Mrs Holton lived next door to the west. She was old. I don't remember her first name. She was nice, but not conversational. I would visit her when I got bored, but she was not nearly as much fun as Susie. She gave yes and no answers to inquiries. I'm sure it was a great thrill for her to be cross examined by her seven year old neighbor that was really scouting the neighborhood for free cookies.
When she did speak at any length, there was this thing that happened with her dentures. They would kind of clank. It was like the upper plate would drop down on the lower. It was kind of spooky. She would also wear a sweater in July.
There was her daughter that would drop by occasionally with the grandson who would not play with me. He was ten and was far too sophisticated for any seven year old foolishness.
Then there was Mrs. Holton's son, Don. He was not married and was older than his sister. He had been in the service and smoked like a chimney sitting in a lawn chair in his Mom's back yard watching me play in the sand pile from his side of the fence. He was always smiling at me...watching me...making me feel creepy. He finally came to live with Mrs Holton. She may have needed his help. He did mow her lawn.
Don drove a 1958 Pontiac. I do not recall the model, but I think the hood ornament was an Indian head. On the center of the dashboard there was a small statue of a woman. My Mom said that meant they were Catholics. I never really got an adequate explanation of what Catholics were until my Grandpa explained it in some very self righteous terms.
It was not until much later, when I got some perspective on the situation, that I came to realize Don was not right. I came to believe that it was him that had tried to kill me in my sleep. I was never sure though. It took me years to add it all up.
Not long after Don had moved in with his mother, I began to have sleep disturbances. They tell me I was sleep walking and that's how it must have happened. I slept upstairs. Mom and Dad slept downstairs. My room had a large window above a section of roof that sloped down toward the back yard. The bottom edge of that roof was probably 10 feet from the ground and directly over the back door to the house.
The room was small, but it had all my stuff in it including bunk beds which I was always hoping to share with a sibling. Never happened. There was an endless parade of cousins, but no brothers.
Anyway, I would go to sleep up there at night reading Peanuts comic books and I would sleep hard. It would be like I was dead. That was when the weird stuff started to happen. I would wake up in the middle of the night on a cot in the room across the hall at the top of the stairs. This was where the TV was and my rocking chair and all of Mom's sewing stuff. I would be sore. Sometimes I would have bruises. Other nights I would go to sleep in my room and wake up in the rocking chair in front of the TV. The TV would be on. Back in the mid sixties, there was no TV at 2 AM. What was on the screen was what we called "snow". On another occasion, I woke up on my back at the bottom of the stairs. I had no serious injuries, but again there was the bruises. I had apparently fallen down the stairs.
Finally, there was the night of the blood. It was like a bad horror movie. I had apparently been crying in my sleep. Mom had come upstairs to find me in my bed this time, lying on a blood soaked pillow and sheets. My window had been open too. It was a hot night in July or August and in those days there was no central air.
I had a fairly large gash on the left front of my head at the hairline. I was bleeding pretty good, so Mom and Dad took me to the ER in the middle of the night. It took six stitches to sew me up.
Years later, after some counseling and hypnosis, I kind of pieced it all together. I have no evidence, but I believed it was Mrs Holton's son that did this to me. Had there been blood elsewhere in the house or my room, I might be able to believe that the head injury was the result of a sleep walking mishap. Such was not the case. The only place my blood was found was in my bed. How does a seven year old get blunt force trauma to the head while sound asleep? He doesn't. There had to be someone else in the room. The only thing needed would be a ladder to reach the roof that led to my window.
I also found myself wondering what else he could have done to me - if it was in fact him. I do not remember seeing him next door much after that, but I always knew when he was there, sitting in the back yard smiling and smoking in the almost dark.
We found out later, when I was about 13 years old, that I had some brain damage from the night in question. It manifested itself in temporal lobe epilepsy (at that time called psychomotor epilepsy) that I had to endure all through junior high and high school. I was on some powerful anti-convulsants during that time to minimize the seizures. The seizures finally stopped when I was 17. I don't know why they stopped and the neurologist had no explanation. My EEG was still a mess, but I was seizure free. I still have the occasional deja vu, but my head remains clear. It would be interesting to see what my brain waves look like today.
We eventually moved from that place. I kind of hated that house. There was other weird stuff that went on there, but I will have to save it for another time. I need to go to sleep. I will try to stay in bed when I do it.
Monday, June 15, 2015
Memories
The middle years have passed and I have started the rapid plunge toward that final destiny that awaits all of us. Even so, after nearly 58 years, I am amazed at what I can remember of it. To me, it does not seem all that long ago, but you know what? In human terms and for many people, it was a lifetime.
I am told that I should not be able to remember these things since I was two years old at the time, but I swear that I do. My earliest memory is a tonsillectomy at Mercy Hospital in Des Moines. I do not remember the actual surgical procedure, but I do remember the check in. Back in those days, the nuns at the hospital still wore the penguin outfits and they were, to my recollection, quite mean. I was only two, but it took three of them to strip me, put me in hospital wear and get me ready for surgery. I vaguely recollect kicking one of them while I still had a shoe on. I think that earned me a smack. I also remember the administration of the ether which is what passed for anesthetic in those ancient times. Beyond that, I remember waking up in the middle of the night unable to talk and not knowing where my mommy and daddy were. I was in a ward with other children and I recall a little girl in the next bed getting up to get me a drink of water. A kindness by a stranger to another stranger. Odd how those things stick in the mind.
I also remember committing a B&E at the age of three with my close friend and or arch nemesis (depending on what time of day it was), Kelly Dean Jones. Kelly was my age and one day it occurred to us to break into the Disciples of Christ church that was up the street. Bondurant is where we lived at the time. It was a very laid back and quiet community outside of Des Moines.
Anyhow, this is not normally something that three year olds would consider on their own. As it happens, David Sprague, last in a long line of juvenile delinquent brothers, was there to encourage us in our efforts. David was eight. Kelly and I were convinced that since he was eight, he must know everything and so we hung on his every word. Earlier, Kelly and I had been zooming up and down the sidewalk on our tricycles gathering walnuts and then throwing them in his yard...sometimes at each other. On one of our nut gathering rides, we pulled up in front of the church. We were throwing walnuts at each other and one of them hit the glass door of the church. David Sprague had been watching us. He walked up and told us there was a room full of toys in there to play with. All we had to do was go in. We tried to open the door but it was locked and so David suggested that we utilize our walnut collection to break the glass door window and climb in. After repeated assaults with the walnuts, the glass was proving impenetrable to our three year old throwing arms and there were no rocks to do the job that we could find. So...ever the good friend, David kicked in the lower pane of glass on the door and we went in. Strangely, David disappeared shortly after.
At some point, Kelly and I were found inside the church. We had taken off our coats and were playing in one of the children's Sunday school rooms. I think we had coloring books and crayons when our mothers showed up accompanied by the church pastor. I do not recall the punishment. I think it is probably blanked out of my mind with the other traumas of my youth. I do know that when my mother would tell the story years later, my grandfather responded that, "it was just a Disciples church." Laughter would ensue.
Not long after, we moved to Des Moines. I only saw Kelly Dean once after that briefly. We were not so impressed with each other. Life had moved on and we were older.
Today, since I've been on vacation, I drove passed the house we moved to in Des Moines. I barely recognized it because the two maple trees in front had been cut. The garage that Dad built was still in back though and seemed to be in much better shape than the house. The whole neighborhood has fallen into disrepair though. The only consistent, unchanged thing was the street. It is still made out of paving bricks. This is both cool and sad to me. Only the street itself withstood the test of time.
The house where Terry Stump and her sisters lived was still there. The place where Othal and Susie Snyder lived next door was also there with many changes. Mrs Holton's house and the Brewer house are still standing too, but all had changed with lack of care or too much repair.
The Snyders were quite elderly in 1962. They had never had children of their own and so I proved quite a challenge to live next door to. Othal kept a perfect yard, a perfect garden and a perfect car. He drove a 1949 blue De Soto that was always spotless. When they went somewhere, Susie always rode in the back seat. The thing that always fascinated me about that car was the curb feelers. It had these little chrome springy things on the edge of the front and rear fenders that would make a noise when they scraped the curb. I think this was to prevent the curb from scraping the frame.
Susie became my very good friend. She taught me how to play checkers and took me out to Othal's garden to pick flowers for Mom. She also gave me apple butter from their orchard in Adel.
Othal hated me. He sprayed me with the garden hose on several occasions for violating his lawn perimeters with my bicycle tires. To him, I was a trespasser. Even so, I had the last word. I went to Othal's funeral.
The memories just poured in as I drove through the old neighborhood today. I saw the place where I beat up Roger Ghee for making fun of me. I saw the corner where I slugged Mark Burdock for plotting against me at the cub scout meeting. I drove past the house of Cindy Veach and Tim Terrell and Mark Jackson. Mark's step brother used to expose himself to the girl's at recess. I'm sure that would land him in counseling and maybe a care facility today, but back then, all you got was a spanking. Simpler times, but more effective methods.
I also had some very strange experiences in that house we lived in, but I think I will save that for another time. Just let me say, they were of a paranormal nature. It did not help that I was a sleep walker.
I am told that I should not be able to remember these things since I was two years old at the time, but I swear that I do. My earliest memory is a tonsillectomy at Mercy Hospital in Des Moines. I do not remember the actual surgical procedure, but I do remember the check in. Back in those days, the nuns at the hospital still wore the penguin outfits and they were, to my recollection, quite mean. I was only two, but it took three of them to strip me, put me in hospital wear and get me ready for surgery. I vaguely recollect kicking one of them while I still had a shoe on. I think that earned me a smack. I also remember the administration of the ether which is what passed for anesthetic in those ancient times. Beyond that, I remember waking up in the middle of the night unable to talk and not knowing where my mommy and daddy were. I was in a ward with other children and I recall a little girl in the next bed getting up to get me a drink of water. A kindness by a stranger to another stranger. Odd how those things stick in the mind.
I also remember committing a B&E at the age of three with my close friend and or arch nemesis (depending on what time of day it was), Kelly Dean Jones. Kelly was my age and one day it occurred to us to break into the Disciples of Christ church that was up the street. Bondurant is where we lived at the time. It was a very laid back and quiet community outside of Des Moines.
Anyhow, this is not normally something that three year olds would consider on their own. As it happens, David Sprague, last in a long line of juvenile delinquent brothers, was there to encourage us in our efforts. David was eight. Kelly and I were convinced that since he was eight, he must know everything and so we hung on his every word. Earlier, Kelly and I had been zooming up and down the sidewalk on our tricycles gathering walnuts and then throwing them in his yard...sometimes at each other. On one of our nut gathering rides, we pulled up in front of the church. We were throwing walnuts at each other and one of them hit the glass door of the church. David Sprague had been watching us. He walked up and told us there was a room full of toys in there to play with. All we had to do was go in. We tried to open the door but it was locked and so David suggested that we utilize our walnut collection to break the glass door window and climb in. After repeated assaults with the walnuts, the glass was proving impenetrable to our three year old throwing arms and there were no rocks to do the job that we could find. So...ever the good friend, David kicked in the lower pane of glass on the door and we went in. Strangely, David disappeared shortly after.
At some point, Kelly and I were found inside the church. We had taken off our coats and were playing in one of the children's Sunday school rooms. I think we had coloring books and crayons when our mothers showed up accompanied by the church pastor. I do not recall the punishment. I think it is probably blanked out of my mind with the other traumas of my youth. I do know that when my mother would tell the story years later, my grandfather responded that, "it was just a Disciples church." Laughter would ensue.
Not long after, we moved to Des Moines. I only saw Kelly Dean once after that briefly. We were not so impressed with each other. Life had moved on and we were older.
Today, since I've been on vacation, I drove passed the house we moved to in Des Moines. I barely recognized it because the two maple trees in front had been cut. The garage that Dad built was still in back though and seemed to be in much better shape than the house. The whole neighborhood has fallen into disrepair though. The only consistent, unchanged thing was the street. It is still made out of paving bricks. This is both cool and sad to me. Only the street itself withstood the test of time.
The house where Terry Stump and her sisters lived was still there. The place where Othal and Susie Snyder lived next door was also there with many changes. Mrs Holton's house and the Brewer house are still standing too, but all had changed with lack of care or too much repair.
The Snyders were quite elderly in 1962. They had never had children of their own and so I proved quite a challenge to live next door to. Othal kept a perfect yard, a perfect garden and a perfect car. He drove a 1949 blue De Soto that was always spotless. When they went somewhere, Susie always rode in the back seat. The thing that always fascinated me about that car was the curb feelers. It had these little chrome springy things on the edge of the front and rear fenders that would make a noise when they scraped the curb. I think this was to prevent the curb from scraping the frame.
Susie became my very good friend. She taught me how to play checkers and took me out to Othal's garden to pick flowers for Mom. She also gave me apple butter from their orchard in Adel.
Othal hated me. He sprayed me with the garden hose on several occasions for violating his lawn perimeters with my bicycle tires. To him, I was a trespasser. Even so, I had the last word. I went to Othal's funeral.
The memories just poured in as I drove through the old neighborhood today. I saw the place where I beat up Roger Ghee for making fun of me. I saw the corner where I slugged Mark Burdock for plotting against me at the cub scout meeting. I drove past the house of Cindy Veach and Tim Terrell and Mark Jackson. Mark's step brother used to expose himself to the girl's at recess. I'm sure that would land him in counseling and maybe a care facility today, but back then, all you got was a spanking. Simpler times, but more effective methods.
I also had some very strange experiences in that house we lived in, but I think I will save that for another time. Just let me say, they were of a paranormal nature. It did not help that I was a sleep walker.
The Magna Carta - 800 Years Old Today
In the history of western freedom from the tyranny of the State, the Magna Carta of England - The Great Charter - stands alone as the beginning of what loosely could be called self government. The tyrant, King John, was forced by his Barons to bend the knee to the rights of his subjects. Today, exactly 800 years later, the world celebrates this first movement toward freedom and away from tyranny.
The idea that a people can govern themselves should strike fear in the heart of every king, president, dictator, parliament or congress throughout the world. Do not trifle with our rights. They do not emanate from the behest of government officials or royal families. We are persons in our own right; the children of the ONE True God and it is He that gave us choice over our destiny. You are merely His servants Therefore, tread lightly as you rule or face His judgement.
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