I was excited to enter 10th grade at Douglas MacArthur High School in Saginaw County. Because my mother and stepfather were heading toward a divorce, she demanded that I live with her and attend Arthur Hill in the city of Saginaw. She wanted a male in the household for protection. Even though I vigorously protested and wanted to stay with my grandparents, my mother would not relent, and my objections went unheard. I was now attending my 5th different school in 5 years.
The bus stop for Douglas MacArthur High School was at the end of the county dump, half a block from my grandparents’ home. It was convenient to be picked up and taken to MacArthur. But getting to Arthur Hill was entirely different. The distance was about 2 miles, and there was no bus. I had to walk there and back each school day. The trip took about 45 minutes, and when winter arrived, those walks could be unbearable. When it snowed or rained, my shoes would either become waterlogged or semi-frozen.
What is especially interesting about memory is that some events are so deeply etched in our minds that they become unforgettable. When I entered 10th grade and began walking to school, I often carried my transistor radio. In the fall of 1963, I heard the Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” for the first time on my daily walk. The harmony was so different and so intense that those simple lyrics transformed my musical taste from syrupy music to rock ‘n’ roll.
Except for inclement weather, the walks to and from school gave me the solitude I needed. For short periods, I was removed from the ongoing fights between Earl and my mother. Usually, when I arrived home, Earl’s truck was in the driveway because the garage to our house housed his amusement equipment and he often worked there. But one day early in the school year, I came home to find his truck not in the driveway. I walked into the house, and it was unusually quiet. I asked my mother, “Where’s Earl?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. I didn’t follow up with a response because it was nice to come home to a quiet house.
I started my homework at the kitchen table when my mother walked in, cigarette in hand. “What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
I was dumbfounded because it was very unusual for my mother to make dinner, and even more so for her to ask me what I wanted. It was all very strange. I said something innocuous, and my mother asked if I would like a BLT. A BLT was always one of my favorite foods, so I quickly replied, “I would like that.”
She took some bacon from the refrigerator, put it in a pan, and began slicing a tomato. As the bacon sizzled, I asked, “What are you and Earl going to eat?”
Without turning toward me, my mother said matter-of-factly, “Earl doesn’t live here anymore.”
(Next Blog Post: Where is Earl?)
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- Read Part 95 here
- Read John’s Whole Life Story
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