TERRY
 

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.

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. 

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. 

life with TERRY
 

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.

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.

TERRY drives me crazy
 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

APRIL 1961
CALL OF THE WILD

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.  

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.

11 Years old, fifth grade

the growing wedge
 

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. 

10 Years old, fourth grade

Mrs. Ballantyne
 

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.

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. 

a great mom
 

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?"

a struggling mother
 

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. 

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. 

 

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
 

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. 

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.  

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.

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

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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.  

My 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

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Age 12, sixth grade, April 1962

dad drops a bomb
 

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. 

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!  

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.

Katina Ballantyne
 

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. 

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. 

Age 13, second half of seventh grade, spring 1963

the touch football game
 

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.

Age 13, eighth grade, September 1963

8th Grade football
 

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. 

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.

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.