Cigars and Cigarettes

My dad had many vices including cigarettes, alcohol, fighting, and women. But among his dearest bad habits was smoking cigars. I loved the smell of them and was amused by the heavy smoke that swirled around as he puffed on them.

One day when I was out in the truck with my dad I began to beg him to let me smoke a cigar so I could be a big man like he was. He told me no but I could sense a bit of amusement in my admiration of his smelly vice. As I continued to bug him about smoking just one he relented.

He said, “I will let you smoke one, but you have to smoke the whole cigar and you must never tell your mother.” I was overjoyed…I was going to be just like my dad. I promised I would smoke the whole cigar and would not complain. I also crossed my heart that I would never tell my mom about the secret that just we men knew. That promise lasted for exactly one puff.

Dad got my cigar lit and handed it to me as he and my brother laughed at me. They knew what was coming but I didn’t. I drew in a big puff of smoke and instantly started coughing. My eyes began to water and my nose was running. My dad and brother were splitting their sides as they pointed and laughed at me. Their ribbing did not bother me but the stinging in my throat and the burning in my eyes and nose did. After one puff I had had enough. I tried to hand the big cigar back to my dad but he told me I had promised to smoke the whole thing and I had to keep my word.

He put the brown poison back in my lips and told me to puff. I did. This time it was a little easier but I still coughed. Time after time I puffed and hacked with tears running down my face. My mouth felt like it was on fire. I asked for water to drink but we did not have any plus he told me, “If you drink water you will throw up.” This little boy was miserable. My dad and brother were having a grand old time watching me get sick and turn green.

I was about half finished with the cigar when dad’s big truck pulled up in front of our home. He put the cigar out and told me I did not have to finish the rest of it. He made me promise once again not to tell my mom what he had allowed me to do. “And,” he said, “you cannot get a drink of water when you go inside because you will throw up.” I promised to stay away from mom and water as I walked inside with my cohorts in crime. I was feeling a bit better but my mouth was dry and still burning.

My mother met us at the door and instantly asked my dad what he had been up to. The smirk on his face was easy for her to read. He had obviously been up to no good and she feared this time it included her “little baby.” The gig was up. He told her he had let me have one puff on his cigar after my insistent pestering…that was all…one puff…and I had gotten sick.

She asked me if that was true and I was quick to agree with my dad’s lie. She walked off to the kitchen with nothing more to say. It looked like we were in the clear. But I was still thirsty. I begged my dad for a drink. He quietly told me, “No, you don’t want to throw up do you?” But I felt like a man lost for a week in the desert. I had to have water. So I hatched my own plan.   

I got up and headed for the bathroom. Dad told me once again not to get water while I was there. I told him I wouldn’t. Once in the bathroom I decided he would hear if I turned on the water in the sink as it was right next to the door. So I got in the bath tub and turned on just a trickle of water. I put my mouth up to the faucet and began to suck up the precious water. It felt so good in my mouth. I swallowed one big gulp after another. As the cool water slipped down my throat I thought how wrong my dad had been.  I was not going to throw up. I was even planning on telling him so when all of the sudden what seemed like the entire contents of Outer Mongolia came from my stomach and out of my mouth. I heaved time after time. I thought I was going to die. My parents must have heard me heaving because they came in to check on me. They found me kneeling in the bath tub with puke and water all over the front of my shirt and pants. My dad broke out laughing saying he had told me so.

Mom was more compassionate. She cleaned me up and comforted me, telling me I would feel better soon. She then asked me if I had indeed just had one puff of dad’s cigar or had he let me smoke more. I kept my promise and sided with my dad’s version of the story. “Yes,” I said, “I only had one puff.” The discussion was over but I think my mom still knew there was more to the story than was being told. Now, after all these years, she will know for sure that she was right.

Several years later my brother Tony was smoking a Kool Filter cigarette when I asked him to let me smoke one too. He was down to the end of one that he handed to me. He told me to suck really hard on it and it would make me high. As gullible as any 10 year old boy I did what he told me. I sucked in as hard as I could on the short cigarette. Fire came back into my mouth and burned my lips, tongue, and the inside of my cheeks. He laughed. I cried. But I never again smoked a cigar or a cigarette. Those two experiences were quiet enough to teach me all I needed to know about those vices.

Mischievous

Growing up is usually not as easy as it seems it should be. Some people just don’t understand how many problems a seven year old boy really can have? Problems like how to smoke a cigar without turning green, how to stop a tire from losing air, or how to get the attention of the entire neighborhood. Such was the extent of the problems I faced when I was seven.

My biological father, Julian Bennett, was quite a prankster and had an appreciation for mischievousness on my part. He would often catch me red handed doing something wrong (on purpose or accident), try as hard as he could to give me a stern look, and then burst out laughing. For some reason he was fascinated by my antics.

A number of truckers were friends to my dad. On this particular day we were visiting one named James. He had a big 18 wheeler truck he kept parked outside his home. While the men were inside drinking coffee I was outside playing with my balsa wood airplane. I flung in once and it landed near James’ huge machine. I cautiously stepped near the truck to retrieve my toy. Gazing at the huge tires I noticed the long valve stems. I had seen my dad put in and release air from his tires through a similar apparatus. But my dad’s truck didn’t have stems this big.

I wondered what it would sound like if I pushed the little pin inside a valve stem to release air like my dad did. I pushed one down with the tip of a sharp stick I found laying nearby. The tire came alive like an angry snake and quickly quieted as I jumped back in surprise. I mustered my courage and tried it again…this time a little longer. I thought I would do it just one more time. This time I got down close because I wanted to feel the tire’s escaping air blowing on my face. I pushed the valve stem nozzle once again with the stick. I could feel the smelly air against my face. I pulled the stick back to stop the flow of air… but the air continued blowing.

I stood there on my knees for a moment trying to figure out what had gone wrong. I pushed the nozzle again and again. I was frantic. It soon became clear the tire was going flat. I knew I needed to tell someone. I grabbed my toy plane in hand and ran to the kitchen and busted through the door where several men, including my dad, were seated around the table.  

All eyes were on me as I quickly told my dad that all the air was coming out of one of James’ tires. I guess I had a guilty look on my face because my dad said, “Allen Dale, what did you do to that tire?” All the men snickered. I looked my dad square in the eyes and came up with a lie without blinking an eye. I explained that I had been flying my balsa wood airplane and it hit the valve stem and all of the sudden air came hissing out of the tire…all by itself...and now the tire was flat. All the men began to laugh hysterically to hear my tale. Someone slapped my dad on the back and told him that his son was as good a liar as he was. I didn’t know whether I should be proud or ashamed. But then my dad began laughing too so I assumed my lie was a good thing. As the future unfolded I began to notice the bigger the lie told the more attention I would get…and this little seven year old boy loved attention.

Dream With A Bent Wheel

When my parents gave my brother Tony and me bicycles for Christmas they opened up a whole new world of exploration and independence. They put no restrictions on where we could go on our bicycles with the exception of one. We were told that under no circumstances were we to go across Rosedale Street in the Polytechnic section of Fort Worth. For me that seemed of be a good rule. Rosedale, even in that day, was a treacherous byway and certainly was not a good place for children to be riding their bicycles. Besides, we had miles and miles of roads, roads that were much safer, that we could ride. It seemed like a fair trade off to me.

It did not seem fair to Tony. He did not want anyone telling him what he could or could not do or where he could or could not go. To say he had developed a rebellious streak would be putting it mildly. He had bristled the year before when Big Jim married my mom. Tony felt he was the man of the house and that he did not need Big Jim telling him what to do.

He often encouraged me to do things that would make dad upset. He knew I loved dad and dad loved me and he seemed bent on damaging that relationship. This explains why Tony kept after me to ride my bicycle across Rosedale Street. His persistent ragging on me about it finally broke my resolve. I rode across the dangerous intersection near our house with a racing heart and a dry mouth. Once on the other side, Tony exclaimed, “See I told you nothing would happen. Jim just doesn’t want you to have any fun.” It seemed my big brother was right. Nothing had happened and I was sure I could get back across that same intersection safely.

What attracted us to go across Rosedale Street in the first place was a large red dirt hill that boys would push their bikes up and then ride back down. All the boys seemed to be having a grand time so I decided to give it a try too. But before I could ride down I had to push my bike to the top. That was an ordeal in itself. Once at the top I put the kick stand down on my bike till I could find the courage to ride down what seemed like a mountain (which looking back is funny. If you live in the area you know there are no mountains in Fort Worth…only big piles of dirt.)

While I was working on courage I heard some boys yell out to the rest of us from a nearby bread store. They were inside the dumpster and had discovered a treasure trove of day old cupcakes and donuts. We all ran as fast as our little legs would carry us to the dumpster. We were all climbing in and stuffing ourselves with our good fortune when we heard the sound of an off-road motorcycle. The driver was on his trusty steed trying to conquer the hill…the hill where my bike was parked right at the top...right where the motorcycle would soon be. To make things worse, because of the angle, the driver could not see my bicycle.

We were all frozen looking at the hill. We could not see the motorcycle from our angle but each boy there had a fear his bike might be ready for the garbage dump soon. And then we heard a crash and what sounded like the motorcycle going out of control. The engine died, was quickly restarted, and could be heard retreating down the hill. We all scampered out of the dumpster like cock roaches when the light is turned on.

I am sure there were more prayers being offered up that afternoon than at the average church on a Sunday morning. “Please, don’t let it be mine.” was my selfish prayer. Being a little younger and slower than most of the boys, I was the last one to arrive at a place on the hill where the damage could be observed. I pushed through the gathering and saw what I feared. It was my bicycle. My front wheel was bent almost double like a taco. My brother jabbed me with his elbow and exclaimed, “I told you you shouldn’t come over here. Jim will kill you if he ever finds out. You are in big trouble…but I’ll help you.”

By way of “help” Tony did not mean he would give me his front wheel or loan me his bike. He did not mean he would pay for a new wheel. By “help” he meant he would slam on my wheel with a sledge hammer and hop up and down on it as it was leaned against a curb until it was almost straight. But, you know, almost straight is not good enough when dealing with things with wheels…especially if they only have two to start with. My once beautiful bike now looked like a 2:00 a.m. drunk on Saturday night. I couldn’t have made it wobble more if I tried. Some of the boys teased with me saying I looked like a circus clown act. I guess I was the only one not laughing.

Tony told me that when Jim asked what had happened I was to tell him that to avoid being hit by a car I had run into a curb, thus bending my wheel. As big brothers often do, he helped me practice my lie. He wanted me to be convincing. A few days later Big Jim saw my precarious wheel and asked what had happened. My throat seized up and didn’t want to let any words out but my practice paid off and I was able to spit out the lie my brother had coached me in. My dad paused, looked over his glasses at me, and said, “You sure about that, son?” I was in neck deep by this time and reassured him that my tale was truthful.

Having lived 53 years and raised seven children I know dad did not buy my story for one minute. He knew I was not being truthful but he was not going to punish me for lying. I guess he knew the wobbly wheel would be punishment enough. What I did not know then but I do know now is it would not have been me that got in trouble if I had told the truth…it would have been my brother. Of course Tony realized that…and thus the lie he taught me.

I rode that bike for a couple of more years after that. It was embarrassing but a bad bike is better than no bike at all I reasoned. During this time I had joined the Boy Scouts of America. The local troops were hosting a fundraiser bike event that would support a childhood disease. We were expected ride something like 15 miles to raise money. I was excited about participating but sad that my bike was so pathetic. I asked mom and dad if they would get me a new bicycle. I figured I had a chance because I rarely asked for anything.

By this time boys were riding bikes with multiple speeds and front and rear brakes. Mine was a plain Jane bike. (No offense to any women named Jane.) It was single speed with coaster breaks. I told my parents all the other boys would have cool bikes and mine was old fashioned. My emotional plea was met with pure logic. They had no extra money and could not afford such an extravagance especially since I had a “perfectly good” bike already. Dad did, however, offer to buy me a new front wheel. I accepted.

The day before the race dad called me out to the garage. When I got there I saw a glorious sight. He and mom had purchased a three speed bike with front and rear brakes. It was green and looked very stylish. I grabbed my dad and gave him a big hug. He told me to go ride and break it in. I was so proud of that bike the next day I must have looked like the big yellow, happy faced character form Wal-Mart. Dad and mom really did understand they cared about how I felt.

Several months later we moved to Wichita Falls and started a little farm. Close to the farm was a very steep paved road. Tony, now 18, was visiting us with his new wife. He wanted to go ride down the big hill on my new bicycle. I was riding my old red Firestone. We started picking up some serious speed. The wind was sweeping by so quickly we could hardly hear each other. Tony started getting a little scared since this was his first time on the hill. It was also his first time on a bike with hand operated brakes. He yelled out in desperation, “Which one of these things is the brake?” I yelled back, “Pull the right one.” That was the rear brake on my bike. He pulled the left lever. Instantly the bike and Tony were airborne. Tony was slammed into the pavement and to make matters worse the bike came down on top of him. I thought he would never stop rolling and sliding on the pavement. When he did finally come to a stop his shirt was ripped off and his pants were barely hanging on. Blood was pouring out all over his skinned body. We took him to the hospital where the doctor spent a couple of hours putting bandages on him and sewing him up.

To this day Tony has some major scars on his body from that simple mistake. And of course, he claims I told him the wrong lever. I know I told him correctly. He just doesn’t know his right from his left. Oh, and my bike? Wouldn’t you know it? It got a bent front wheel. 

A Dog and His Chicken Part Two

In A Dog and His Chicken Part One I mentioned my dog Prince…the daschund…the soccer player. He was a great dog and a true friend. After his death we had several other puppies that came and went from our home. Some of them were vagrants I found wondering helplessly on the streets. We only kept them long enough to find them a good home. One of those puppies was a doberman pincer mix. I named him Prince in honor of my daschund.

Shortly after I found my pincher puppy we moved to a bit of acreage outside of Wichita Falls. My dad and I made a large secure pen for Prince to keep him from wondering off and to keep him safe from wild animals. That summer we built a large fenced yard he could be released in during the daytime. My puppy had grown into a good sized dog that that was full of energy. Using techniques my dad had taught me I trained him on the leash and then off the leash. He became adept at voice commands as well as hand signals. He was smart, playful, and powerful.

One day Prince was in his pen and I took some left over fried chicken out for him to eat. He ate a piece of it and then started digging a hole to bury the rest of it in for later. I scolded him for his antics. He quickly retreated into his dog house. The remainder of the chicken was left on the ground just outside his dwelling. My obedient dog poked his head back out the door and lay down with his chin resting on his paws. I assumed my desire for him to not destroy his pen with holes had been understood so I went on with my chores on the farm.

Several hours later I came back to feed Prince his supper. He was still lying in the same position, chin on paws, with his nose inches away from a pile of fried chicken.  He had misunderstood me. He thought I did not want him to eat the chicken not that I didn’t want him to dig holes. I stood there in amazement that any animal could actually conquer his natural instincts in order to obey his master. He lifted his head and looked at me with his big brown eyes as to say, “Have I been a good dog? May I please eat…cause I’m starving?”

I called out to him a command to eat and immediately he was up, out of his dog house, and devouring the sun-baked fried chicken. It took him just a short time to finish it and he was then ready for supper. Between courses he danced around with joy. I praised him for being a good dog. Truth is a lot changed that day. I no longer looked at him as just a dog. He seemed to be something more than that. He had something in his being that I longed for…self-control. As strange as it may sound I looked up to that dog as some kind of a role model.

After building the pen and fencing the yard we built a chicken coop and purchased 100 baby chicks. We raised them successfully till they were grown and decided to try our hand at expanding the operation.

When we worked with the chickens we kept Prince in his pen so he would not jump the fence and destroy our profits and ruin a good dog. My dad always said that if a dog ever got the taste of chicken blood he would be no good around chickens again because he would kill everyone he could. I didn’t know if that was true but I was taking no chances because I loved Prince and I didn’t want my dad to shoot him.

Our second batch of chicks was put into raised cages. They were not large enough to be put into “general population” with the older hens because the hens would peck them to death. The floors of the cages were made of what is called hardware cloth. It is wire that forms ½ squares holes to make fencing. It keeps the chicks off the ground, away from snakes and out of their own pooh as it falls through the holes.

The day after we received the second shipment of chicks I came out to water and feed the new arrivals. I noticed one of the chicks had gotten herself into a difficult predicament. Her right foot had slipped through one of the tiny holes and in trying to extricate herself she had simply made a bad situation worse. When I found her, her entire swollen leg…all the way up to the body… was in the hole. She was barely making a sound as she was lying on her side. The other chicks were gathered around pecking at her.

I yelled for my dad who came running to see what was upsetting me. He struggled to get the chick out in one piece but her leg muscle was torn in shreds and she lay lifeless in my dad’s hand. We had a burn barrel nearby so my dad tossed her in to be burned with the rest of the trash later in the day. It appeared he was not able to save her.

Later that day I brought the household trash out to burn and I heard a soft “cheep, cheep, cheep,” coming from the burn barrel. The injured chick was struggling to set up and get her balance. It was if she was saying to the entire world, “I want to live.” I quickly scooped her up and ran to show her to my dad. He told me he didn’t think she would survive but I could try to take care of her if I wanted. I did.

Big Jim built a special cage for my chicken I called snowflake and she seemed to like it. I fed her from my hand every day. Before long she was hobbling around on her good leg…dragging her injured leg behind her. Snowflake was getting fat and seemed to enjoy having the run of the fenced backyard.

Prince seemed to take a special interest in her. He would bark in a pleading manner for me to let him out of his pen when she was in the yard. I was sure he wanted to see if raw chicken tasted as good as fried chicken. My dad encouraged me to put Prince to the test one afternoon. I put the inquisitive dog on the leash and walked him over to Snowflake. He sniffed her and then nudged her with his nose. She pecked at him and he jumped back. He let out a soft bark and she flapped her wings. Instantly he was stretching the leash to get away from this scary white creature. I let him off the leash. After a few minutes of pecking, nudging, flapping, and barking Prince and Snowflake were friends.

After a few days of controlled visits I was able to let this odd couple stay in the yard all day long together. They looked like a slapstick comedy team as Prince would chase the crippled white chicken all the way around the yard. To return the favor, Snowflake would then chase the large brown Doberman around the yard. I don’t know what she thought she would do with him if she ever caught him. My mother would watch them for the longest time and often laughed till she cried.

After they tired of this playground game Prince would lay down and Snowflake would snuggle up between his front paws. Then my gentle giant would put his head on his pet chicken and they would both go to sleep. These two friends slept this way every day for several months.

In the evening I would put Snowflake back in her cage. Prince was usually allowed to stay in the yard all night long by this point instead of penning him. One night I forgot to put Snowflake back in her cage. During the night I was awakened by a bunch of neighborhood dogs barking outside my window. In the midst of them I could hear Prince barking too. At one point it sounded like he was fighting with them but I was not concerned because I knew he could handle himself against any of these mangy curs. What I did not realize was that the helpless little Snowflake must have actually been the object of the battle.

I got up to feed Snowflake the next morning and was aghast when I discovered her cage was not closed and secured the evening before. Franticly I ran to the backyard to see Prince lying on the ground with the remains of Snowflake between his paws…his head settled gently on her. When he saw me he looked up with a pitiful look in his eyes. It looked to me as though he was crying…he had not been able to defend his pet chicken and she had died. For awhile I blamed the neighbors for letting their dogs run wild. Then I blamed the dogs for doing it. Then I blamed Prince for not being able to beat a whole pack of dogs. But ultimately it was my fault because I failed to put her back in the cage that fateful evening.

What a hard lesson to learn. This was the second animal that had died because I failed to do my job. I found it difficult to deal with. Since that time I have not been very fond of owning animals and have often resisted my family’s plea to purchase one or take in a stray or a give away. Philosophically I believe in the goodness of having family pets but emotionally the compilation of pet tragedies has left me wondering if the pain is worth the pleasure.    

A Dog and His Chicken Part One

A friend recently told me they found it interesting that I loved dogs so much as a boy but that I do not own one now. I am sure the reason for that is wrapped securely in a sad event that happened with my last boyhood dog and his chicken. Now, I am sure you have heard of dogs taking up with various farm animals and helping to raise them. This is one of those stories. But before I tell you that story let me give you a brief rundown of dogs I have owed…or should I say dogs that have owned me.

I had sworn off ever loving another dog after Princess died. I did not think I could take the pain of losing another dog I loved. But that commitment did not last very long. When we moved we moved to a house we purchased in Fort Worth. It was a nice little place with a big back yard and a huge garage.

While we were looking for homes my mom and dad met an elderly couple that was selling their home and became good friends with them even though we did not buy their home. When they did sell their home and prepared to move to a small apartment they asked our family if we wanted their dog. He was a miniature daschund…a smaller version of Princess, my dog that died in my last story, but rust colored and can you guess his name…that’s right…Prince…the couple had given him that name. Prince was welcomed by me with open arms.

He was a peculiar dog. He had to have a particular rug that had to be placed on our couch every night before he would go to sleep. After he hopped on the rug, scratched at it a few times, we then had to cover him with a baby blanket. One night we forgot to put the rug on the couch. The next morning there was a hole the diameter of a basketball in the couch cushion. He evidently kept scratching at the cushion to get comfortable.

The next morning when I saw the hole, I was afraid my parents would get rid of Prince but my mom simply said it was her fault because she forgot to put his rug down. She said, “I understand how hard it is to sleep in a strange bed.” She simply turned the cushion over and never forgot again to put down the rug. I realized then and there I was not the only one in the family who loved dogs.

Prince also played soccer. Even though he was only the height of the ball, he was able to push and guide the ball around every tree and other obstacle in the yard with ease. I never seemed to be able to take the ball away from him. He would steal it from me though and run it from one end of the yard to the other. He would then wait for me to get it and start to the other end and then steal it from me. Occasionally he would even weave it between my feet as to say, “Come on, slow poke, are you going to let a dog outplay you.” We would play this game of back and forth for what seemed like hours.

This amateur athlete was already old when he was given to us. The sides of his face were turning grey. But he ran and played with me every day like he was a puppy. One day, I walked into the garage and found Prince lying peacefully on the floor. I tried to wake him up but quickly realized he had died. I stood there looking at him for some time in deep contemplation. It looked as though his old body had just given out from having so much fun with his boy. This time I did not cry over the loss of my friend instead I smiled. I did not feel as though his life had been cut short or interrupted by the seemingly unfair circumstances. He had been subjected to a life of happiness, fun, and pampering. Today I can verbalize what I realized back then, “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”

To Be Continued…

Speaking The Same Language

Sometimes life gives us very tough situations. Usually the situation is easily solved and it is not difficult to see how the situation helped us be a better person. But occasionally these situations turn out in a way that we are unable to see any good in it. Such was the case with one of my favorite dogs.

The first dog I ever trained I named princess. She was a blond daschund mix. My step-dad, Big Jim, bought a choke chain and a leash for me and taught me some basic skills needed to train her. He told me I had to be firm but loving. He said, “Son, you have to be patient with her. You two don’t speak the same language. She does not understand what you are saying but in time she will. She will want to make you happy but you have to help her understand what you want.” Then he said something that really made me think, “Don’t blame her if she doesn’t do something you want her to do. It’s not her fault…it’s your fault because you didn’t explain it in a language she could understand.”

He said no more on the subject. He sent me outside to work with my dog. But his words kept going over and over in my mind. At first I didn’t understand what he meant. But as a few days passed I got a clearer understanding of what he was meaning. It was more about me understanding and knowing my dog than it was about her knowing and understanding me. If I knew her she would know me. If I understood her she would understand me. We would then speak the same language.

Princess and I quickly learned to speak the same language. She was easy to train. I could see the eagerness to please in her eyes. Within a few days she was off the leash and obeying every command I made.

She would walk with me everywhere I walked. Or run along with me every time I went out on my bicycle. When I went into a store she stayed outside sitting by my bicycle awaiting my return…never getting up to explore, stretch, or even chase a passing cat.

One day I wanted to test her so I took her to the sidewalk in front of our house. I commanded her to sit. She did so promptly. I began to walk away and gave her the command to stay. I went into the house and would occasionally look out the window to see how she was doing. She stayed there for about 30 minutes until I finally was convinced she would stay, if I let her, till the end of the world…because she thought it would make me happy.

I loved princess and she loved me. I often rewarded her with dog treats and she rewarded me with wet licks on the face. I would sometimes lay down in the spring sunlight on the lawn. My loving dog would snuggle up next to me, place her head on my stomach and fall asleep with me in the sun’s warmth.

Princess had one bad habit, though. She could not stand to be fenced in. Any fence we had could not hold her. She would climb up one side and instead of jumping from the top to the ground she would climb back down the other side until she was about one foot from the ground and then jump. We assumed she was afraid of heights. Our family loved watching her climb the fence. I was quiet comical.

Then she got pregnant. As her pregnancy progressed we thought any day she would stop climbing the fence. But she didn’t. My mom would stand at the kitchen window and root for her has she painfully climbed the fence to go explore the neighborhood with her belly protruding as though she would pop at any moment. One day my mom called us all to the window to watch her. It took about five minutes for her to get to the top of the fence.  It appeared she was in pain and she was having a hard time figuring out how to get down. As my dad was heading out to help her she jumped and hit the ground with a flop as her legs gave out from under her. As she had jumped she had gotten caught on the spikes of the cyclone fence and ripped a gash in her right side.

She walked slowly to a small shed we had in our back yard. She laid down and immediately began giving birth to a litter of six active puppies.

Sometime after that, our family moved just across the street from the house where we had been living. It was a much nicer house and we were all so glad to be in the new home. After living there a days the landlady showed up at the door and told us she had noticed we had a dog but no dogs were allowed at her rental properties.  She agreed to give us two weeks to get rid of the dog or move. I was heartbroken…we could either move or I would have to say goodbye to Princess.

I was in tears as my dad explained to me that he would find a good home for my best friend and would not allow her to be taken to the pound where I feared she would be “put down.”

Within a couple of days dad came home with some great news. An elderly widow a short distance from our house was willing to take Princess. She was very lonely and would welcome her company. Her yard had a cyclone fence so Princess would be safe. Or so we thought.

The widow called us the day after we dropped Princess off at her home. It seems Princess had been sitting at the fence when she saw our car drive down the street and had climbed the fence and ran after us. She came back shortly after not catching us. Dad explained to the widow that she would get used to her new home and would not continue to climb the fence.

Dad was wrong. She continued her jail breaks. We got to the point that we would stop if we saw her chasing us. I would go put her back in the yard and scold her commanding her to stay. But now my words seemed to be falling on deaf ears. She longed to be by my side more than she desired to obey.

After a couple of weeks of this routine the widow called and said we would have to make Princess stop getting out or she would have to send her to the pound. To keep this from happening, Big Jim gave me a long chain and told me to go chain her up (the dog...not the widow.) He cautioned me to carefully measure the chain so Princess would not be able to get near the fence. Reluctantly, I took a chain to the widow’s house and chained my sweet little dog to a clothesline pole. I planned on leaving her chained for about a week until she was able to get me out of her system.

The next day a tearful widow called my dad. Dad was on the phone for just a moment when he softly hung up the phone. My dad sat down, called me over and sat me on his knee. I knew something was wrong. He told me that evidently upon seeing us drive by the previous day Princess had climbed the fence but this time her new chain had gotten caught on the spikes on the top of the fence. The widow had found her dead later that day.

My faithful friend had died because I failed to measure out the length of chain to make sure she would not be able to climb the fence. Grief over Princess was especially bad because I blamed myself for her death and no amount of consoling seemed to help. I buried her in the back yard under a small tree. I swore I would never love another dog again. It just hurt too bad to love a dog and then lose her.

The sad ending of the story goes beyond Princess’s death. Two weeks after her death we moved.  We had been in that house for only one month.

Dark Days

Protecting children is a chief duty of parents. Children are young and impressionable and easily led into activities they will later regret if they lack the judgment and oversight of parents or other concerned adults. Such was the case for Tony and me just a short time after my dad passed away.

My family had gone through a tremendous upheaval with the loss of my father. In spite of his obvious shortcomings he was the glue that held our family together. His strength was quickly missed. His absence brought an unusual amount of stress to my mother. Raising two boys, ages eight and eleven, by herself began to seem like an insurmountable ordeal.

Her concern was largely rooted in the fact that we had no money. Dad’s passing had left our family without income and no support system. My dad owned a ¾ ton truck he used in his business. Mom had hoped to sell it to pay some bills and buy food but a family member swindled my mother out of it. She did not realize until sometime later what they had done to her.

Mom married my dad when she was only 15 and he was 17. They welcomed my oldest brother, Alton, into the world just one year and 10 days later. Mom had always been a “stay at home mom” raising her children that would eventually add up to four with my arrival. She had no clue how to even go out and find a job. But she gathered her reserve of inner strength, which she was loaded with, and found a job waiting tables. Somehow she managed to make enough money to make ends meet.

A few days after dad’s funeral mom took Tony and me to some friends of the family to spend a couple of nights and then a few days later took us to another family’s house. Each of these families had teen aged sons that sexually abused me. A few months later mom left us with a female babysitter that was sixteen years old and she continued the pattern the teen boys had started. This kind of thing happened several times over the next two years. The scars and woundedness that came from that period of my life created some difficult situations for me later. But one of the positive outcomes from the abuse was that I purposed in my heart to be a person who would work to protect children from abusers. This resolve may have been a major factor in my pursuing a career in working with children and youth.

Mom worked long hours at her jobs and wanted to relieve some stress at night so she would hang out at some of the local clubs drinking more than she should and dancing her cares away. In her absence Tony and I began to get into some trouble. We never had a run in with the law but we were breaking things and doing many things we knew were beyond the nature of good character.

We were amused that the ironing board was similar in shape to a surf board. We practiced some of the moves we learned from surfing movies of the day. We went through two “boards” before mom found out what was going on and the gig was up…for surf boards.

We found out you can actually break melmac (unbreakable) dishes. We played for hours throwing them at each other…in the house. By the end of two weeks nearly every dish in the house had been broken by the two apes that lived with my mom.

Tony took up knife throwing. He did not need a fancy set of knives. He used the cheap set of steak knives in our flatware drawer; the kind with plastic handles. He chose me as a target. I would stand facing him against the kitchen door and he would pace off his steps walking away from me. Then, suddenly he would turn facing me and hurl a knife at me. He repeated his throws over and over until he had thrown all six of the knives. Each one would land just on the outside of my body. He never threw for the lower area of my body. He liked to keep things around the head and shoulders. He said it was more exciting that way.

Tony was very good. I’m sure he secretly desired to be center ring in a circus act. He carried on with this ritual for weeks until the kitchen door was riddled with little holes.  Mom told us to stop but we didn’t…that was until one day Tony got a little too close and actually stuck me in the arm. That was the first time I realized I could actually get hurt in the performance. Despite all his pleas for his assistant to stay on I resigned. And I’ve never allowed anyone else to throw a knife at me.

One of our favorite pastimes was on the roof of a home we were renting. I would get on the main structure and Tony would ascend the separate garage. We would tear off the shingles and hurl them like Frisbees at each other. We did this for several days until most of the home’s protection was gone. Then it dawned on us that if it rained we were in serious trouble. Good thing it was a dry summer and we moved before the landlord found out what we had done.

Tony had procured a bb gun from somewhere and again decided I would make a good target. He had me descend over a small rise in the earth and wait for his signal. When he would call out I was to raise my head up completely and duck back down in hopes of avoiding being shot. I must have been pretty good because I got hit in the face less than ten times.

A few times we took that same bb gun and used it to shoot out windows and streetlights. Things were beginning to get out of hand and these two boys needed someone to give us some guidance and a strong hand.

About two years after my dad’s death (I was 10 and Tony was 13) my mom came home from a bar and told us about a man she had met there a few times. She excitedly announced that she was going to bring him home to meet us. But Tony and I were less than impressed. We had met a number of guys she had brought home and we thought all of them should be wrapped in a burlap bag and thrown in a creek. We were sure this one was no different even though she protested our doubts pointing out all his superior qualities.

The day of our meeting arrived and she was over at his apartment getting ready to bring him to meet us. Tony and I were being typical boys with no supervision. We were chasing each other through the house when Tony sprained his ankle on the edge of the bed as he was jumping over it. Tony was lying on the bed writhing in pain. His ankle was twice its normal size. I didn’t know what to do. He was crying real tears. That was something Tony didn’t normally do.

Suddenly the door to the house came open and mom and James (Big Jim) Downs came walking in. Immediately Big Jim sprung into action. He asked me what happened. I told him and he asked for ice. I got some from an ice tray in the freezer and wrapped it in a hand towel. I took it to the big man standing over my brother. He gently put it on my brother’s throbbing ankle and assured him everything would be okay. Standing there in the doorway I was impressed with how nice this man was; what kindness and gentle words he used. The thought crossed my mind, “This man is here to rescue us.” And he did.

Jim Downs was 6’ 2” and 200 pounds of muscle. He had just gotten out of a 10 year stent in the United States Navy where he served as an electrician and spent much of his time boxing. In high school, he had played as a lineman for the Cleburne Yellow Jackets.

This big man had been previously married and had three children. His wife had gotten pregnant with the last two while he was out to sea. He forgave her for the first one but couldn’t take it a second time so he divorced her.

When he met my mom it was love at first sight. She told him right away that she had two sons at home but he liked children and wanted to meet us. But there was a more serious problem that Jim became aware of. Mom had developed a drinking problem. He encouraged her to find help and supported her as she worked through her challenges.

After a short time he asked her to marry him. She jumped at the opportunity to get married to such a noble man. She figured she was not going to come by another man of any worth who would be willing to take on two wild young men like ourselves. But he was and she agreed to marry him.

What she did not know was that Big Jim had lied to her. He had told her he was 39…one year younger than she was. In actuality, he was 11 years younger than she was. Jim was only 29. That young man who had just been betrayed by his own wife was willing to give up his new found freedom and marry a woman with two rowdy sons because they needed him. He was, indeed, noble.

He quickly became my hero and I fell in love with Big Jim. He gave us the strong hand, guidance, and love we desperately needed and longed for. Our family was complete again. My mom had a new husband and Tony and I once again had a father.

Two Angry Boys

Built into the heart of every boy is the dream for adventure. He longs at some point in his life to do something dangerous. Sometimes that quest for danger is misguided and gets the young man into boatloads of trouble. Other times danger is thrust upon him and he has no choice but to fight. Such was the situation for my brother Tony and me when I was eight years old.

Boys love knives. They don’t have to be sharp. Boys love them even if they are rusty, scratched up or dull. They even love toy, rubber knives. Mine was the latter.

I was excited to have what seemed to me to be a dangerous weapon. I was going through the neighborhood pretending to be an Indian on the warpath. In those days kids were allowed to pretend such things. I walked up to a boy that was much older than me and thrust my knife toward his face, held it there, and snarled in my best Indian voice, “Me gonna take you scalp, paleface.” The young man was not phased by my savage exploit. He grabbed the flimsy knife from my hand, tore it in half, threw it on the ground, and walked into his house.

This little Indian broke into tears, picked up my torn knife, and ran home to my dad. I hit the door at full tilt, bawling at my highest intensity to make sure dad took me seriously. He was instantly up in arms to defend his little warrior. I knew I would be vindicated…but not how. I thought maybe he would go down to the boy’s house and make him pay for my knife or even bend him over and give him a good spanking. I was not prepared for what came next.

My dad called my brother Tony into the living room. Dad told him what had happened. Then he told him to go to the boy’s house and beat him up for what he had done. My brother was aghast. He protested that the boy was in the ninth grade and that he was only in the fifth grade. He said, “That boy will beat me to a pulp.” My dad looked Tony squarely in the eye and gave him a very convincing argument, “If you don’t go beat that boy up…I will beat you up.”

Tony needed no more prodding. Sobbing and wiping tears all the way he walked to the boy’s house and climbed the steps to his home and knocked timidly on the door in hopes no one would answer. I stood at the end of the sidewalk with butterflies in my stomach hoping there would be no fighting.

The door quickly opened and it was the boy himself standing at the door. He stepped out on the porch as my brother pulled himself to his full height and puffed out his chest. He explained to the boy what dad was demanding for the boy’s transgression. Tony said, “Will you come to my house so I can beat you up there so my dad will know I obeyed him?” The boy laughed and replied, “Sure I’ll come to your house, but you are going the get creamed, kid.”

As we walked toward our house the boy’s mother trailed behind us anxious to see her son throttle my big brother. As soon as we approached our house my mom and dad came out onto the sidewalk. Mom was pleading with my dad not to make her son fight. Her words fell on deaf ears.

The boy took up a boxing stance as though he were Sugar Ray Leonard. Without warning my brother slammed him in the midsection with a tackle that took him to the ground. But the boy out maneuvered Tony and got on top of him, caught him by the ears and began pounding the back of Tony’s head against the curb.

My mom was crying and started to go rescue her son, she had had enough. But my dad took her by the arm and said, “Woman, you have to let the boy fight or he will never learn how to defend himself.”

Like a wild bull Tony bucked the boy off and in a flash Tony was astraddle the boy’s chest, his arms pinned under his knees. Tony began hitting him as hard as he could in the face. I’ll save the graphic details…suffice it to say, Tony had the upper hand and my dad was smiling. The crowd that had gathered for the free show was shouting. In those days boys were actually allowed to fight one another to settle a score.

All was going well for Tony until the boy’s mother decided her son needed some assistance. With no one to restrain her she ran up and slapped my brother across the back with her open hand. At that point my dad released the hold on my mother’s arm and said, “Now it’s time to fight.”

My mom stepped toward the fray and called to the woman. She quickly turned around to meet my mom’s fist. The fight was on as the women began scratching, slapping, biting, and clawing. Within seconds the two young prize fighters were on their feet, each cheering on their own mother. It wasn’t long until the women were tearing at each other’s clothes and things began to be embarrassing. The onlookers were hooting and having a grand old time.

Presently, the boy’s mother realized the state of her clothing, “pulled herself together,” and ran home with her son trailing close behind. The fight was over and my brother and mother were declared winners.

My mother was sad that she had to get into a fight but she was proud she had defended her son. Dad never doubted what he did was good for my brother…teaching him to defend his family. It did, however, leave a scar on my brother that I do not think he has healed from to this day. He has always seen himself as a rescuer and that is a difficult burden to bear.

We never heard anything else from the boy’s mother* but the boy and my brother became good friends. Reflecting on that fight, my brother has often stated that the woman’s slap across his back hurt much worse than the pounding of his head against the curb. Tony always was somewhat hard headed.

Within a few weeks of the fight my dad was struck with the last of seven heart attacks and died. His passing launched our family into a downward spiral that lasted for two years.

* I read this story to my mom today and she told me she actually became friends with the woman after the fight.

Two Angry Men

Growing up in the area of Wichita Falls know as “Dogpatch” marked the income status of our family as low. We lived in a tiny two bedroom house on 31^st street just a few doors from Bonham Elementary School. The house was old when we moved there when I was five and needed much repair. I remember my dad sanding and refinishing the pecan floors throughout the house and building what seemed like a giant covered porch on the front side of the house.

After all of the repairs and decorating were done, my mother was very pleased. This was the nicest house she had ever lived in. But a storm was brewing in our own home in the form of my older sister, Vickie.

She and my father were at odds most of the time and argued furiously. Dad was working to keep his anger under control because he had already had a couple of heart attacks and wanted to stay alive to see his grandchildren grown. But her rebellious, teenage years came to maturity when she started dating a young man who lived just across the street. His name was Jimmy.

Dad did not approve of my sister dating or even hanging out with Jimmy. So my sister, at the age of 17, married Jimmy just to prove she could do whatever she wanted. Vickie seemed to have her heart set on having these two men in her life fight over her as she often stood nearby egging each of them on.

It all came to a head one Sunday afternoon when my dad was taking his weekly nap. My sister came busting into the house crying loudly, “Daddy, please don’t go out there and fight with Jimmy.” Dad rose from his bed not sure what was going on and questioned what on earth she was talking about. She responded, “Jimmy says if you come out in the street to fight with him he is going to cut you up. Please, Daddy, don’t fight him, he will kill you.”

My sister had to know that kind of plea was like throwing a steak to a dog…he is going to bite. And dad did. All I saw him do was grab a newspaper from off the coffee table and head for the door. My sister was pleading for him not to go out there as was my mother. We all followed him out onto the front porch.

Dad walked out in the street. Jimmy and my dad stood several feet away from and facing one another…just like in the old west movies. The whole neighborhood seemed quiet as people waited for someone to speak. Jimmy spoke up as he pulled a hunting knife from behind his back. He waved it in the air in a menacing manner and said, “Old man, I told you I’m gonna cut you up.”

My dad was still holding the rolled up newspaper in his hand but it was evidently a diversion because as quickly as Jimmy lunged for dad, my dad pulled out a 38 revolver and fired off a round at Jimmy. I don’t know how, but he missed him. Jimmy turned as quickly as a rabbit and headed for his house with my dad firing shots at him as quickly as he could. I could not see where the projectiles were landing until Jimmy was ducking into his door and one hit the door frame inches from Jimmy’s head…splintering the wood. Dad turned and slowly left the field of battle.

In my young eyes, my daddy was a hero. He wasn’t afraid anybody. But one of the greatest things that happened that day was nobody died.

Recently, my family and I were visiting my boyhood home and both of those houses still stand. I was able to point out to my wife the hole in the door frame of Jimmy’s old house. That hole stands as a testimony of the grace of God. Jimmy and my dad had escaped with their lives. Jimmy did not die and my dad did not go to prison. The grace of God had saved both of the hot headed men and their families from a horrible fate.

I like to reflect on the stories I tell and share my observations. As I sat telling this story to my wife she asked, “What did you learn from this story?” My reply, “Simple, don’t wake a man up from his nap.”

A Christmas Disappointment

Christmas was never a big event at the Bennett house when I was younger. And for the two holidays after my father’s death it was almost non-existent. But the first Christmas after my mom and Jim Downs got married that all changed.

That Christmas morning was like a dream come true. My brother, Tony, who is three years my senior, and I had an electric race car track, a telescope, microscope, a bb gun, more toys and games than we had ever imagined in our lives. We seemed to have everything except what almost every boy dreams of…a bicycle. But we were not complaining. “Maybe you boys will each get one next year,” Big Jim told us. He was as delighted as we were. He had made his boys happy and that made him proud. He sported a big ear to ear smile.

The following year brought much change to our new secure family. Big Jim had been injured on his job. He had ridden an electric powered ladder up to hook up electricity to a sign and on the way back down one of his feet had gotten stuck in the massive gears of the ladder. His foot looked like hamburger meat. A doctor treated him but then he got an infection. For awhile it looked like he might lose his foot. But with time his foot got better.

Dad, as I was now comfortable calling Jim, was off work for some time. When he did return to work all our extra money was going to catch up on bills. Those were what we called the “beans and tater days.”

When our second Christmas as a new family rolled around our parents had explained that since things were so tight we should not expect much for Christmas. We tried to hide our disappointment but our faces betrayed us when we saw only three small packages for each of us boys on Christmas Eve. What made it worse was we could tell what the gifts were. It was shirt, a pair of pants, and a bag of underwear for each of us.

Our powers of observation were keenly honed for we had ascertained exactly what our gifts were. The only mystery was the color of the shirts. This was also a bit of a letdown when we opened them.

Mom and Dad had us pose for pictures with this little pile of opened gifts as though we had just won the lottery. They must have taken ten pictures of each of us.

Then without anymore fanfare we were instructed to take our wrapping paper out to the trash can which was located by the garage. I was on the verge of tears. I had hoped they had something up their sleeve but Christmas was obviously over…and not one toy…not one. That just didn’t seem right. Not even my mixed up little world.

We headed out the door with the few pieces of refuse in our hands. No sooner had the door shut behind my brother and me than our eyes landed on a couple of the most beautiful sights we had ever seen. Mom and dad had two beautiful, red, Firestone bicycles…complete with headlights and storage a rack on the back. We screamed like little girls. We threw our paper balls in the air and jumped around hugging each other…and then mom and dad.

I believe dad had been the inspiration behind the purchase of the two bikes. Again, I saw a big ear to ear smile on his face. He knew a secret that neither my brother nor I knew. He did not just buy us two bicycles. He bought us dreams. He bought us independence. He bought us freedom. For he knew those bicycles would actually take us to explore a world beyond our little block. He knew these two boys were about to grow up. He knew bicycles have a tendency to do that for boys.

Passing

My world began to unravel with a call that sent the wall phone clanging to the ground. My mother had waited by my aunt’s phone for an important call from New Mexico. By dad, Julian Bennett, and my uncle, Bob Williams, had gone there in my dad’s big truck to pick up a load of potatoes. My mom and I had been summoned to aunt Margie’s house to wait for the worrisome call.

It seemed like forever as we waited. Even though I was only eight I knew something was wrong. My dad had heart problems and had already had seven heart attacks. As time drug on she telegraphed her anxiety through tear filled eyes.

Then the phone rang. It startled all of us…strange, because we were waiting for that very moment. The phone was handed to my mom and she was silent as the party on the other end talked. It was my uncle Bob. In his soft voice but rough manner he threw out the words, “Julian is dead!” Mom dropped the phone and it clanged to the ground and hit the wall with a thud as its tightly stretched cord retracted. Mom heaved a great sigh and yelled, “No!” She began to sob uncontrollably. I didn’t know what was going on but ran to her and threw my arms around her waist and began to cry too. I didn’t know why I was crying but it seemed to be the right thing to do. My mom was hurting and I wanted to comfort her.

Within minutes things began to buzz in the house and people were coming and going…hugging my mom and me. They kept telling us how sorry they were for our loss. I still did not know what was going on. I asked my mom what had happened. Through a flood of tears she exclaimed, “Baby, your daddy is gone.” (My mom still calls me Baby to this day.) But I still did not understand. Someone finally explained my dad would not be coming back home because he had died.

I stopped crying because a new problem had arisen for me. My mom was being comforted by others. But I really did not comprehend what it meant when your dad died. I did not embrace that he was never coming home again. I would never hear his laughter again. Never again would he rub me on the head or reward me for being funny or mischievous. My daddy was gone for ever but I couldn’t accept it.

A couple of days went by as dad’s body was brought back to Wichita Falls for burial. During that time I tried figure out what was going on. My dad had often pulled pranks on me and others and I began to think maybe this was just some elaborate ruse. That he was going to come through the door at anytime and surprise us all and laugh at us for crying and making such a big deal out of nothing.

At his viewing I asked my mom if I could kiss my daddy goodbye. I think someone pulled up a chair so I could look in the coffin at his carefully preserved body. I gazed intently at him…his face…his hands…his chest. I thought I saw his chest move as he pulled air into his lungs…I was right…he was not dead…but I was not going to tell anyone. That would not make dad happy for me to spoil his prank. Then I looked back up at his face. It looked like he was smiling more than he had before. I kissed him gently on the cheek. It was unusually cool to my lips. I expected him to snicker…but he held it in.

After that day I did not cry anymore for a long time. I didn’t think he was dead. For years I struggled with his death because I could not accept the finality of his passing. Even as a young adult I would see him on the streets and walk up to him to show him how much I had grown up only to discover it was not him.

Now as a grown man with seven children of my own I cry over the loss of my dad nearly 50 years ago. I have asked God so many times, “Why did my daddy have to die?” I still do not have any answers but I have this hope in Christ that I will see him someday in eternity.

I have learned from my own dad’s passing that not everyone handles death the same way. There is not a proper way to grieve. Adults should not be afraid of exposing children to death and grief. Tears seem to mysteriously resolve many painful issues. Spending time with and loving your family now is of utmost importance because you never know when you or they will pass from this life to the next. 

Who Turned Off The Lights

Have you ever noticed how quickly darkness floods a room when the lights are turned off? Darkness doesn’t politely wait around a few minutes as to be respectful of the light’s departure as she gathers her things and quietly leaves the room. No, darkness rushes right in; pushing itself into every nook and cranny in hopes light will never have a home there again. That is how I felt about my father’s passing. The light in our home was suddenly, unexplainably, switched off. Though my dad had his faults and obvious short comings he was a major source of hope, joy, and light to our family.

But I was not the first little boy in our family to feel as though the lights had been switched off. My daddy had a similar experience many years before.

Dad had grown up in a tough post World War I situation. He was one of five brothers. His mother died when he was young and his father, Thomas, could not afford to care for all the boys so he sent the youngest, Julian, my dad, away to an orphanage. After some time a Baptist minister and his wife took him in, fed him, clothed him, and treated him with kindness. As difficult as being abandoned by his own family must have been for my daddy I believe he understood what a great thing the preacher and his wife did when they rescued him.

The preacher taught my dad about the Bible. I am told daddy had committed a vast number of Scriptures to memory and loved to discuss the Bible. I have a memory of sitting in bed with my daddy, mom, and my brother Tony as daddy read the Bible to us all. His love for the Bible and understanding of the things of God shaped his life perspective. Even though he went astray in his younger years this early shaping drew him back to the truth four years before he died.

Occasionally daddy would see his dad, Thomas, on a street corner near the preacher’s home selling produce from the back of his pick-up truck. He longed to go talk to him and ask to be taken back into the family again. He missed his dad and his brothers.

When daddy was about nine years old he spied his dad’s truck right across the street from the preacher’s home. With the preacher’s permission daddy slipped passed the iron gate, crossed the street, and in a moment was looking up into the face of his dad. Daddy said, “Do you know who I am?” Grand pa Tom replied, “Yes, you are Julian, my son.” He picked daddy up and put him on the big rear fender of his truck and talked to him for several minutes. I am sure my daddy must have been waiting anxiously to ask to be taken back into the Bennett family…but before he could ask he was picked up, patted on the head, given a nickel, and told he better get back to the preacher’s house. Daddy stood at the gate, heart broken as his own father cranked up his truck and drove away. Daddy didn’t see him again for several years. I guess Tom began to avoid that part of town.

Feeling some independence, at 15 years of age, daddy decided to find his dad and talk with him. He walked all over town and finally found him…once again selling produce on a street corner. Dad approached Tom and begged him to let him come back home. He promised he would get a job and pay his own way. He just wanted his family back. Strange how deep family ties are. And this one was attached securely.

To his amazement, Tom relented and welcomed my daddy back into the family. Tom feeling somewhat benevolent, bought his returning son an old pick-up truck, filled it with produce, and taught him the family business. Daddy once again felt like a Bennett. He had a real family. His light had been turned back on.

Reflecting on my daddy’s childhood abandonment I have come to some conclusions: Abandonment by a parent is often worse than that parent dying. You can’t take away someone’s pain by giving them money or presents. God brings people and situations into our lives to shape us into the person we were meant to be. Love may cover a multitude of sins but the pain and devastation caused by those sins can reach to future generations. Parents should be careful to not turn off the light on their own children.

Baby

Growing up I had a love affair with dogs. If it was a fuzzy little puppy with the sweet smell of milk on its breath or a mangy old cur...it mattered not to me. I loved them all. As spaying of dogs was not usually practiced when I was a lad, we had a frequent supply of puppies of all sorts. I usually fell in love with the runt of every litter. I always felt like they needed me. Those helpless little guys made me feel important. So I would come to their rescue...feeding them, bathing them, and holding them until they began to think of me as their momma.

One such squirmy little k-9 I named Baby (truth be told I named nearly a dozen dogs Baby.) It seemed to fit this helpless one to a tee. She had long black fur, dark eyes and a sweet disposition that won me over instantly but did not attract her own mother too much. She would often push Baby away to allow the other pups to nurse and Baby was often heard whining at night because of hunger. Not being able to take it for long I intervened and started feeding her from a bottle with warm cow's milk. Not the best formula for growing puppies but that was all I knew to do.

Things seemed to be improving or so I thought. Her little belly always looked full...big and round. Looked like a perfectly healthy dog to this 10 year old boy. But after a couple of weeks Baby made a turn for the worse and became lethargic and could hardly stand on her feeble little legs. My dad realized she was in serious trouble because she had a bad case of worms. We tried some kind of medicine but we were unable to save her.  

On a cold December night, just after my birthday, she died. My heart was broken. I cried for what seemed like hours...holding her limp body in my hands until I fell asleep. My dad carefully peeled her lifeless body from my hands and wrapped her in a towel and then carried me to my bed and tucked me in. I don't know for sure but I think he cried too.

The next morning I climbed out of bed and ran to the garage where Dad had laid Baby the night before. Dad was standing there. I remember looking up into his blue eyes and tearfully asking. "Will you help me bury my dog?" Lowly he replied, "Boy, you wait right here." He turned and went to his work bench, opened up a tool box, and began to take the tools out of it. He then brought his container over and carefully placed my now stiff puppy in it. He gently closed the lid, stood up, grabbed a shovel, and said, "Come on, son."

After some time of digging in the cold hard ground we had prepared a hole deep enough to keep other animals from becoming grave robbers. I placed the box in my dog's final resting place. Big Jim, as many people called my dad, took my hand and prayed over my dog...and for me. He covered the grave and turned to the garage and slowly walked away...a tear trickled down his cheek.

Later that day when the sun was warming the earth I went out to my dog's grave and smiled. Big Jim had fashioned a cross out of a couple to tree branches and placed it there.

The lessons I learned that winter have stuck with me to this day: Love the unlovely, give time and effort to feed the hungry, death comes to everyone, you can't always stop others from hurting, dads should teach their sons it is okay to cry, weep with those who weep, and a little compassion goes a long way.