These are the true adventures of an only child in a family of six. They happened at times and places when and where it was possible and it is very unlikely that they would be able to happen in today’s world. (And that is for the best - probably.)
Chapter 1 – The Early Stuff
I was born in Philadelphia but my earliest memories, such as they are, were in Bismarck, North Dakota. We were there, according to a newspaper clipping I used to have, because my Father had designed the first automated license plate numbering system for the State. This would have been in the late 1940’s and I was about 4 - 5 years old at the time.
Not a whole lot happens at that age. There was the time I broke a leg falling off a tricycle going down a very steep hill and had to deal with that whole crutches thing. Of course there was my little brother Mike who was born about that time and had a touch of polio; that would seem to make my problem small but all I knew at the time was that Mike was getting most of the attention and my older brother, Dave, and I was pretty much on our own.
Next stop - Frankfort, Kentucky.
Not really sure what exactly the ‘ole man was doing there; came across an ID card that said he had something to do with the Police Department but have no idea what. He was one of the early pioneers in the field that would become Data Processing but was then Electrical Accounting Machines(EAM) so it probably had something to do with that.
At any rate, we were not there long before there were two new kids, Starr and Loretta. (Mike, Starr and Loretta were born 11 months apart.) By the time Loretta was born, our father had already shipped off to Japan, working for the Occupation Forces in a Civil Service position as a EAM/EDP specialist. We would join him there about four years later.
But in the meanwhile, brother Dave and I were pretty much still on our own. As with the memories of Bismarck, about all the clear remembrances I have of this period are the near disasters.
(Suspect this is true of most people; we remember first times and events with a strong emotional impact. And then there’s that line in a Van Morrison song: “Trying to remember what we tried to forget.” I could relate. There are times when I listen to people talk about things that happened to them when they were young and they’ll remember the names of people, streets, stores - all that stuff. Truly seems odd to me but then so does all that “normality” that makes up most people’s lives growing up.)
Okay than; let’s get to those disasters. For example, in the first or second grade we were playing tag in the schoolyard of the Good Shepherd Elementary School. I was determined not to be “it” and was running as fast as I could and looked behind me, when I turned back around, I saw that I was heading straight for the brick wall of the building. Couldn’t stop or turn; just sort of stumbled head first into that wall. Blood everywhere – but other than shaking up a few Nuns - no serious damage.
(Hummmm)
Another time I was the youngest in a group of kids hiking through the woods near the Kentucky River. We came to a point where the path on the embankment just about disappeared into the side of a very steep hill with that river directly below. Bringing up the rear, I slipped and fell but did manage to grab onto a small plant growing out the side of that hill and there I hung, yelling for help. The other kids came back but no one was tall enough to reach me until a couple of them held on to the legs of a kid who was lowered down to me. I was rescued and, undeterred, continued on to the next obstacle - no path at all. Most everyone turned back at that point, including big brother Dave. But some of us went on and that gave me some “bragging rights” that almost made up for almost falling into the river.
There was a disaster that involved Dave more than me for a change. We had been caught in a major hailstorm and were trying to get home when an entire chimney’s worth of bricks came falling down right on top of Dave. Bricks were all around him but he was not hit by even one of them! We were both very impressed.
Kentucky was where Dave picked up what would be a lifelong habit of “borrowing” transportation as the need or desire arose. He and a couple of friends would go the movie house and check what time the feature would be over. Than they would “borrow” whatever bicycles were available, generally they were careful to get them back before the movie was over.
Basically you can see the situation there; mother tied up with three babies; father out of the country; brother Dave at 8-11 with his friends; me 6-9 years old; on my own. A circumstance that was not changed all that much by joining our father in Japan.
Chapter 2 – Japan
It was in 1954 that the five of us kids, along with our Mother, joined our Father in Japan. First stop, dinner at the Officers Club and shown in the above photo.
It didn’t take long for things to begin to fall apart. He had been living a very good life: relatively young; affluent; a senior-level Civil Service Officer; and a representative of an occupying Army. That he was also generally considered handsome, charming and having good taste and “breeding” didn’t exactly hurt. All of which is to say, he had been enjoying his bachelor life.
Within something less than six months, after much fighting and shouting, our mother returned to the States; the rest of us stayed behind with Dad. I really do not remember much about what was happening during those months; blocked it out, I suppose. But I’ve always assumed that, in the end, Mom thought it was her turn to be single. Of course for Dad, there was a cook, a maid and an ever changing parade of beautiful Japanese women to share his bed.
Loretta, the baby of our group (3-4 years old), would occasionally climb into that bed in the middle of the night. And on some of those occasions, when she awoke in the morning it was with a very polite: “Hello, my name’s Loretta, what’s your name?” directed towards the stranger in the bed with them.
My earliest recollection of dealing with my father in that bedroom was very different. One day he had promised to take us to the zoo the next day. I was nine years old, hadn’t seen this guy for a long time; Mom was gone, and I was really looking forward to that outing. Early the next morning I was in his room to get things moving.
He, on the other hand, was more than a little hung over and not much in the mood for waking up. So I called him “a big fat liar”. That woke him up. He jumped out of bed and demanded to know what I had called him.
So I told him. (He had, after all, asked.)
And got slapped across the face hard enough to knock me up against the wall where I slid down to the floor. As I sat there, he asked me again: “What’d you say?” Using my back, I scooted up the wall; repeated myself and found myself sitting on the floor again. This pattern continued for a while but how many times I played yo-yo, I don’t really know. But I wasn’t going to lie! What the hell.
That was the last time he ever hit me. But I’m not sure who should get most of the credit for that. (And that was when I made a lifelong commitment to never make a promise I was not positive I could keep!)
Older brother Dave, on the other hand, would get the shit beat out of him on a regular basis. (Dad had been a professional boxer for a while and, some of the time, when Dave and he would get into it, it would look like a boxing match with only one of them participating in the hitting part.)
Maybe I was just a little bit smarter than Dave. Or something; can’t really say for sure. Then again, brother Dave was not exactly a friend of mine.
Actually, Dave was a bit of a thug. And a bully. Forever beating me up just because I refused to do whatever it was that he was telling me to do. This went on for a few years but stopped the day I knocked him out. I was about 12 by then and getting a bit tired of being hit. He took his swing; I countered with a judo flip than spun him over and down onto the back of his head. Out like a light. I took off, scared almost to unconsciousness myself. Bought him a new switchblade as a token of my repentance. That was the end of getting bullied.
(Our cook, my buddy “Mike”, was an expert in Judo and Karate and had given me a few lessons. These lessons also served me well back in the U.S. at a time when few people had ever heard of either marital art. But that would be getting ahead of the story.)
Somehow I can sense that you’re a tad confused as to why I would give my brother a knife; not sure really. Seemed like a good idea at the time. We both liked knives (me for the image value) and it was a nice one - a push button switchblade; he usually preferred the “butterfly” style. That is a knife where the blade folds into the middle of two handles with a lock on the end. You flip open the lock with your little finger, swing the top handle up and around ‘till you grab it against the other handle and re-lock them together. (You have probably seen this action in some movie or another; it seems to be a preferred way to make sure you know whom the “bad guys” are.)
Anyway, Dave and I used to have contests; switchblade against butterfly, both in a locked position where the goal was to be the fastest to get the blade out. Dave could get that butterfly open almost as fast as I could the switchblade. But actual mock combat was reserved for a rubber “blade”. One between us, each taking turns to start out with it. Either way, I would usually win these mock battles more often than not.
Yes, we were a couple of “hoods”; in my case, it was mostly a disguise for self-defense on a few levels. Dave was the real deal. We both looked the part; jeans worn low (just above the hips); belt buckled on the side with a loop over the buckle (put your thumb in the loop, grab the buckle and pull the belt off turning it around so that the buckle hung down loose from your hand with the other end wrapped in a tight criss-cross around your wrist and hand. Sometimes, the middle part of the buckle, that thing that actually goes into the hole of the belt, would be sharpened to a point.) Completing this outfit would be a white tee-shirt, black motorcycle boots and leather jacket.
This was, by the way, a very long time before jeans became a fashion staple; at that time, depending on accessories, you were considered to be a manual worker, poor, a hood, or some combination of these. One problem we had was that our father was a bit color blind; we would want black boots and he would buy brown!
Our school life in Japan started out in a terrible (our point of view) private international Catholic school. This was much worse than the nuns we had gotten used to in Kentucky. This was all boys with Brothers and Priests teaching and running the place. There was one old guy who always carried a large, thick cane but the only thing he used it for was to distribute random whacks to whatever kid caught his attention in the hallway.
It was over the Christmas Break that Dave and I finally convinced the ‘ole man to let us transfer to the American school on the Army Base. One of my earliest “victories” from this period was when the break was over and we went back to school. The Priest asked for the homework he had intended to keep us busy with over the holiday. “Didn’t do it”, I said with a definite tone of satisfaction. “WHY NOT?” said loudly while reaching for a cane. “Because I’m transferring out of this school, this is my last day!” said with great satisfaction. I was in the 4th grade but already becoming disenchanted with formal education.
The Japanese took school a lot more seriously (still do!). It was not uncommon to hear that a Japanese kid who didn’t get the right grades or into the right school, would commit suicide to pay for the insult they had brought their family. In this context it is necessary to understand that their view of death, especially if they were Buddhists, was(/is) very different from the Western view. Honor, too, is much more important and is defined differently than the average western perspective.
So, anyway, staying on topic; there I was, 10, 11 years old; walking around looking “bad”. For the record, there wasn’t much of a “gang” issue; not for me anyway, can’t say for sure about Dave. There was one time he showed me a chain he was going to be taking to a “rumble” (yeah, we did talk like that). It was thick and heavy with a metal plate on one end with some screws hanging loose. Don’t know what happened after that.
I was a loner; I would always be content to hang out with one or two good friends. For a long time during our first stay in Yokohama that was my best friend, Pat. We were partners; if one of us had a dime, the other would have a nickel. No score kept.
Much of the time we were doing what I suppose was typical “boy stuff”, mostly just hanging out or exploring - whether in the woods, the city, going over to the part of the base where the enlisted men lived, swimming; whatever. On one of those expeditions, we were hanging out around the docks when we saw some Japanese policemen standing around a pile of burlap bags with a lot of flies buzzing around. We took a walk over and one of them asked if we wanted to see what was under the bags.
We did; it was a dead body. Some guy had fallen off a boat and he’d than been caught in the engine’s blades. A real mess; had trouble sleeping for days.
Of course there was also reading, including my first “real” book – “Gone With the Wind”, even resorting to the flashlight-under-the-blanket.
As for money to do stuff with; my allowance at that time was supposed to be $5.00/week; a lot of money in the ‘50’s; especially in Japan. Getting that money on a regular basis was another story as it depended, in part, on dad’s then current luck with the cards. On the other hand, getting an allowance was not all that important to us. We had our own way of raising funds.
Pat and I, would go to the “Strip” where all the military guys went to hang out. There was an Army run restaurant (“PX” or Post Exchange) in the middle of the block. That place only dealt in “scrip” (money used by the military to keep real American money off the black market.) while the rest of the neighborhood required Yen. If we were starting with a little scrip, we’d hang out further down the street and wait for some young looking Army or Navy guys to come along who looked like they were having a good time. One of us would go up and ask them to exchange our scrip, a quarter, say, for Yen; so we could buy something at one of the stores.
More often than not, they would ask how many Yen the 25 cents was worth. We would look like little kids and say we didn’t know. Usually they would than ask how much we needed to buy what it was we wanted. “150 yen but I don’t think a quarter is worth that much.” (At that time the rate was 360Yen to the dollar.)
It was all funny money to most of these guys who would usually have a fairly large stack of bills and we would usually get a couple of 100 yen notes and get to keep the scrip too. (We did learn not to try this on more experienced military guys; judging by the stripes on their arms.)
Than we’d go to the PX and use the Yen to get some scrip to get some hamburgers; a couple of hours of this and we were in good shape for most things. We could even start out totally broke and when the guy agreed to make the exchange, start looking though our pockets before we said “never mind, must have lost my money.” Odds were good that you’d get some money anyway. ( I would give this up eventually in favor of honesty on the grounds that that would make life more challenging and therefore more interesting.)
One of the things we spent that money on was going to the burlesque shows; we may have been pre-teens but if you could reach the counter to put money on it, you usually got what you wanted. (To reiterate: we were Americans in Post-War Occupied Japan.)
We’d sit in the front row with a couple of bags of liquor filled chocolate bon-bons and make ourselves sick.
Sometimes it was harder to get what you wanted. At one point, we were well into being 12 at that stage, Pat and I decided we should visit a whore house. We knew where they were; we knew many of the front guys from running our own little hustle out there. So we starting making the rounds; it was necessary to do that because places kept turning us down even when we showed them our money!
But, finally, a place did take us. I went into a small room with a very large Japanese style bed - including the bed warmer in the middle. In came a young woman, all giggles. She used sign language to ask if she could keep her top on. Why not, no problem......I was so nervous there wasn’t much I wouldn’t have agreed to! It was all over before I was sure it had even started and I was being hustled out the door where Pat was also soon to be found. We both lied about how great it was and never spoke about it again.
As an exception to the normal rule, in this case, it was necessary for me to pay him back. We had heard a lot of stories about something called “Spanish Fly”; pills that you put in a girl’s drink and were supposed to make her really want to “get some”. The cook, Mike, agreed to get me some. They were supposed to be put into a hot drink.
There was a boy/girl party on the schedule and we took the pills along. But we were all kids and none of us were drinking coffee or tea. I went into the kitchen and put a pill into a bottle of soda that was on the counter. The thing started fizzing up and erupted out the top of the bottle hitting the ceiling! The girl’s mother who was giving the party turned around with a look of surprise that almost matched my own. “I don’t know”, I mumbled, “must have been shook up.”
I had put the envelope with the pills in my back pocket and over the course of that day, they were crushed. After that we were too afraid to use them; we’d been told that an overdose could drive a girl “crazy”. Ended up giving the envelope to my brother and never heard anymore about them.
And that is pretty much all there is to tell about early sexual experiments. The ironic thing is that I was incredibly shy. Even at the base movie theater if there were a “sexy” (we’re talking the ‘50’s here) scene on the screen, I would look away in embarrassment (that someone might see me).
I was always under the impression that Dave was doing a whole lot better. When our father would take us clubbing with him (every now and then) there would usually be an available young girl to sit next to him and keep him company. We were allowed to have one drink each on these excursions; mine was a Tom Collins. Pretty sure that Dave exceeded this limit and I’m sure I did once in a while.
As for the younger siblings; they don’t get much mention because they were a separate group within the family. Usually being looked after by the live-in maid, I guess. As we had in Kentucky (when Mom was tied down with little kids) Dave and I pretty much did whatever we wanted since whatever time we came in would probably be earlier than Dad would be there.
And then there would be those weekends when it was Dad’s turn to host the poker game. These were marathon sessions that would start Friday night and end sometime on Sunday. The goal for us kids was to just stay out of the way.
One of the outcomes from all that poker was that there would be periods when Dad had to raise some capital. He would take Dave and/or I to the Base PX with our assigned Coupon books.
These were not what we today think of as “coupon” books; not the “cents off” variety you’re used to but the kind that Americans were assigned for use at the tax-free American PX that would allow you to buy a certain quantity of a particular product. The point of those books was, as with Scrip, to keep stuff off the Black Market.
For reasons less than clear, brother Dave and I had each been issued the adult version of those coupon books which gave us (Dad actually) a lot of flexibility .
Before we went into the PX, Dad would have explained what we were going to be buying. In the store he would put on a show about buying us a birthday present. Once we’d made our “selection”, he would use our coupon book and pay for it.
Then we’d get a taxi and go not too many blocks after leaving the Base where he would leave us waiting in the cab and take our “present” with him. And that would be the last time we ever saw that camera, watch or whatever.
If there was a “lesson” in all that, it was that beating the system may have been “wrong”, but it wasn’t necessarily “bad”. And that would still be debatable.
There was one game, not at our house, where one of the players was very large and was cheating. The way Dad told the story is that most of his fellow players were willing to let the guy get away with it. But not Dad. He called the guy a cheater and that led the big guy to upend the table towards Dad, knocking him, still in his chair, backwards to the floor. Then the big guy came around stepped on his face with the heel of his boot right over Dad’s eye. He was supposed to wear the eye patch forever but saved it for those times when it was really bothering him.
In the meanwhile brother Dave was up to his usual bad habit of borrowing transportation that didn’t belong to him. He and a few friends would, for example, go to a Japanese motorcycle dealership. They’d look at a few bikes; make a “choice” and explain to the owner that they would have to show the bike(s) to a parent and asking to take it for a test drive before buying it. Then they’d drive away. Sometimes they would take the bike back – to save the opportunity for another day. Other times they would never return and just abandon the bike(s) somewhere.
Pat and I tried this once and, yes, it worked. Pat was up front, driving, and I was on the back; hadn’t gone more than a mile before Pat somehow managed to touch the inside of his leg to the outside of the tailpipe. Burned the hell out of him; we dropped the bike, leaving it where it lay and hitched a ride to the Base Hospital where the Doctors would do nothing at all for him until a parent showed up.
Another thing I had to get used to was that all friendships were temporary (as it is with “service brats” everywhere); yes, even in Japan we had a hard time staying in one place. After a couple of years in Yokohama, we moved to Kobe (mid-way between Kyoto and Osaka). As a part of the relocation, we stayed for a while at a Japanese Resort. I have one very clear memory of that place. You may have heard of mixed sex communal bathing? That was my first experience with it. There was not an alternative; I could only choose a time when I thought it would be least busy.
The “bath” was like a very large swimming pool - only hot. You actually washed with soap outside of this but that second step couldn’t be avoided. I was okay, right up to after I was out and back in the changing area where some old crone and her daughter just thought my obvious embarrassment was the funniest thing around.
In Kobe, we had a new maid; Dad decided it would help our language development if this one couldn’t speak English. He, by the way, spoke Japanese fluently. He also found us a house in a Japanese neighborhood rather than living in Base housing. A good plan but it didn’t work that well for the rest of us; the maid was pretty good at getting me to understand her. I was less successful in my attempts to make myself understood. But our cook, Mike, did go to Kobe with us so we were okay most of the time.
As my part of “bonding” with Mike, we would advise him whenever Dad had set some traps for him. E.g.; Dad had these regular trips to make to Korea. Could only tell us that it was Top Secret. But before going, he would make up a “things-to-do” list for Mike; for example, clean the drapes. Then he would go around putting threads or some such high up in a fold of a particular drape. After Dad left, I would tell Mike where all the traps were.
I did find a new best friend. He was Japanese but he spoke excellent English since he had been born in the U.S. (both his parents were Japanese). At this point I’d have to make up a name for him since I can’t remember what it really was. (I have no memory for names at all - right up to the present day.)
We only stayed in Kobe about nine months and it was back to Yokohama. It was at a point when the Army was preparing to pull out of Japan as an Occupation Force and they started with the area we had been in.
After a few months I did convince Dad to let me go back to visit my friend for a few weeks. He agreed and put me on a train for a journey of some 250 miles. Keeping it interesting along the way, I was able to get a porter to fetch me a beer every now and then at stops along the way (I was, after all, almost 13).
Never saw another American for the two weeks I was there.
At one point we decided to take a commuter train into the big city, Osaka. His parents had said not to on that particular day but had not explained why. So we went anyway and very quickly found out why we should not have gone, there was a very large anti-American demonstration happening. Our goal became avoiding the demonstrators while waiting for the train to get us (me at least) out of there.
As it turned out, we couldn’t; not entirely anyway. I was, after all, the only American around; kinda stood out. For the most part we were okay but one demonstrator, caught up in the moment, I suppose, did try to run me over with his car. And there was some other running involved but basically we, obviously, were able to get back to my friend’s home. It was doubtful that anyone really wanted to hurt me or they would have.
Back in Yokohama, it was almost time to be eligible to join the “Teen Club” on the Base; there was only one requirement, being a teen, and I was just about there. I had resented being kept out of that place for a long time. Once I finally got in, it was pretty much a let-down. Same kind of stuff you could do at other places on the Base except that it was all kids. Oh well. We were scheduled to be leaving Japan soon anyway.
The timing was especially good for me; somehow, I had been assigned the role Of Injun Joe in the Huckleberry Finn school play. Leaving the country did get me out of that!
Chapter 3 – “Road Trip”
As with getting to Japan, the first part of the return trip was on a ship (MSTS – Military Sea Transportation System). You’ll recall that with the trip to Japan, Dave and I were on our own because our Mother had been sea sick all the way.
This time it was because our Dad spent most of the trip gambling – and, we would soon learn, losing all the cash he had with us.
After arriving in Seattle, WA, for the second leg of the journey we once again had First Class arrangements in a Sleeper car on a train. What was not included was food. Fortunately for us, the Porters were nice and would get us a few sandwiches now and then at stops along the way.
The train took us as far as Cleveland, Ohio – the equivalent in distance to our original point of departure (KY).
We gathered our belongings together and headed for the highway for another new experience – hitchhiking; five kids, one adult. The first car to stop was a State Trooper. He took us to the Station and “convinced” Dad to call someone to wire us the bus fare. Which is how I was re-introduced to Philadelphia, the city of my birth.
We spent the next several months bouncing around from one relative’s house to another; fortunately, Dad had a lot of siblings.
(Sorry, time for another brief digression: Our paternal Grandfather had a very interesting story of his own – the headline in the local paper when he died read: “Nationally Known Financier dies of heart attack at 54 “. There is an Avenue named after him in that town.
But this is not his story; the issues at hand were that he had eight children and the age at which he departed. As far back as I can recall, there was that “fact” known to our Dad and told to us kids on a regular basis, i.e.; he would die in his mid-50s of a heart attack so there was no need to be concerned about long-term investments. And, yes, I would buy into that one myself some day. Oh well.)
Anyway, after a few months, the money he had put into an account not accessible to him until he was back in the U.S. came through. And, while summer was still upon us, he decided to take us to see the America we had never known. So he bought a brand new 1958 Oldsmobile convertible and off we went in a westerly direction.
Chapter 4 – Las Vegas
A few weeks before there had been that brand new 1958 Olds’ convertible; not too many more months before that there had been a cook, a maid or two and a very nice house. Now there we were on the side of the Highway, again.
The sun would be up soon and the present chill of the previous night would be but a fond memory. The desert was ahead of us and the dream of Vegas behind. By the side of the road was a stack of luggage, a man with three little kids; ages five, six and seven and two older boys, one fifteen; the other, thirteen – that would be me.
All we owned in the world was what we had each been able to carry as we left the motel in those pre-dawn hours; leaving everything else, including the unpaid bill, behind.
By now the sun was high in the sky. Traffic was passing by on a regular basis but not one car ready to pick up a family of six hitchhikers. One did slow down as it made a U-turn; threw a grocery bag out the passenger side window. A loaf of bread, some cheese, some warm sodas; I did appreciate the bread and soda. Didn’t like cheese and didn’t eat it in spite of the fact that it had been a while since I had eaten. Oh well.
It had been an interesting week or two; we had finished our return to Vegas by coasting the last few miles, in that aforementioned Olds, which had run out of gas. Dad checked us into a motel on the Strip and when he came back it was without the car. We lived petty well for a while; dinner at places like the Desert Inn, days lounging around the pool, walking around town watching the people and sneaking a few pulls on the slots. There were some embarrassing moments now and then; but on the whole things were okay right up to a couple of days before we found ourselves out in the desert.
The first clue that all was not going according to plan was the change in diet from eating in restaurants to making sandwiches in the motel room. Finally there came a point where Dad tried to sell his gold denture work but they wouldn’t buy the gold with the teeth still attached. He used his shoe to do that seperating in the alley in back of the Pawn Shop. The end was Dad running into the motel room and upturning a grocery bag onto the bed. It was all dog food! He had grabbed the bag out of a car without knowing what was in it.
We left in the early hours of the next morning. I’ve always wondered what the motel people thought when they found the dog food.
We did make it across the desert and over the border into California. It was late at night and the next car that stopped for us was the police. Took us to the station and left us in a couple of cells,with the doors open, over night. But there was a difference this time (compared to that Ohio incident) - no calls for help.
The next morning we were fed bacon and eggs and dropped off back where they had first picked us up. They did wish us luck before they left.
The closer we got to L.A., the harder it was to get a ride. Dad finally decided we would have to split up, the three little ones staying with him; my brother Dave and I on our own. The plan was to meet up on the other side of the city.
True, we had been in this general area a few weeks before. We had spent a week or so at a hotel in Hollywood. That was when our father had told us he had lost all his money the first time we had stopped in Las Vegas. We were broke; disappointed to learn what the phrase “Continental Breakfast” really meant and going to TV game shows for the free handouts.
But we still did have that new car at that time! Dad, Dave and I came up with a plan to go back to Vegas, sell the car and try again. Only this time, no poker, stick to Keno – make enough small bets and we were bound to hit the jackpot!
Playing Keno was like playing the lottery is now, only instead of a game every few days, there was a game every few minutes!
Pretty sure our father didn’t stick to the plan; poker had always been his game.
Chapter 5 – California
Which is how we found ourselves back in L.A., broke, no car and with Dave and I on our own trying to get to the other side of a strange city.
Dave was a hard ass tough guy and with each of us carrying two suitcases, off we went. One of our first rides was courtesy of a couple of juvenile delinquents who had been having a busy day playing chicken with another gang. One kid was really proud of the multiple knife cuts covering both of his arms.
This experience reminded me of the time my father had taken me to see the movie “Rebel Without a Cause”, with James Dean. I was about 11 and we were still in Japan at the time. There were no “gangs” there, that I knew of; at least not the type being shown in that movie. There was this one scene showing a knife fight outside a planetarium where the object was to just poke a few shallow holes in the other guy. Have to admit that this movie make a big impression on me and I did adopt the “leather jacket” look and had been why there was all that practice with the rubber knife.
Now here I was, in L.A., sharing a car with a kid whose arms were covered in knife scars explaining the way his particular game of “chicken” was played. (You cut your own arm; your opponent does his; then you again and so forth. First one to quit is “chicken“.) This was no fun. (But better than the story I read where reps from two gangs are playing Russian Roulette. In between spins and pulling the trigger, they talked. And became friends. So the one guy says, “it’s my turn and then we quit, okay?“ “Okay.“
(And blew his brains out.)
Honestly don’t remember much more about Dave‘s and my journey; blocked it out. There’s mainly an impression of a lot of walking.
If I were a “real” writer, I suppose I could make up stuff that would make a great movie.
I do remember wondering how people could waste so much water on their lawns when I was always so thirsty. It would get to a point where we’d knock on someone’s door and ask for a drink of water. Really hated that.
Somehow the family did manage to get back together on the other side of L.A. and we went on to San Diego; no idea why that became our destination but somewhere downtown - the “run-down“ part around 4th & G Streets, we were checked into a really seedy hotel. There was a Mission House around the corner where we found we could get a meal. This was all new to us kids but the ‘ole man seemed to know how to cope with it all. That is where we wintered; in the flea bag hotel with bums, winos, sailors and the other types you would expect along with singing for our supper at that Mission House.
From maids and cooks in Japan to singing for our supper in San Diego in six months; so it went.
California was having a serious recession in 1958; the best job Dad could get was washing dishes at one of the better hotels. After a while he was able to get Dave a part-time job there. I was even able to clock in on Dave’s time card from time to time.
I did get a “regular” part-time job at our hotel, cleaning up rooms at 50 cents a room; except in cases where the mess was really bad. Up to that point, I had never even made a bed in my life!
There were times when I was able to double my earnings playing chess with the owner of the dump. And other times when he would get it back playing cribbage. Whatever, things were better than when we had first arrived. I used to walk around looking in windows and thinking things like: “Wow, the next time I get 35 cents I’m going to buy one of those ice cream sodas......”.
Not as often as you might think, but every now and than, I would meet some interesting people. There were, for example, a couple of old-time gold prospectors planning on getting rich the “next time”. Listened to their stories; looked at some samples of raw gold (could have been “fool’s gold“ but I don’t think so)and when they left, they offered to take me with them. I declined.
At school I got into the habit of staying to myself; couldn’t exactly invite people to visit my place. What so called “friends” I had were from the area of the hotel and didn’t include kids. Even at the Mission House we were the only “full-time” family. After a while we did get to take our meals in the back room but that was still preceded with the prayer meeting, the singing and bible reading (the Minister’s and,as a compulsive reader,I read that book a few times when nothing else was available and as we waited for the food) and the singing. The familiarity of that back room would be paid for with regular attendance at Bible Camp. Don’t know if there were Welfare programs in those days. It is a sure thing that I never met a Social Worker or stood in any lines for Food Stamps; my impression was that people somehow just made it through as best they could.
Back at the hotel there were no TVs in the rooms. But there was a second hand book store around the corner, not far from the Mission House actually, where you could buy paper backs for 15 cents each and sell them back for a nickel. Did read a lot and a lot of that was science fiction. As good a way to escape as any and better than some (e.g., the Bible).
As summer approached, our father came up with a new plan. He saved up enough money to buy a really cheap car and when school was over, off we went - to Oregon this time. The migratory farm camps. He told us we really didn’t know what life was all about yet.
The first stop was outside of Bakersfield, California so he could earn more gas money picking grapes for a while. He didn’t let us get involved with that; said it would make a mess out of our hands. Coincidentally Dave had been born in Bakersfield.
Chapter 6 - Oregan
The first place us kids were put to work was in Oregon.
Picking cherries; living in one of the provided log cabins. I ate so many unwashed cherries that first day that I got sick enough to avoid cherries for a long time after. But the cherry picking season was just about over when we arrived so it was on to string beans.
We were provided with a tent this time. We slept where a couple of 2X4s marked out the shape of a bed and that was filled in with straw and covered with a blanket. The “kitchen” was an open camp fire outside.
And that is how we spent our summer vacation.
Up early every morning to pick the beans and put them in a large burlap sack that would have to be dragged to the scales on a regular basis to get chits we would turn over to our father. He would be out there until early in the evening but Dave and I could knock off early in the afternoon. The smaller kids just sort of hung around, trying to stay out of the way.
There was a lake nearby with a raft tied up to a pier and that was usually my first stop after the picking. One day I took the raft out by myself and was just sort of floating around when I heard someone shouting. A bunch of little kids were standing around the shore looking out at me with a girl about my age doing the shouting and waving at me to bring the raft back. I ignored them. So she swam out and climbed on board.
It was much later before we took the raft back and I was deep into my first crush.
There were two other entertainment options: a “soda shack” nearby with a fairly decent juke box and on Saturday night’s Dad would load up a car full of kids and take us into town. The kids went to a movie; he, judging from the affects, to a bar.
It was also the summer when brother Dave learned how to drive. One of those times, our father had taken Dave and me out for one of those lessons. I was sitting in the middle; Dave was behind the wheel. We were in the middle of nowhere on some little two-lane road. Dad told Dave to make a U-Turn. That was okay but in the middle of this, while we straddled the road sideways, Dave had to put the car into reverse. Don’t know what he did but he managed to get the manual gear shifter stuck and we weren’t able to move in any direction. There wasn’t much traffic but what cars there were tended to be going fast. Seeing the expressions on both their faces, I just broke up laughing. Never laughed so hard before or since. Dad’s first reaction was that I was going crazy and I could see he was about to really lose it - which made me laugh harder and so, finally, did he.
We did get back to camp but that was pretty much that for the car. Dad brought another one, a 1941 something or other, for $78. Not long after this, it was time to head back “home” for the new school year. This would involve driving over Mount Hood. We were okay getting to the mountain but not long after starting up, we had trouble.
Something wrong with the fuel pump so that in order to get gas from the tank to the engine, the engine had to be facing down hill. In order to do that, we had to go up one of the highest mountains around in reverse. At night. Everyone except Dad and me was sleeping, although how they slept through all those trucks honking horns at us I can’t really say. At one point, and that was where there was a very steep cliff on what should have been the passenger side - except that we were in reverse; anyway, Dad’s door went flying open and I came wide awake very quickly. But he didn’t even slow down; just switched hands on the wheel and reached over to pull it shut.
Chapter 7 – Back in California
The next morning, after getting down the other side of the mountain, we had the fuel pump fixed and continued on our way. When we arrived back in San Diego, we found that our days at the seedy hotel and the Mission House were over. Dad had saved enough money to get us a regular apartment. He was also able to get a job as a delivery driver; I started High School and life settled down to a more normal life as a teenager.
There were two general “classes” of kids in those days: the “socials”, who wore khaki style trousers and were in the majority; and the “hoods”, who wore jeans. I was in the jeans set, first at Roosevelt Junior High and, after that summer in Oregon, at San Diego High School. But at least I could be a part of some group. For the most part, as usual, I would just hang out with one or two guys at a time. There were rare occasions when there would be what passed for a gang fight between the “social’s” and the hoods. That would mainly consist of throwing oranges at each other in some vacant lot. This was not L.A..
Not that we didn’t have our moments. One of my buddies bought a vintage Indian motorcycle. It didn’t work but it looked nice. He had also somehow arranged to have the bike and us transported to a guy’s house who had agreed to try to get it running. This guy turned out to be a member of the famous Hell’s Angels. He started taking that engine apart in his backyard and washing the parts in a bucket of gasoline. All the time he did this, there would be a cigarette hanging from his lips! Which he would eventually put out by rapidly sticking it into the gas! I did learn that it’s the fumes from the gas that tend to ignite, not the liquid.
Anyway, the engine could not be fixed. My friend sold the bike’s frame to the Angel for what he had paid for the bike. Life was going along fairly well.
Can’t comment too much on what the rest of the family was up to during this period. Don’t really know as I continued, as usual, towards being a loner even within the family.
The main home event would be waiting on Friday nights for our father to get home with some food. That would be fairly late and than it would take more time for those frozen beef pot pies to heat up. They were much appreciated although I’ve never ever eaten one since that time.
And than came the Friday night, some time in late Spring, when he came home and asked “Who wants to go to Philadelphia?” Not me but I was out-voted and back to Philadelphia we went. In that $78 car from Oregon. With only a brief “courtesy stop” in Las Vegas - with a minimum of gambling; so far as I knew.
We had checked in at the Stardust. It was left to me to get the little ones “tucked in” and than I went off in search of brother Dave and the ‘ole man. Found them in the lounge, having a drink. Now, my brother was only two years older than me and that made him 16 at the time. If he was going to have a drink, so was I.
Didn’t consult with anyone before the waitress came over and asked what I wanted. Said I’d have a “7&7”. There was a pause and than she asked if I had any ID. “No, but this is my father; he’ll tell you I’m 21.” He agreed that I was and, when asked by the waitress, also said he willing to pay a big fine if there was a problem. I got my drink. Than Dad took us in to see the show: “The Parisian Follies”; lots and lots of show girls wearing very little. Ah well.
The next day we continued on our trip East. It was uneventful until just after we saw the sign welcoming us to Pennsylvania where we had the first of what would be four flat tires before we reached Philadelphia.
Chapter 8 – Philadelphia, PA
Those serial flat tires after crossing into Pennsylvania meant that our arrival back in Philadelphia was less than auspicious; at least we were consistent. Still, there we were – back in the city of my birth. Back were all the relatives were; at least the paternal ones; still wasn’t too clear about the maternal side of things - which would include the Mother herself.
This seems as good a time as any to talk about this issue. There was the draft of a letter from Dad to Mom from the Oregon period. I never knew about it for at least another forty years. Space permitting, I will include that as an addendum to this main story.
But back when I was 15, I was not as ignorant about her reality as the younger siblings. They had been checking off the “deceased” box for Mother on one school form or other document for quite a while. Dave and I had been doing so as well but we knew it wasn’t true.
That first year of our return to Philly, Dad decided to invite Mom to visit us on Christmas. (Great, a new memory for me to forget!) About all I do remember of that visit was playing bartender while the parents were exchanging memories in the living room. I would go into the kitchen to mix the drinks; one shot for each of them, one more for me. Can’t speak for them but I really tied one on.
I do remember that when one of them would be telling a story, I would interrupt with a correction; remembering all sorts of stuff. Which was promptly re-repressed with the dawn of another day.
And after a few days, Mom went back to wherever she had come from. Never to be heard from again. And that is what I hold her responsible for; she might not have known where we were for a while there (Dad worked at hiding us from a potential search). And we might have been a little out of reach for another while before that – with our being in another country. (See also: draft of a letter from him to her and included here as an addendum at the end of the story.)
And she may have felt that her time on her own was due her after whatever Dad had been up to as a “bachelor” for nearly four years in Japan while she dealt with five kids – three toddlers – on her own. I was fine with how I rationalized all that for her; made very good sense.
But after that Christmas she knew where we were.
And we never heard from her again.
Oh well. There are sadder stories to be sure; ‘course they aren’t mine and that does make a difference; we might empathize with someone else’s story but we only live our own. So let’s move on.
This trip to Philly did not involve staying with one or another of those relatives for too long. In pretty short order we were living in a rented row house in a nice working class neighborhood.
The ‘ole man was able to get a fairly decent techie type job which would serve as a base to re-build his professional career.
But that did require a lot of overtime which left us five pretty much on our own, again. I somehow would get the job of cooking dinner for the little ones now and again. Didn’t actually eat it myself most of the time but still…..
Given the circumstances, it didn’t take long for our house to become the “hang-out” spot although most of my time was spent hanging out on the corner – that seemed to be the Philly “thing”; “gangs” (short for a large group of kids) were identified by the names of the corner where they congregated.
But when inclement weather suggested an alternative be found, more often than not, that would be the basement at our house; complete with card table, cards and poker chips.
All of which contributed to the developing reputations of my brother and me among the neighbors, at least, who considered us the gang leaders. Pretty sure the “gang” didn’t see it that way; as I recall, we were pretty much leaderless. (A very comfortable situation for brother Dave and me.)
As to “reps”; there were other factors. For example, at that time (1960) hardly anyone we knew had ever heard the expression “martial arts”, let alone judo, and most especially karate. So I would give little demonstrations in the park. These would include mock (rubber) knife fighting. And it was pretty well known that I always carried a real knife.
In the interest of accuracy, I do have to interrupt here; when it came to pretend fighting, I was really pretty good. But my basic goal was to avoid the real thing as much as possible. The problem was that I really did not want to hurt anyone. There had been a couple of incidents earlier when I had lost my temper (no real damage but the potential seemed to be there) and I was very concerned that that would not happen again. On the rare occasion of a real fight, I would go into a defensive mode and focus on holding my own until a respectable end to the fight would happen. And never showed any kind of fear; just try to look too cool to do anything but defend myself. Something like that; truth to tell it is a very difficult thing to describe after all these years but it worked for me at the time. (But I have taken a stab at just such a description and have included it as another addendum; trying to keep a flow going here!)
Mainly it was all about reputation and with the right kind, real fighting was rarely necessary.
There was that time with we thought we might just be getting ready for what would be our first and our last gang fight. A friend of ours was very particular about his hair and didn’t like anyone messing with it.
So of course some kid in Shop Class did just that. Packie told the story to Peach who went to the next day’s class with him. The doors weren’t open and there were a bunch of kids hanging out in the hallway. One of them was looking at Peach like he was from another planet (he did like to dress a “little” differently).
Peach became aware of this out of the corner of his eye; didn’t even move his head, just back-handed the guy who went flying into a locker and down he went.
One of his buddies, the guy who had started the mess in the first place, stormed over to Peach and yells “we know who you are and we know where you hang out and we’re from (name of corner) and we’re going to get you!”
So Peach calmly explains that would be fine, and set a time and place where we would be available.
The difficulty was that the corner he named was one of the biggest, baddest, most well-armed corners in that part of the City. So we tried to counter-balance that by asking the second largest gang to help us (there were some mutual friends and favors). They couldn’t help; had a truce with the other guys.
So we started recruiting individuals from our crowd and wherever we could. Came up with a dozen who were willing to make a stand. We were expecting at least fifty guys and that at least a few of those would have guns.
We came up with a plan; arrange things so they would be forced to come at us after coming up the steps to the playground. We would make a initial effort with the variety of weapons available (no guns) and made sure an escape route was available.
They never showed. The kid had been bluffing and had no connection to that other gang at all.
But those who had made that stand won the “cred” and all was well.
But most of our time was very boring; just hanging out on the corner, playing the occasional prank; that sort of stuff.
This one friend of mine, Tony, and we spent a lot of time practicing debating (we called it arguing). One of us would pick a topic – e.g.; “a car is a car” – and the other would choose which position – “yea or nay” – and we’d see how long we could drag that argument out.
Another good friend from that period was Chuck, much of our time was spent in mock combat and this practice fighting could get rough so that the cops were called on more than one occasion when a neighbor would get worried. But it was all in fun, more or less. At most there might have been 20-30 kids hanging out on our particular corner but when we weren’t just hanging on the corner, we would usually split off by two’s or three’s. Most everyone grew up to live normally productive lives’ with more than a few future cops in the group.
The word “gang” was used above but the meaning was far different then how it is used today. There was fighting on an individual and, almost never, as a group, but there were no guns and drugs, beyond alcohol, were largely absent. (I was the guy who could usually get served in the neighborhood bars and get a six-pack or two for us on a Friday nights.)
As a group, we tended to think of ourselves as “good guys”. When we saw kids getting bullied, we beat up the bullies. Take “Peachy”, for example, he was mentioned earlier. He was a little on the shorter side but he was one tough guy. (And he had a brother in the Marines who had taught him a few moves.)
One time Peach and a couple of our guys came across a group of bigger kids harassing some smaller kids. Peach told them to back off which led to a verbal give and take and ended with a fight between Peach and the leader of the other group. The fight was ended when Peachy had the bad guy on the ground and puts his hands into the sides of the guy’s mouth to leverage banging his head into the ground. Seems like that would have been very painful.
That gave Peach’s reputation a major lift. Time moves on, a different occasion; a bunch of us were hanging out in Peach’s basement.
Peach was playing with some darts and for reasons unknown chose to stick one of them into my leg. At the time I had a knife in my hand that I had been sharpening and as an automatic response, put the blade through the arm of Peach’s jacket – while his arm was in that jacket. In one side and out the other without even scratching his arm. This demonstration tended to confirm my reputation. Only I knew I had just been very lucky. (As, of course, was Peach.)
See the circle there? Peachy beats the bad guy really bad; I take a knife to Peachy; simple in the elegance of it all.
Okay, one more fun story and then we’ll start to wind this up. Went to a party…… a tap room party, meaning that there was an afternoon by the lake with lots of beer sponsored by group of neighborhood bars.
I was 16 and in attendance with my Father and an Uncle – both serious regulars at those bars. Shortly after arriving, I met another kid who was the leader of a rival gang. We decided to play nice for the day and just hang out and drink beer.
And that is what we did; drank a lot of beer. Turned out the bartenders knew both our fathers very well and no matter how busy they were, they also gave our glasses a priority.
After a while we decided to take a drive – his car. After surviving that, our next decision was to take a swim in the lake. I didn’t have a bathing suit so just took off the t-shirt and jumped in with long jeans still on.
That material gets very heavy when wet; not that I cared at the time. There was this buoyed rope stretched across the lake that I also chose not to care about. And there were those annoying voices somewhere in the distance saying “don’t go past the rope!”
On I went; next thing I knew, someone was shoving a board towards me and yelling about something or another.
And that was how the rest of the day went; a series of flashes. There I am on the bench at a picnic table watching people play cards as I slowly slid to the ground.
And then I was in a car, looking up at a house, my house. Next up I was sitting in a chair in my room with my pants down around my ankles. Uncle Dick was asking how I was; fine, just fine.
Didn’t make it to school the next day although I made the unusual decision to call my father and tell him I was not well.
“Hung over are you?” “No, no; I didn’t drink that much. Must have been something I ate.”
“Well have some dry toast and hot tea and go back to bed.”
Which I did. Couldn’t even stand the smell of beer for a very long time after that.
Speaking of school, there are those who think I shouldn’t talk about this but that would be less than a full accounting now wouldn’t it?
School was an issue; in High School I would usually get straight Fs – even for Gym (since I went so rarely). I hated carrying stuff around and never carried a book which meant never doing homework.
When I had a choice, I took the easiest classes possible. One example of that was Choir; how could one fail that class? You can if you sit with your feet draped over the seat in front of you and when the teacher asks you to sing a solo, you refuse.
In Summer School, I made up for it all by getting As and Bs (based more on knowing the material and less on homework). (One teacher or another was forever telling me I “wasn’t working up to my potential”. Oh well.)
Of course there could be more but it does get a bit repetitious; let’s skip ahead to the penultimate moment; the incident leading to a decision to join the Navy.
There were three of us hanging out together; only one of us, me, had any money. But one of the others had a hacksaw blade and decided to try to cut the lock on a newspaper box. He wasn’t being very effective and I was losing patience and offered to take a turn. That, of course, was when the police showed up. The other two guys ran with one of the Officers in pursuit. Another “of course” he was overweight and out of shape.
I had been wedged into a corner behind the box and an easy collar for the other cop. So I “assumed the position” up against the wall while he frisks me. And finds my knife.
So I decide it is time to leave and come off the wall with my elbow into the cop. My luck continued to hold as this one was neither overweight nor out of shape and tackled me down in short order. While we were down he thought it would be a good idea to grab my hair and slam my head into the sidewalk while yelling that I should “run now (expletive deleted)”. Back at the patrol car, I was sprawled over the hood while reinforcements arrived.
The time came when I was about to step into the Paddy wagon when the Sgt. walks over with the knife in his hand (they had been passing it around): “So, punk, nice knife; how many cops you cut with it?” With one foot into the van and my hands cuffed behind me, I look at him and reply “none……yet”. At which point I went flying into the wagon and off we went.
I did spend the night in jail but was never “processed” although they were talking four possible charges: attempted larceny, burglary tools, deadly weapon and resisting arrest. I also refused to identify my friends (“just met, didn’t really catch their names”). Dad was there in the morning and after some conversation about me being a senior at what was considered a very good Catholic school and that I had no other police record and the political friend or two that Dad had, I was sent home. ((No one mentioned that I was in that school after being thrown out of Public School the year before for some very good reasons; I think I was the first kid to ever make that transition from Public to Private; it was usually the other way around.)
The family dynamics at that time had my older brother being the one who was always getting into one legal difficult or another (still had that borrowing transportation thing going only now it was cars).
And now our Father must have thought, “here comes another one”. So he decides to get parental and lays down all sorts of rules for me. “The hell with that” I reply; “I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone, I’ll join the Navy”.
And that is what I did; one month after my 17th birthday.
Addendum 1 – The Going Away Party
Of course there was a going away party and the events of the evening were an appropriate end to that “hood” phase of my life.
A couple of the girls at that party were leaving and a friend of mine offered to drop them off at their “corner”. I went along.
At their corner I got out of the car to shift to the front seat after the girls were out. Someone on that corner yelled something that I didn’t quite hear it so I asked my buddy if he had heard it. He had just started to pull away when I asked and he spun the wheel back into the curb, jammed on the brakes and suggested we find out. All very dramatic!
I was out of the car before it had stopped completely. (There had been a lot of booze at that party.)
Walked up to the tallest kid there and asked him what he had said. He mumbled something and seemed about to turn away. So I slapped him across the face; he put his hand up to his face and I slapped him with the back of my hand. Told him not to put his hands up to me unless he was going to fight. He chose to sort of slink away.
There were about a dozen guys there so my buddy and I stood back to back (he was a full-back on the high school football team) and challenged them to come at us “four at a time”, “okay, six of you”; “okay, all of you, come on…”. No one did so we got back into the car and went back to the party; where our story seemed to be an inspiration. So off we went, six or seven drunken high school kids in a car looking for trouble.
Somehow we ended up back at that same corner; at least I know it was not planned that way by me. Only this time there were about 50-60 kids on the corner. Our car was spotted and they blocked the street forcing us to stop the car. Their leader was there this time and he was not happy. (Remember that earlier mention of Peachy beating the hell out of some bully? This was that guy.) This new confrontation came down to him and I exchanging insults (I chose to remind him about Peachy) to the point where we started to swing at each other.
That’s when the police lights starting flashing and our swings were converted into a mutual sideways hug. “No Officer”, “no problem”; “sure, we’d be happy to get our car out of the middle of the street and move along” – no problem.
Now here’s the kicker; there was no doubt in my mind that that guy would have, could have beaten the crap out of me. But he didn’t. Instead, the next day, he sent along an apology; said he hadn’t realized who he was dealing with. How about that! Young or older; physically or mentally, it’s all about the rep.
Addendum 2 – A letter from Dad to Mom
This is a transcription of a notebook containing a letter from David J. Feist, Sr. to his wife, Leona. The letter is dated August 20, 1959 and may have been a first draft or something that was simply never mailed.
The original handwriting provides challenges and this is my best effort to transcribe it. Some minor editing has been done for the sake of readability.
Dear Leona
Hello! Yes it is me. I am writing you this letter to let you know how the children are, I know I should have written you oftener and sooner. But better late than never, ha?
Well the children are just fine; they have been wonderful for me. As you know they are getting pretty big now. David is 17, Ed, 15 (this Sept.) Mike 10, Starr 9, and Loretta 8. They all passed in school last year. This is David’s last year in High School. Ed will be in High School this year. Starr and Mike will be in 4th grade and Loretta in 3rd. Loretta and Star made their first Holy Communion last April. Also Starr and Mike didn’t miss one day of school. Ed and Loretta miss just 2 days. David miss five days, mostly my fault for Ed and Dave. You must know I must cook and wash and take care of the house for we have no maid or house boy and also work. But you know something? I love it. Yes I enjoy every minute of it.
We have been very fortunate by not having any sickness to speak of. If we feel bad, just get out the bottle of aspirin and with them we did not have to go to the doctor, outside of shots, in the last four years. In fact the children think I am a Doctor, ha, ha at one time. I pray that God continues to help us in such a way.
I’m back in the Church and we all go to communion together at least once a month. I have discussed our case with the priests many a time. But I just can’t bring myself around to trust you with the children. I know you have a terrible temper and I just can’t forget you writing to the C.O. (“Commanding Officer”) about me with(out) first telling me for as you know you hadn’t written in the last 8 months to me. You just wrote to him from that day on. They never gave me or the children a break. In fact Mike was flunked in the 2nd grade. They also were going to flunk Starr and Loretta but I transferred them to Saint M??? Catholic School and the Sister say they were all able to be promoted to the next grade. So they were.
You see our C.O. in Kobe was the top man in Kobe and he was also married twice and had children from his first wife. He told me that I could not raise my children and all of that sort of stuff. Any way it was just hell for me and the kids. It wasn’t fair for them, that’s why I left (Japan) and David and Ed know it. I have spoken of you to them about us. But they like it this way. I pray and ask them to pray for us. Maybe God will help us.
But if it (Leona regaining custody?) should come about you would have a tough job on your hands. That’s what worry’s me. Leona I haven’t had much money so I am unable to send you any at his time. My jobs haven’t been as good as before. The C.O. of Kobe has in my records a lot of untruths but it hard to live down if ever. So I hope you will get some satisfaction out of that.
But as I told the children, they mean more to me than anything in this world including money and love, as long as we are all happy and healthy, which we are. If that C.O. was only somebody else it might not have been as bad. But he just ruined 8 years of Civil Service - which I am no longer with.
You know you could have written a letter to C.O. saying “I want to be with my children over in Japan or have them in the States” just as easy as you did for money. That is what I couldn’t understand nor could I make the C.O. understand. It was money first and being with us second. I hope someday we can talk about it.
Leona I want you to know that my mother, sisters and brothers don’t know where we are. I haven’t written since we left there because I don’t want them to get involved. Starr, Loretta and Mike all went to a Catholic School last year. Dave and Ed to public school.
David is about 5’10” weight 147
Ed “ “ 5’ 9” “ 139
Mike “ “ 4’ 1” “ 98
Starr “ “ 5 “ 104
Loretta “ “ 4’ 7” “ 77
This summer we all work together as a family. Up at 5am every morning and we work in the field until 12:00, home for lunch and out until about 4:30 than swimming until I get dinner ready. After dinner some talk than to bed. It is doing a lot for Ed and Dave, they don’t like it, the work part but I think it is good training for them, don’t you. David drove a car, I taught him this summer. We have a 1940 Dodge. It is always breaking down but we fix it up and keep moving.
This summer we live in tents, cabins and in the car as we travel from one town to the next. Altogether the children saw a lot of the country and we have been together all the time camping out, swimming, playing and working. Saturday night is the big night we all go to the movie. There are two movies in this town. Sometimes David goes to a dance. Oh Yes, Ed has a romance going on. He is in love or so he thinks. I kid him quite a bit about it. Starr and Loretta and Mike get on this kidding. He is going through a stage of growing up I guess.
Every thing we do I try to give a vote on it so the majority rules in this household. Raising these children is like a game with me, a serious game but I have a lot of fun doing it. David has been a wonderful boy, no ????? ???? for ???? he helps me with the children, the moving, etc. but he just can’t help in the kitchen, every thing he touches, he breaks, ha, ha. But the boy has a fun laugh; it seems we are laughing all the time. David has my silly laugh (you know like a chicken).
Well Leona, I hope this letter finds you in good health and somewhat happy. You can rest assured that the children are well and happy. I hope and pray that God shows me the way and you too so that maybe we can see each other again and you the children. We pray for you every night in our nightly prayers. I only hope nothing happens that will change us in some unkind way.
I am going to mail this letter from some small town in Oregon. We will be moving on from here soon and where we will go, no one knows. It is very difficult for me to get a good job at present so I work just to keep my family together and happy.
We have all that we need but money and that is only secondary in my book. My one thought is to raise my family up to be good men and women. David wants to join the Air Force next year. If he can, I want him to be an officer. At present he doesn’t think much of being an officer. Ha, Ha.
I only wish we had some pictures to send you but we don’t. Maybe the next time.
Leona I do pray that you have found happiness in your life and that you have all the money that you can use, I just don’t know how. Did you ever go to work?
Your children do love you, that I know. We speak of you only in kindness and love. The big boys I have explained to them time and time again that it was my fault to begin with. I hope someday they will understand. They can’t understand the meanness and difficulty in Japan. If only it was another type of C.O. things might have been different. But that is life.
Good bye for now
David
August 20, 1959
An interesting perspective that leaves out a lot; leaves out losing all our money in Vegas; leaves out hitchhiking from there to San Diego where we lived in a rundown hotel and had our meals at a Mission House for most of a year. Certainly not true about Church or talking to the kids about their Mom. Whatever; how’s it go: it is what it is.
But that summer in Oregon was a turning point of sorts. We did, eventually, get our lives back – sort of. And we did have that meeting with “Leona”. And some of us grew up in a way that many would say qualified us as “good men and women”. But that is only reality; this letter is history.
Addendum 3 - A Conversation About Bluffing
For a bluff to be work, you have to mean it. Take the situation where another kid has decided to kick your ass; what are your options? Even when you’re sure that kid can kick your ass, you have to bluff; you have to make him believe that even if he wins, he will pay a cost in pain and it would be easier to just move along. And you have to do this in a way that allows him to maintain his front, meaning he has to keep his pride.
How?
By acting; form an image in your mind of a “tough guy”. That’s not something you do at the time you’re being confronted. You’ll have to practice this every day well before you ever find yourself in a situation where you have to use it.
Assume a fighting stance; keep your body at about a 45 degree angle, left foot forward and turned another 45 degrees inward. Keep your upper body straight but not rigid and leaning slightly back. Both arms stay by your sides until the other guy throws the first punch – once things have started, go into a modified boxer’s stance: left arm bent but kept low; right arm high but don’t keep your fist in front of your face where he can force you to hit yourself! This is a street fight, not a boxing ring; no 3-minute rounds, the goal is to finish as quickly as possible using whatever means necessary.
Before the first punch is thrown, your goal is to make that unnecessary. Keep your face still but your head up and look directly at your opponent; keep your eyes focused but let them go “dead”. That’s the hardest part, the eyes; and you have to get them right. They have to say you are not afraid; and that means you have to be unafraid. But they cannot say you are cocky or that you don’t respect the other guy.
After it’s over, you will know you were bluffing but until it’s over, you’re not.
Got it?
Understand that this will not work every time or in every situation. You have to learn to read people and situations. And you have to be prepared to get your ass kicked every now and again. Remember, physical pain is only temporary but your self-esteem has to last you a lifetime. Of course you do want to avoid those situations where that lifetime is shortened a whole lot!
In the grown-up world on Executive Row, the game would continue - but differently.
