you better learn fast.
Those tough boys at Gatesville are going
to beat the crap out of you. I wish I could be there
to watch."
I paled visibly.
This guy was scaring the bejeezus out of me. Let's
face it, I thought I was tough, but I wasn't tough at all.
No kidding, this cop had me shaking like a leaf. He
was having a great time intimidating me. Deliberately
preying on my naivety, he had me convinced I was headed to
the penitentiary for the crime of stealing six candy bars.
And I was so stupid, I believed him. The cop
had a definite mean streak.
He got a real kick out of working me over. This went
on for an eternity, at least 30 minutes.
Now that I give it some thought, the long wait was probably
deliberate. I believe the man wanted to give me lots of
time to repent. Trust me, his trick worked. By
exaggerating my likely punishment, my vivid
imagination ran out of control. The longer I
waited not knowing what my fate was, the more my fears
increased. I was scared out of my wits.
Gatesville, here I come. Things were
pretty bad. I fully expected to be sent to Reform
School where I would face daily beatings and prolonged
incarceration. But guess what? No matter how
scared I was, this guy managed to find a different way to
punish me that hurt even worse than all his threats.
You will never guess what happened next.
After chewing me out non-stop for twenty
minutes, the cop finally eased up. He
was bored and clearly waiting for something,
so I asked him what the deal was. The
cop replied, "I'm waiting for the police
to show up and take you away!"
|
I was terrified!
Turning white as a ghost, Alcatraz here I come. But then he laughed about it, so I wasn't sure what
to think. Meanwhile, to pass the time, the cop began
to leaf through my school books. First he looked at my Algebra
book, then moved on to my Latin book. Inside the
Latin book, he discovered a current test that I had folded and
inserted between the pages. Curious, he opened it
up. The test was marked '93', the equivalent of an 'A'. Mrs. Randolph's bold
handwriting in the margin said, "Nice work, Dick!!"
The detective stared at
that test. Then he looked up and stared at me. He had
the oddest look on his face. He held my test up in front of me
to make sure he had my full attention. "Hey, kid, is your name
Dick Archer?"
I had a bad feeling
about this, but I nodded.
"Okay, Dick, what is
this mumbo jumbo I'm looking at?'
"That is my Latin test."
"What is Latin?"
"Latin is the ancient
language of Italy."
"I've never heard of
Latin. Does anyone speak Latin anymore?"
|
|
|
"No, not really, not
unless you are a priest or a lawyer or something. It is the
language Julius Caesar used."
"Julius Caesar?
You have got to be kidding me. Are you saying that Caesar
did not speak Italian?"
"No, sir, Caesar spoke
Latin. That test you are looking at is my translation of
Caesar's papers written during the conquest of Gaul."
"Gaul? Where's
Gaul? Never heard of it."
"Gaul is modern day
France."
"So what happened to
Latin?"
"My teacher said Latin
died out in common usage about 300 or 400 hundred years ago."
"I don't get it.
Why are you learning a dead language?"
"That's a good question,
sir. I ask my teacher that same question all the time.
She says I learn Latin because it gives me a classical education.
They make me learn it whether I like it or not."
That led to the
million dollar question.
"What kind of school
makes you learn a dead language?"
|
I did not answer.
I did not like where this line of questioning seemed headed.
During my silence, the cop stared at my Latin test some more.
Finally he spoke up. "I don't understand
a word on this test, but it looks like you got a good grade.
Did you make an 'A' on this test?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you cheat?
That seems to be your style."
He got me with that one.
His crack made me really angry. "No, sir, I did not cheat."
"Well, I'll be
damned. It looks like you might have brains after all.
You could have fooled me. In that case, I have another
question. Why in the hell did a smart boy like you do a
dumb thing like this?"
When he said that, I
stopped breathing for a moment. His words hit me like a punch
to the stomach. You know what, I had a
really smart mouth in those days. I detested authority.
But for once in my life, I did not sass back. This guy had me
on that one. Even worse, the cop wasn't finished yet.
"What the heck use
is there for Latin?"
"They say it will
improve my vocabulary. My teacher says Latin will help me if I
become a lawyer."
The cop snorted at that
one, then grinned at me. "Lawyer?? Think again.
Now that you are headed for a life of crime, you won't be no lawyer,
I can tell you that right now. But you will probably need one.
Maybe you guys can talk Latin to each other. By the way, where do you go to
school?"
I said nothing. The last thing I
wanted was to let this man know where I went
to school. Unfortunately he persisted.
"I asked you a
question. Where do you go to
school?"
"I go to St. John's,
sir."
"St. John's?
Never heard of it. What kind a school is that, some church
school? Do you go to a church school?"
"No, sir,
although St. John's has
a church with the same name next to it, the school isn't religious."
"Where is it
located?"
"St. John's is next to
Lamar High School."
"Lamar? You
go to that school next to Lamar?
Hey, that's a private school!! Do
you go to a private school?"
Again I said nothing.
|
The cop
eyed me suspiciously. "Do
you go to a private school?"
Finally I nodded. Then I took a long, deep breath
and prayed he would stop there. Please don't
ask another question. However, just as I
feared, the cop was on a roll. Seeing
great irony in the situation, the cop laughed
incredulously.
"I don't believe it.
You go to that private school next to Lamar, the one with the fancy
rock exterior. Do you go to that
rich kid's school over in River Oaks?"
Unable to make eye
contact, I nodded. Just then the cop began to shake his head in
disbelief. The moment I saw
that, I groaned. I knew what was
coming.
"Hey, I think I know what school you're talking
about. You're talking about that rich
kid's school over in River Oaks, right? I
don't believe it. Do you really go to that
private school next to Lamar?"
|
|
Unable to make eye
contact, I looked away and said nothing. Meanwhile the cop
looked at my Latin book with renewed interest.
"Yeah, I know that
place. It's not that far from here."
The cop
could barely contain his glee at his discovery. When I saw
the smile on his face, I groaned. I knew what was
coming next. Sure enough, the cop lowered the boom.
"So you go to a rich
kid's school and here you are stealing candy bars."
Squirming with shame, I
just wanted to die. I remained silent, but it
didn't work. The cop was just getting warmed up.
"So help me
understand this. You've got money
coming out of your ears and you're stealing candy bars?
Doesn't your Daddy give you any money?"
I could not bear to look
at him. Instead I stared out my jail cell. That made him mad.
"Look at me, Dick!
What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any
sense of pride?"
I groaned. This was worse than torture. The
cop shook his head in disgust, then continued.
"Tell me
something, Dick, what possible
reason do you have to steal candy bars? You have every
privilege life can offer but not one ounce of appreciation. Take a
quick guess
how many kids in this city would die to go to a school like
yours."
The shame I
felt was unbearable. To be honest, this cop was no longer trying to
be mean. He was actually curious to understand what would make
a boy with my advantages do something inexplicable like this.
The guy had asked a very good question. It was such a good
question that I began asking myself the same thing. Was my
life really so bad that stealing candy bars was going to make any
kind of difference? Why had I sunk so low?
As I hung my head, the
cop shook his head in disgust. Snorting with derision, he had contempt written all over his
face. His attitude had taken a bizarre shift. Earlier he
was angry, but his anger was gone. Now he looked at me like I
was the scum of the earth. All he could see was some
pampered little rich boy who was too cheap to pay for a couple of
candy bars. I was about to tell him I was not a rich kid, but
stopped when I realized he had no sympathy for my excuses. I
had never felt more humiliated in my life. Well, it was about
to get worse.
At this moment Mr. Ocker, the store manager,
walked in. 'Oh no,' I thought, 'not him.'
Sure enough,
Mr. Ocker recognized me immediately. I
winced as a reflexive
flash of disappointment shot across his face. He quickly
brought his hand to his face to mask his regret, but it was too
late. I had already seen his expression and his
grimace cut me to ribbons. Oh, I was so ashamed of myself!
Mr. Ocker was a tall,
gentle, gray-haired man about 50 years old. He carried himself
with great dignity and exuded kindness.
Mr. Ocker knew exactly who I was thanks to
my mother.
Mr. Ocker happened to be one of my mother's heroes.
Mom had bounced a check or two over the years. Hunger has a
way of making people take risks. My mother had a bad habit of
gambling that my father's child support check would arrive before
the grocery store cashed her check. This trick usually worked,
but then came the day when she got caught.
Mr. Ocker
patiently worked with my mother to pay off the debt. But then
it happened again. This time Mom expected him to throw the
book at her. Fortunately, Mr. Ocker's infinite patience saved
her again. Although
bouncing a check is a criminal offense, Mr. Ocker never pressed
charges or threatened to. He preferred to let
Mom pay off her debt a little bit each month till she caught up. I remembered how grateful my mother felt towards him. Thanks
to his kindness, Mom made sure she always found a way to catch up on
her grocery debt. Mom was always telling me how much she liked
Mr. Ocker... and then she would go ahead and bounce another check.
As I looked at Mr. Ocker
staring at me with disappointment, I wondered how he felt. I
decided I didn't want to know the answer. The mother bounces
checks and the kid gets caught stealing. Weren't we a
pair? As I stood there shaking in the stockroom, Mr. Ocker
took mercy on me the same way he did my mother. First he asked
me to sign the form the detective had written up admitting my guilt.
Then Mr. Ocker took a long look at me.
"I am not
going to press
charges, Dick. But I do have a favor to ask. Please
don't do this again."
"Yes, sir, I
understand. You have my
word this will not happen again."
"Good. I
appreciate that. However, I am not done yet. In
addition, I want you to tell your mother what you have done.
To be sure you keep your word, I want your mother to come speak to me
the next time she is in the store."
Chastened, I promised to
do what he said. With that, Mr. Ocker said I could go.
He nodded at the cop, then left.
The detective grabbed my books, then took
his sweet time escorting me out the
front door. Too bad he didn't have anything better to do than
to rub it
in some more. During our walk, he made it clear he disapproved
of Mr. Ocker's decision to treat me lightly. "If it was up
to me, I would have filed charges." When we got to my
bike, he paused for a second, then surprised me with the oddest
thing. His usual derisive tone was completely gone.
"Before you go, I
have a question. Why did they change the name of Gaul to
France?"
Taken aback, I replied,
"I think after the fall of the Roman Empire, a German tribe
called the Franks conquered the area."
The man pursed his lips
in thought. Then he handed me my books and quipped, "Okay,
here's your Latin book, kid. Too bad
they don't have Latin classes at Gatesville. You'd be a real
hit."
Too bad I couldn't think
of a comeback. All I wanted to do was get out of there. As I rode home on my
bike, I had a lot on my mind. I was very puzzled by the cop's
question about Gaul. St. John's was not the Real World, it was
a highly sheltered environment. Consequently
there were many things about
the Real World I had not learned yet. By asking that question,
this guy had given me my first inkling about the value of an
education. The cop had no idea what Latin was. The
copy had no idea where Gaul was located. He had no idea where
France got its name. These small details suggested a good
education could open doors that were not available to this man.
That's probably why he was so rough on me. I imagined he
wished he could have had an education like mine. My attitude
problem was caused by a lack of perspective. All I did was
look at the people in front of me who had all the advantages.
Today the cop had made me turn around and look at the people behind
me. I was grateful to him for opening my eyes.
I could not get
what that cop had said off my mind.
In a world
divided into Haves and Have Nots, of course I had the right
to
feel resentment. However, was I really a Have Not?
Does a boy who receives the gift of the finest education
imaginable have
any right to complain?
His needling
helped me
see my elite education was the great blessing of my
life. So what if I was poor? Big deal.
The cop was
absolutely right. It was a
rare privilege to attend such a fine school.
Considering all I ever did was feel sorry for
myself, I was glad his edgy barbs had snapped me out
of my self-pity.
In addition,
for the life of me I could not get it out of my head that Mr.
Ocker had said 'Please'. I could not get that word out
of my mind. "Please." That word was more
powerful than anything the cop had said to scare me to
death. Mr. Ocker's approach worked much better. I felt a
profound respect for Mr. Ocker based on the gentle way he treated my
mother and me. It really stuck in my mind that he had given me
another chance. My days of crime were over because the grocery store
manager had said 'Please'. Mr. Ocker had taught me an
important lesson in the value of kindness that I would never
forget.
|
RICK ARCHER'S LIST OF
SUSPECTED SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
|
|
A SIMPLE ACT OF KINDNESS |
|
008 |
Serious |
Silver Lining
Act of Kindness |
1964 |
|
After a grocery
store cop catches Rick stealing candy bars, he inadvertently explains the value of
an incredible education. In addition, Mr. Ocker imparts a powerful
lesson through his act of kindness. The timing of these two
messages are critical because they put an instant stop to Rick's
downward spiral |
|
007 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1963 |
|
Boy Scout
Debacle. Mr. Curran's suggestion backfires when a serious illness at Boy
Scout camp and Rick's fake address oversight leads to Invisibility at Rick's school |
|
006 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1962 |
|
When Rick's father refuses to continue paying for SJS in 6th Grade,
Uncle Dick and Aunt Lynn step forward |
|
005 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Not only does a
St. John's teacher inspire Rick to become a writer, Mr. Powell's timely
intervention keeps an attention-starved boy from going off the deep end. |
|
004 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness
Act of Kindness |
1961 |
|
Rick's mother loses her mind and
nearly kills them both during the Blue
Christmas ride to Virginia. Fortunately, the kindness of a gas
station manager and Dick and Lynn give Rick's mother a fighting chance to
start over. |
|
003 |
Suspicious |
Lucky Break
Unlucky Break |
1959 |
|
Father's affair leads to Rick's
education at St. John's, the most important lucky break of his life.
However, as time goes by, Rick's social isolation at a rich kid's school
turns him into a moody loner.
Fortunately, due to a series of small kindnesses, Rick will manage to
graduate at least somewhat intact. |
|
002 |
Serious |
Lucky Break
Coincidence |
1955 |
|
A sudden impulse to play arcade game saves Rick and his
father from instant death at the Stock Car accident |
|
001 |
Suspicious |
Unlucky Break
Cosmic Blindness |
1955 |
|
Rick, 5 years
old, cuts his
eye out by foolishly pulling a knife in the wrong direction when his mother
calls out at the worst possible time. By coincidence, Rick's father lost one of his eyes at
the same age.
|
|
|
|
|