On the Warpath

I was the second oldest kid in the family. There were a total of eight kids–four boys and four girls. The two youngest boys, Robert and Ryan, came along when I was nearly grown and gone. Like all younger siblings, it was determined by observation that the two younger boys were coddled and spoiled. Actually, I wasn’t around much to observe closely, but I did notice that those boys didn’t get whippings nearly as much as we older kids. I suppose mom and dad had evolved into folks who’d just grown weary of beating their kids into submission. Maybe they had matured in their approach to dealing with discipline; I don’t know. I do know the younger ones had it a lot easier than I.

When Julie, the third child, was young, she was the recipient of the ‘laying-on-of-hands.’ The signal that she was getting a good  beating was the cry, “No-momma, no-momma, no-momma!” screamed over and over while the solid whacks could be heard all over the house and sometimes throughout the neighborhood as Mikey and I were both a safe distance away–playing. In those days, Julie walked to the beat of her own drum and she paid the price.

In spite of the paddle-whacks and butt-kickings, being a parenting project in Mike and Birdie Hicks’ home while they were new parents was fine. I was fed, clothed, taken to Church on Sundays, and given opportunities to laugh and play just like most other kids.

Reflecting from the perspective of an adult on my life as a kid, there are certain problematic, puzzling phenomena.  A total survey, in retrospect, I’ve concluded there are some things for which I have no reasonable explanation. For example, what was the basis for my phobia of adult men? Being threatened with a butter knife in a weed field is the single incident I correlate with this phobia, but I've searched my memory files and feelings for a deeper explanation. Reason dictates that a threat from a young girl would not cause a debilitating phobia which would constantly linger and gnaw at the fiber of my stable existence for years.

Painting vivid mental pictures as I express the darker side of my youth is not easy, and I refuse to hail from a presumptuous position and attempt to answer the questions of ‘why or how,’ that invariably crop up. I've concluded there are some details for which I have no definitive answers; all I can do is describe the accounts and relate my feelings associated with those accounts. All the gray areas–the minutiae of experience that finely honed and molded my soul, constituting my temperament–I am still, after 47 years, trying to define.

At four years old, I began to stutter. I recall distinctly being unable to form words that were previously easy to say. By this time, my speech impediment was not as profound and I was able to say, with a degree of exactness, most words in a four year-old vocabulary. For some reason, however, my throat muscles and vocal chords suddenly would not work in harmony and I stammered and stuttered my way through every conversation. I was embarrassed and frustrated, with one more set-back attacking my young, fragile dignity.

Around that period of time, I had the hell scared out of me by Grandpa Harry. Looking back, the incident makes me laugh. At the time, it was serious. I didn't, at the time, know anything about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I do now, and that is what amuses me at the lead-up to this situation.
Mikey and I were left with Grandma and Grandpa Hicks in Boise. I loved my grandparents, but I was afraid of Grandpa. He was a big, dark, loud man who looked like an unpainted Indian on the Warpath.

I was given the living room couch to sleep on for the night. Being in a new place and afraid of the dark, Grandpa left the door to the bathroom slightly ajar with the light on. I lay on the couch and realized there was too much light shining in my eyes. I got up and pushed the door shut slightly so there was only a tiny slit of light shining out. Once in bed, I realized I had shut the door too much, causing eerie shadows to be cast all over the room, so I got up and opened it a tiny bit. Once back in bed, I realized that the room was now too bright, so I got up once more and shut the door a tiny bit. For the next half-hour or so, I continued this intense ritual.

Suddenly, the big, dark, loud Indian on the Warpath came screaming out of bed. I was sure my life was over! Grandpa hovered over me screaming every vile thing I had ever heard in my four years of life on earth, and some things I had not. Grandma stood behind him pleading, “You’re scaring the boy, Harry! You’re scaring the boy!” I was sure she was the reason he did not rip me from my bed, scalp me, and tear my arms and legs off.

He stormed off as quickly as he arrived, with Grandma scampering along behind. I was left in a terrified bundle on the couch, so scared I couldn't cry. It wasn't long before the big, dark, loud Indian returned. He had tears in his eyes and apologized for wanting to kill me earlier. He walked over to the bathroom door and stood there while I advised him exactly how to adjust the door. He was patient and calm as I instructed him. Then we went to sleep–I with the residual effects of abuse, Grandpa with the residual effects of being a madman–and believe me, he was mad!

It would be an ad nauseistic venture in futility to list and describe all my experiences that eroded my youthful innocence. Life always went on and I am now a product of my experiences and environment. Thrown in there too, are the many things I inherited. Some Shrinks advise that in order to be mentally healthy, I must dredge up all my youthful experiences, have them analyzed, and place blame on the perpetrators for all the unusual tics in my psyche.

I choose not to pursue those witch hunts. I've addressed the issues I feel are important in addition to mending and strengthening the fences and bridges I've built in life. After all, life is a continual journey and my exact destination has not been determined, yet. But I am certainly enjoying the scenery along the way.