Chapter 5
The Plot Thins Out
Ed was gone and I could only be with Jack on a limited basis, so I started to pal around with the two other boys my age that lived next door to us. Bruce Fisher was a year younger than I, while Dale Stone was a year older. Dale was a big strong kid who could and did beat the daylights out of me on occasion. Dale’s family would have fit perfectly in the Andy of Mayberry television program. His Dad, Al, worked at a local car repair shop, while his Mother Eva, was home taking care of the one daughter and two other sons in their family.
The Stone family was dirt poor for quite some time and lived in a broken down house that had been handed down from generation to generation. They still had an outhouse long after everyone in the neighborhood had indoor bathrooms. Al raised cows to supply milk and bulls for meat. They also raised pigs and chickens, some for meat and some that were sold to cover the cost of raising the animals.
It was exciting, grisly, and scary when it came time to slaughter the animals. Dale, Bruce, and I would climb up into the hay loft in the barn to get a bird’s eye view of the process. The man who slaughtered the bulls would shoot them right between the eyes and then cut them wide open to remove their inner parts. He took pleasure in cutting the hearts out and tossing them up in the loft at us. We would squeal in excitement and fear as we scrambled to keep the steaming hearts from hitting us.
Watching a pig’s death was downright amazing and somewhat sickening. Their back feet were bound with rope, followed by the squirming creatures being hoisted up in the air by block and tackle, where their throats were then cut. The pigs squealed in agony as they bled to death.
It was actually kind of humorous, in a twisted sort of way, to watch the chicken’s fate. They were held in a position so their necks were across a log and then their heads were chopped off. What was funny was that as soon as the deed was done, the headless fowl ran all around the yard flapping their wings until they bled to death.
I spent a lot of time at the Stone’s house, usually after school until Mom got home from work. Dale’s mother Eva would make us soup and sandwiches before we ran off to play. Living in a small, primarily rural farming community, we seldom had more than four other kids to play with. Our baseball and basketball games were usually three against three. The Stones were a close knit family and enjoyed sitting on their porch together, talking, and watching the sunset.
Their big family event, which took place once every three months, involved loading the family into their 1953 Kiser Frazier automobile, and driving the 12 miles to the Dipson Theater in the city of Batavia to see a movie. Dale was often allowed to bring me long as his guest. I look back now with such fond memories of eating popcorn, Cracker Jacks, and Milk Duds while watching those corny Ma and Pa Kettle movies with the Stone family. And like a bridge across time I can still feel the longing I had for a close, loving, and secure family like theirs. When Mom wasn’t working she pursued her favorite pastime, shopping. She would buy me anything my heart desired and loved to get my picture taken at the best photo studios. On top of that, my clothes were always purchased at the most expensive stores in Buffalo.
When the school sent a note home informing Mom that eye tests revealed I needed glasses for reading, she took me to the highest priced optometrist and purchased the most expensive frames for the glasses. When I tried out my glasses, Dad jokingly called me “Four-eyes.” That was the end of the eyewear, I found them a new home in the garbage can refusing to let Mom get me another pair.
What was interesting is that I was never punished me for throwing the glasses away. Amazingly, my eyes must have healed themselves because when I enlisted in the military 13 years later, my vision was a perfect 20/20. I didn’t have to wear another pair of glasses until I was over 30 years old. Kind of makes you wonder doesn’t it?
Because of the guilt Mom felt due to adopting me and then having Daddy John abandon us, it was easy to manipulate her into buying me anything I wanted or letting me do anything I desired. The result was that she was turning me into a spoiled brat. Dad pointed out that I needed discipline and tried to invoke some consequences for my spoiled behavior. However, Mom would have none of it and indulged my every whim. What she didn’t see was that down inside, I really desired the security of the limits and punishment that Dad knew I deserved and needed. Mom also hated it when Dad would say “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” and “Gert you’re wrecking a good child.”One thing about mom that was really interesting was her driving abilities or should I say lack of them. Her escapades behind the wheel are legendary to this very day. I will share a few of the volumes of stories about her being behind the wheel of an automobile.
It all started back in 1952 when she decided to buy a new Pontiac to “Drive back and forth to work and the store.” There were problems right from the get-go at the car dealership. In those days most of the cars had manual transmissions, which meant that in order to properly place the vehicle in motion, the driver had to be able to walk and chew gum at the same time; an attribute Mom lacked. She just couldn’t coordinate the fine art of putting the clutch in before shifting into first gear and gently releasing it while applying a little pressure on the gas peddle to start the car in motion.
Four things stand out in my mind about that first ride with her. First, that terrible grinding sound; second, how many times I flew against the dashboard; third, how the engine roared at 40 miles-per-hour in first gear; and finally, the screams and swearing from Dad as Mom plowed into the back of his Buick to stop her car. But it got better! In 1952 you could buy a car, drive awhile, and then get your drivers license. And now that Mom had purchased a car, she decided it was time to take her road test and get her license.
I recall that process almost as vividly as the first ride home. It was a beautiful Monday morning as we pulled up to the Department of Motor Vehicles testing site and got in line for the road test. Mom watched intently as the DMV examiner, dressed in his dark blue uniform with clipboard in hand, walked up to each car. He asked the driver a number of questions recording their responses on his clipboard, then entered the vehicle on the passenger’s side and away went the cars. In approximately ten minutes the car returned to the test site. Then the tester told the driver whether they passed or failed and got out of the car, proceeding to the next car in line.
I remember Mom commenting with a chuckle that it looked like the DMV tester wasn’t mad, so the person must have passed. Finally it was our turn and the tester walked up to our car. He asked for Mom’s name and address, wrote them on the form attached to his clipboard and entered our car. He told mom to start the car, proceed up the street to the first red light, and turn left onto Main Street using the proper signals. I would like to report that we made it to Main Street, but I can’t.
Mom started the car as directed, however, in her nervousness, popped the clutch with the engine racing, and flew out in to traffic without looking or signaling at all. There was a screeching of tires and horns blaring as she cut right in front of cars coming down the street. To make matters worse, when she heard the screeching tires and horns blowing, she panicked, floor boarded the gas pedal, causing the tester and me to fly back in our seats. She then slammed on the brakes, skidding into a car that had stopped at the red light.
The impact threw me into the back of the passenger seat, as the tester flew into the dash. Mom calmly said “I guess I failed?” After gaining his composure, the tester picked up his clip board he dropped while flying into the dash and stamped the form “FAILED,” then bailed out of our car.
Undaunted, mom returned the next Monday for her second try at the test. As the tester approached our car, I could see trepidation in his face, however, he professionally filled out the test form and entered our car. Mom informed him that she had practiced pulling out into traffic, looking for other cars, and using the proper signals, so this time it would be a “snap.”
It was a snap, until after looking for other cars, using her hand signals, and the cars left turn signal, she pulled on to the street. She was so happy that she accomplished the first stage of the test; she looked over at the tester and with a big smile said “How did I do?”
At that instant the light at the corner turned red. As Mom looked back at the street she saw that the car in front of us had stopped. Mom realized she could not stop quickly enough to keep from hitting the stopped car, and yanked the steering wheel to the right causing our car to veer over the curb and on to the side walk. The impact with the curb threw the tester up against his door and then jolted him back over to the driver’s side of the car where he landed in mom’s lap. This time he lost his composure and swore under his breath “D_ _ _ crazy lady,” stamped “FAILED” on the form as he jumped out of our car running back towards the test area. As I crawled into the front seat Mom observed, “He seems to get upset easily.”
Sure enough, there we were the next Monday, in line for the third try. I could see the tester nervously looking back at us with a scowl on his face each time he got into the cars ahead of us. When it was our turn, the tester walked up to mom’s window in the car, ripped off the test form, stamped it “PASSED,” handed it through her window and just walked away! Mom laughed, commenting, “See Bobby, the third time was a charm” as she drove away, a fully licensed driver.