cold, rainy saturday

rain falling outside my window pane

glass fogged on the inside

outside tiny drops of water race each other to the bottom of the pane

as though they were competing in a nationally televised sporting event

i must be bored because i found myself cheering on

the one in the middle…the smallest one

he lost…came in dead last

maybe next time, buddy

it’s cold outside…not really cold

it just looks cold

cloudy, gray, with a hint of depression in the air

i shiver…maybe the sun will shine tomorrow

turning up the heater may help

a hot cup of coffee may do the trick

I think I will light a fire…the crackling sound always

chases away the blues…and i like the smell

winter is slowly conquering the world outside

home decorated for christmas on the inside

children all excited to hear the weather forecast

snow almost certain on monday…cheers

outside cars wiz by plowing the thin layer of water on the street

listening to music inside… micheal buble

“cause you are not alone, i’m always there with you”

funny how music can warm the heart and comfort the mind

even on a cold, rainy saturday

Remember Me

Will you remember me

If you don’t hear me laugh; if you don’t hear me cry

Or will you forget my voice as the years go by

Will you remember me

If you can’t see the wrinkles on my face

Or will my image from your memory someday be erased

Will you remember me

If upon your lips you cannot feel my kiss

Or will your heart resolve it’s better off like this

Will you remember me

If I cannot hug you or no longer touch your hand

Or will my memory fly away like the windblown sand

Yes, I will remember you

The joy in your laugh and the sorrows of your cry

I will not forget your voice as the years go by

Yes, I will remember you

I love those wrinkles upon you face

Your image from my memory can never be erased.

Yes, I will remember you

Every single time my lips felt your kiss

I have resolved to remember those sweet times of bliss

Yes, I will remember you

Your warm hugs and the gentle touch of your strong hand

I will pile your memories like a mile high dune of sand

Yes, Love, I will remember you

You are my life and breath

I will hold on to you till I close my eyes in death

Allen Bennett

For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. 
Ecclesiastes 9:5

The Front Porch

Sitting there with sleepy eyes

They wait together for the sun to rise

Tender lovers old woman, old man

In the chill of dawn they are holding hands

They have a small cabin way out in the woods

Here they live because life is good

The front porch faces directly east

Where they observe daily all kinds of beast

But they faced it that way for in their last days

They knew they would rock and watch the sun’s rays

Drinking their coffee they look across their land

And gently they take each other’s hand

“I love you,” he says, “I know that you do…”

She says, “Do you know I love you too?”

Sweetly they smile old woman, old man

After all these years still holding hands

By: Allen Bennett

The Secret

This poem is a view of my own death in the future. It is not meant to be morbid or dark. As a matter of fact, I think of it as being rather positive. These events take place many years from now. It is not in the near future. I hope "The Secret" challenges each reader to carefully evaluate what he/she will leave behind once they depart this world. Finally, "The Secret" is written in the voice of my daughter Ary Anna.

My daddy died just the other day

Family came from miles away

To see him bow upon his stage

To turn his final page

Before he passed we all gathered ‘round

Each one stood up, no one set down

All were eager, yearning to hear

Some words of wisdom he’d learned through the years

We children pressed in to breathe of his breath

Before he closed his eyes in death

Hoping some part of him would remain

And as we breathed in we felt his pain

He opened his eyes and looked at our faces

Smiling to see us all in our places

Oldest to youngest, girls and guys

Softly I wiped the tears from his eyes

Over on the opposite side of the bed

My sweet, tender mother stroked his cool head

We were all there—every last one

Loving wife, beautiful daughters, handsome sons

Through the years my dear, sweet mother stood by his side

When there was no hope—no light in his eyes

She was his life. She was his breath

Now in sweet peace he could face death

My oldest brother—he is so bright

God gave him the gift to write

Years ago into the night sky daddy did stare

Seth is the answer to my daddy’s prayer

My next two brothers—not quite as old

Grew to be wise—grew to be bold

To practice medicine they both did strive

Now they have saved countless a life

My fourth brother went off to war

To help his uncle settle a score

“To the enemy,” daddy said, “you must not yield”

My daddy's son came home carrying his shield

My younger sister is Abby Jo

Bravely she treads where others won’t go

Just like my daddy—she’s almost fearless

But unlike my daddy—she’s almost tearless

My youngest brother—William Wallace by name

Didn’t seek fortune, didn’t seek fame

He dared to step beyond the church steeple

He gave his life to save a nation of people

Like my mother I’ve stayed by daddy’s side

When he laughed I laughed, when he cried I cried

I gave him wisdom, he gave me life

And now I’ve become a godly mother and wife

We all stood there as we recounted

The stories of our lives and the love that abounded

Then daddy quietly whispered, “Do you all see?”

“The secret to life… leave a legacy.”

With those words he breathed his last breath

His heart stopped beating inside his chest

But in each of us he still breathes

For we are his legacy

My daddy was first—he was a pilgrim

He and mom raised up godly children

So we’ll pass his breath to future generations

And daddy will touch so many nations

Daddy was right—it is up to us, you see

We each must leave our own legacy

Allen Bennett

Grave Stone

I dedicate this poem to two of my daughters, Julianna and Ary Anna. Julianna was still born in 1992. This December she would have been 19 years old. Our whole family misses her deeply, even those who were not born when she died. Ary Anna was my daughter, who at six years of age, stood at a grave in Little Bethel Cemetery in Duncanville, Texas and was moved to tears as she grieved for the parents whose child had been buried there.  

My daughter stood there all alone

Face to face with the old gray stone

Weathered and cracked by the hands of time

Chiseled on its face was this simple rhyme,

O blessed little sunbeam,
O child of love and prayer,
We give thee to the keeping,
Of the tender Shepherd's care

She pondered as she traced her finger round the date

What was the reason for this innocent child’s fate?

The carving stated September 22 to September 24

The babe had lived just three days; not a single moment more.

She whispered the word “sunbeam” and then “love and prayer”

She then began to wonder, “Does the Shepherd really care?”

At first it was just a single tear but then she began to cry,

“I don’t understand, God in Heaven, why did you let this little child die.”

There were no words from the clouds up above,

No magical answer on the wings of a dove.

So I came near; put my arm ‘round her shoulder,

Knew she just needed someone to hold her.

She looked up at me with sad, wet eyes,

I tell you I hate it when my little girl cries.

Through her sobs all I heard were the words, “Little child,”

Suddenly I choked on the answer I’d compiled.

She didn’t need some neatly packed answer

Some fantasy story ‘bout a reindeer named Prancer.

She demanded I tell her why were things so,

Softly I answered, “Honey, I don’t know.”

Her face turned to a smile as she pushed up her specks,

Saying, “I didn’t realize it was all that complex.”

“If my daddy, who is so smart, doesn’t even know

Then I’ll just have to accept that sometimes things are so.”

Her heart was still hurting for the mother and dad;

Longing to hold their newly born lad.

But from that very day her heart became tender

Now to the hurting the Shepherd can send her.

I, You, He

I

You

He

I love

You love

He loves

I love you

You love me

He loves us

I love you more

You love me more

He loves us more

I love you more than you will

You love me more than I will

He loves us more than we will

I love you more than you will ever

You love me more than I will ever

He loves us more than we will ever

I love you more than you will ever know

You love me more than I will ever know

He loves us more than we will ever know

I

You

He

died on a tree

By Allen Bennett

A Tale of a Proud Father

Several years ago I got a call from my mom informing me my step-father, Big Jim, was in the hospital and was not expected to live. Doctors had thought he had lung cancer. They treated him accordingly but then discovered he had been misdiagnosed. The inappropriate cancer treatments had actually destroyed his lungs.She said, “Son, if you want to talk to your dad you better call him soon because he is not long for this world.” He was in a hospital just a short distance from my home south of Dallas. I called his wife to ask her if it would be alright for me and my wife to go visit him. She assured me we would be welcome and that he would love to see us.

In our 20 years of marriage up to 2003 my wife Lisa had never met Big Jim. Though she did feel as if she knew him from all the stories I told her about him. Neither of us knew what to expect or what we would say upon seeing him but we were both excited to see the man I deeply admired and had so influenced my life. We carried with us pictures of all six of our children (William, our seventh, had not yet been born).

Upon entering Big Jim’s hospital room I was stunned. The man who had always seemed so big too me was wasted away to what seemed like skin and bones. His face was pale but his eyes flashed with excitement when he saw us. I said a quick hello and then introduced Lisa to him. He cordially greeted her saying, “It is so good to meet you after all these years.” Then he sat up a little and a big smile raced across his face. “Did Allen ever tell you about the first fish he ever caught?” he prodded. To which she responded, “Yes he did.” “But did he tell you how big it was?” he continued. “Why, it must have been this big!” he exclaimed holding out his hands in true fisherman fashion to indicate a fish at least 2 ½ feet long.

I said, “Dad, it wasn’t that big.” He protested, “Oh, yes it was…if not bigger. You were too young to remember.” Then ignoring me he focused back to my wife spinning his yarn, “Why, that fish was so big and he was so little, I thought for sure Allen was going to be pulled into the water. And he reeled that whopper ashore all by himself…”

He continued his praise for my fishing prowess for several minutes until I interrupted him with something more impressive…I was armed with photos of my children. He delighted as I introduced each one to him via photographic images. I started with the oldest and went down to the youngest telling their ages, interests, and accomplishments. He gave the appropriate “ohhs and ahhs” of a grandfather until I got down to a picture of Abby…our youngest. His face lit up as I revealed the picture of a cute, freckled faced, red-headed, little girl. He said, “Is this your daughter?” “Yes” I replied. “My granddaughter?” He almost seemed confused. “Yes” I affirmed. “She looks so much like your sister, Stephanie. Look at all that red hair.” Abby had clearly garnered my dad’s favor without speaking a word. She did bear a striking resemblance to my little sister who is 14 years younger than me.

Each time we changed the subject dad would find a way to bring the conversation back to Abby’s red hair. I don’t know if he was really all that taken with Abby or just missing Stephanie that much. My heart tells me it was the latter.

Eventually dad began to show his frailty so we told him we needed to leave. Lisa told him goodbye and headed to the door and paused waiting for me. I came closer to him as he lay on his slightly elevated bed. “Can I give you a hug?” I asked. He was clearly pleased I cared for him after all these years. As I leaned over and hugged him he grabbed my bicep of my right arm and squeezed. “Why, boy, you have big muscles,” he exclaimed. I quickly replied, “Well, they should be big. You made me dig hundreds of post holes out on the farm growing up.” He let out a weak but heart-felt laugh as he held onto my arm.

It is funny how a boy can grow into a man, marry, have children of his own, but still desire the affection and approval of his own dad more than all the praise of all the other people in the world. A dad’s few words of admiration can replace the endless accolades of thousands. I truly realized at that moment how much I really missed my dad and just how powerful his influence had been in my life. I became aware in that instant the power of a dad’s approval.

Big Jim…Dad… held the arm he had admired a moment before and looked me in the eye. With a scratchy voice he said, “Son, I’m proud of you.” A tear coursed down his face. He was moved. So was I. I said, “Dad, I love you. I hope to see you again soon.” Knowing all the while his prognosis was grim and he might not even live through the night. He smiled and said, “I love you too.” I turned to the door as Lisa walked out ahead of me.

She met me at the elevator just down the hall from his room. She pushed the button and then turned to me with a big smile on her face as I approached her. “You got to hear what you have wanted to hear all these years, didn’t you?” she said. Playing ignorant, I questioned, “What do you mean?” “Your dad told you he was proud of you. Every boy…every man wants to hear those words from his dad,” she affirmed. She got it. She really understood the heart of a boy…the desire of a man. His words of affirmation had ignited a fire in me I had not felt for some time. I purposed in my heart to be careful to frequently tell all my children I was proud of them. And to this I have been true.

I expected to get a call within the next few days telling me my dad had passed away. Instead, I got a call from him telling me he had been released from the hospital and was back home in Whitney, Texas. He invited me to come visit him. He was feeling much stronger and we had a lot of catching up to do. I went to visit him a few days later. We each had a grand time learning what the other had been doing all those years.

I had become an elementary school principal. He had become a professional fishing guide down on the Gulf of Mexico. I told him tales of the classroom and he told me fish stories that he swore were all true…but then, don’t all fishermen pledge their stories are reputable?

After awhile he had to visit the men’s room. His wife, Christine, came over and set down. She asked me frankly, “Allen, why have you not been in contact with Jim all these years?” I was stunned by her question but pushed out my explanation. “I knew you had a teen aged son when Jim married you. Jim had been a really good dad to me when he was married to my mom.  I didn’t want your son to be deprived of having Jim’s total attention by having me to compete with. And after awhile I was not sure I would be welcome.” Christine, kind and motherly, took me by the hand and said, “Oh, son, I wished I had known you felt that way. You would have been welcomed with open arms around here.” She continued, “Jim talked about you all the time. You do know he thought of you as his own son, don’t you?” As dad came back in the room she added, “Well, now you are back in his life. Make sure you and your whole family stays there, okay?”  I pledged that we would. How refreshing to know I was…we were accepted into Big Jim’s family.

After several hours of talking, showing pictures, and sharing dreams Dad began to fade. He needed his rest. We said our good byes and I headed back home feeling emotionally fulfilled. Four days later I got a phone call that Big Jim had passed away. He had lost his battle with cancer. But he had regained the heart of his son in the process.

My sister, Stephanie and I attended his memorial a few days later. The family was kind enough to allow us to be part of the arrangement process. It was very moving for the two of us to be alone in the chapel with Dad’s body as we reminisced about bygone years. It drew us a bit closer without a doubt. Spending that time with her it was easy to see why Dad adored her so. She is a precious sister and was a wonderful daughter.

I talked to Stephanie on IM tonight. She informed me that her daughter, Megan, who is a member of the Rider High School color guard, will be going to London in December…to play for the Queen of England. Dad would have been proud.

How I Met My Wife

Sometimes the circumstances of life are like a fictitious tornado that blows through a home picking everything up, rearranging it all, then carefully putting things back where the tornado sees fit. My life seemed that way after my mom and my step-father were divorced. Everything seemed to be picked up in the strong winds and was flung around my world. But eventually, piece by piece, things began to be put into place as Providence would have it. It was as though God was saying, “Now, that looks much better. Just the way I like it.” I never would have designed it that way…but who am I to argue with the creator of the universe. He has a plan and sees no need to ask my opinion.

I went to Southern Bible College in the fall of 1976 after graduation from Wichita Falls High School. It took me several extra years to get through college as I did not always pass all my classes and I took a semester or year off every now and then for ministry opportunities that arose. As a result I was 24 years old in the late summer of 1982 working on my junior year when one of those afore mentioned tornados blew into my life.

Ary Lisa Winkler was a petite, “cute as a button” freshman coming to SBC from Tahlequah, Oklahoma. At 17 years of age she was out of her element in the big city of Houston. She had never been away from home and was excited but a little overwhelmed by the change high school graduation had thrust upon her.

Lisa’s high school principal had attended SBC and had encouraged her to attend there also. The night before she left for college her church congregation and small Christian school families held a going away party for her. Her principal teased with her, “Lisa, you will marry the first guy you meet at college.” She protested that she was going to be serious about college and wanted to finish all four years. Marriage was in not in her immediate future.

This incoming Freshman flew from the nearest airport to Houston. The flight from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Houston Intercontinental Airport had a short layover in Dallas. Lisa asked the flight attendant if she was to get off the plane. The helpful attendant asked her where she was going. When Lisa responded Houston she was instructed to stay on the plane as that plane would depart for Houston shortly. Lisa returned to her seat and watched the baggage handlers unloading luggage…some of it was hers. But she obediently followed the flight attendants instructions and stayed on the plane. Had the attendant looked at Lisa’s ticket she would have seen that Lisa was to board a different plane bound for Houston.

The plane Lisa was on did go to Houston but not to Houston Intercontinental. Instead her plane was intersecting destiny and flew her to Houston Hobby Airport…across town from where her greeting party waited patiently for her to arrive. When she got to Hobby Airport there was no one to pick her up. She had no money, no one to call, and no clue what to do. She eventually contacted someone from back home and they arranged for some friends to pick Lisa up and take her to the college.

Frustrated and confused, Lisa was explaining to Mimi, the Women’s Dorm Mother at Southern Bible College, that evidently her luggage had gone to a different airport than she had. She needed someone to take her to Houston Intercontinental to claim them. At that very moment, I came walking down the stairs. Mimi called me over and demanded, “Allen, take this little girl to the airport to pick up her luggage.” I started to protest but Mimi gave me the look that let me know she meant business. I agreed and invited the new Freshman to follow me.

There is more to the story than I will tell here…her huge Samsonite bags, my beat up Ford LTD, attending church together, becoming friends, doing laundry together, and late night study sessions. But we eventually became interested in each other and started dating. By “dating” I mean we took youth at the small church where I was youth director to various church functions. Before Thanksgiving of that year I asked Lisa to marry me. She agreed, as did her parents who we visited in Oklahoma to ask permission. On June 18, 1983 we were married. Lisa had fulfilled the fateful words of her school principal…she had actually married the first guy she met at college.

Later I found out when Lisa was nine years old she prayed every day for the man she would someday marry. I was 16 at the time. On November 29 of that same year (1974) I gave my life to Christ. I earnestly believe it was the prayers of that nine year old girl that softened my heart and made me willing to respond to my dad’s invitation to join him at church that pivotal, autumn night.

Do You Think of Me?

Do you think of me when you’re chilly?

When you feel a little silly

Do you think of me?

Do you think of me when you’re lonely?

You are my one and only.

Do you think of me?

Do you know I really care?

Know I will always be there?

Do you think of me?

Do you ever want to hold me;

Sometimes just to scold me?

Do you think of me?

Do you think of me when the sun comes up?

When you’re drinking coffee from a cup?

Do you think of me?

Do you think of me when you drink sweet wine?

Do you know I think you’re really fine?

Do you think of me?

You are my wife and dearest friend

And I‘ll be with you to the end.

Do you think of me?

Why?

First person:

Why?

Why are some of us “better” than others?

Why are some of us so encased in our little bit of pain that we don’t see the harsh trials the “invisibles” go through every day?

Why are some of us the “perfect picture” and others not worth looking at?

Why are some of us so involved in ourselves that we aren’t aware that we’re not the only ones leading lives?

Why are some of us simply “more mature”?

Second person:

Why?

Why are some of us discounted simply because we’re “different”?

Why do some of us act like a splinter in the hand is worse than a bullet in the chest?

Why don’t some of us even own a second glance?

Why are some of our lives nonexistent to others, like we’ve never lived and we never will?

Why are some of us simply “idiots” and “nerds”?

Both people:

There’s beauty in the voice

There’s beauty in the calling

First person:

Whether we’re picture perfect

Second person:

Whether we just blend in

First person:

Even if we’re the life of the party

Second person:

Even if we’re hardly there

Both people:

We’ve been shown, in perfect love,

There are no favorites

There is no special treatment

Only the love that saves lives!


This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. 1 John 4:10 NIV


By Ary Anna Bennett


This poem or dramatic reading was written by my 13 year old daughter. 

My First Fish

My step-father, Jim Downs, introduced me to fishing. He loved going to any body of water, be it river, lake, pond, or ocean, to try his hand at reeling in a catch. And he didn’t particularly care what the size of his object of affection was…he just liked catching fish. Bass of all types, perch, crappie, even gar and buffalo were accepted by my dad as worthy opponents for his rod and reel or trot line.

I remember he was so excited to take me fishing for my very first time. I must have been around 11 years old when he purchased a Zebco 77 rod and reel combo, a few lures, and a tackle box for me. We headed out to an area below the dam on a local lake where shallow streams weaved among huge boulders.

He helped me attach a hula popper lure he had purchased for me and showed me how to cast. He sent me out to a big, rust-colored boulder in the middle of a little stream. On my second cast a big largemouth bass hit my lure and the battle was on. I pulled and reeled and jumped up and down as my dad cheered me on from another boulder. After several minutes and constant coaching, I had reeled in an 18 inch trophy. My dad was so proud of me. He took pictures of me and my first fish. And then he started showing it off to all the people on the shore. “Look at this fish…it’s my son’s very first fish. First time he’s ever been fishing. Caught it on his second cast…” Everyone seemed duly impressed. I just wanted to get back out there and catch an even bigger fish.

When I was 21 my step-dad and mom got a divorce. He married a woman who had a 14 year old son. I did not want to be an intrusion on my dad and his new family. I also wanted to give his new son a chance to have a good father without competing with me so I did not contact my dad for several years. Looking back now I realize what a grave mistake that was.

When I was 23 years old I was living in Danville, Kentucky without work and no money. I talked with a friend in Houston, Texas that agreed to let me stay with him and his family until I could find work and get back in college. All I had to do was get back to Houston. I didn’t even have enough money for a bus ticket. I had a friend take me and all my belongings to a local pawn shop. There I was able to sell almost everything I owned for $20. That gave me enough money to purchase a one way ticket to a brighter future.

Two years later I married Lisa, my wife of 28 years. One year later on Father’s Day I got to thinking about my dad and how much I missed him. I pondered all the fishing trips my dad and I had enjoyed together. Then it hit me. When I had sold all my belongings in Kentucky I had sold my tackle box full of lures. That box contained the hula popper on which I had caught my first fish. I was overcome with emotion and began to cry. Lisa walked in and put her arms around me and asked what was wrong. I explained I had not realized how important something like a lure could be but now, after all these years, I did but now it was too late. My hula popper was gone and along with it a connection to my childhood and my father.

Some of you reading this may think I am being a little too sentimental. But you probably never caught a fish and had your dad cheer for you because of it. I had and I was missing him in the worst way. I needed my dad at that moment and for maybe the first time in my life I actually realized what a loss I was experiencing. Lisa hugged me and encouraged me to call Big Jim and tell him how I felt and wish him happy Father’s Day. I called him and talked for a few minutes. Our conversation seemed a bit awkward so I cut the conversation short.

A couple of years later I was fishing with my older brother, Tony, when I began recounting the story of how I had sold my lure and had not realized how important that kind of a thing could be to a man. He stopped me and motioned me over to his truck. He took out a big tackle box (he had several) and began going through compartments. He was a man on a mission. Retrieving his prize, he held up a hula popper lure. He said, “This is the kind of lure you sold…this is what you caught your first fish on.” It was exactly like the one my dad had bought for me. My big brother pumped out his arm and held open his hand and said, “Here, it’s yours now. You can have it. I understand how much it means to you.” I was overjoyed to get the exact model of lure as I sold but even more impressed that Tony remembered me catching my first fish.

Several years later my half-sister, Stephanie, had gone to visit my dad with her husband, Shawn, and her two children, Mason and Meagan. Mason was about five years old. Dad thought the boy needed his own rod and reel so he went to his garage and searched for awhile then reappeared with a Zebco 77 rod and reel combo. He thrust it toward Mason and said proudly, “Here you can have this rod and reel. Your uncle Allen caught his first fish on this very rod.” Mason was elated. When they got home later that evening Shawn told Stephanie that Mason could not keep the rod and reel. Stephanie protested, “Why not…my dad gave it to him?” Shawn responded, “Your brother caught his first fish on that rod and reel. It is special to him. He would want it. He will want to give it to his children someday?” Stephanie continued to protest. But Shawn insisted saying, “Stephanie, you will just have to trust me on this…it is meaningful to him. This kind of thing is important to men.”

Stephanie eventually agreed and brought the rod and reel to me on her next visit. I could not believe it when she brought it in. It was like I was seeing a long lost friend for the first time in 30 years. Those of you who know me well know what I did…I cried…and I told them the story of my hula popper and my first fish.

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.