My mother, Mickey, and I lived with my grandparents from 1955 to sometime in late 1957. These were the happiest times of my childhood. To me, my mother was the best in the world. I never felt that anything was missing in my life because I was surrounded not only by my mother’s side of the family but also by my father’s side of the family, who lived across the street. As I grew older, I became more independent and started to play in areas away from my house.
For Christmas I was given a battery-powered red boat as a gift. Two houses away from my grandparents’ house was contiguous swamp land. Before these swamps became landfills, commonly referred to as the county dump, there were encampments on the swampy high grounds where local kids hung out. These encampments were interconnected by paths. In early spring I took my boat to the swamp, inserted the battery, set its direction so I could retrieve it from the other side, and put it in the swampy water. Much to my delight, it took off. Before I could retrieve it a group of boys came out of their encampments and started throwing rocks at my boat. I ran home crying to my mother. She immediately ran down to the swamp and told the boys who were still throwing rocks that if they didn’t stop, she was going to “beat the shit” out of each one. It must have been my mother’s tone of voice and discernable anger because every boy stopped and many apologized. I retrieved my boat, and my mother held my hand as we walked home.
Soon after the boat incident, I joined one of the encampments in the swamp. Initially, there would be attacks against other groups of young kids. The idea was to sneak up on another group and destroy their encampment. Some groups even dug small tunnels into the wet sand. A type of plant grew to about 6 feet and had a point at the end when pulled from the damp soil. We would use these as spears to intimidate other groups. One group threw a spear at us and hit my best friend, Butchy, in the eye. He and I rushed to his house to tell his parents and his mother immediately took him to the family doctor. Fortunately, there was no permanent damage to his eye even though it was bloodshot and swollen for over a week.
Playing in the swamp was tremendously fun. Stupidly, BB guns were introduced. The idea was never to shoot somebody straight on but to sneak up behind them and shoot a BB into their butt while they were prone on the ground. If this could be accomplished, the attacker would run with delight while the attacked boys chased the attacker. At some point, a BB hit me in the right hand by my first knuckle, and this BB is still embedded in my hand.
Probably because of the toxicity in the swamp I started to develop boils on my body. I remember one being on my arm, another by my nose, and one on my leg. They were extremely painful, and my mother took me to the family doctor, where a black salve was prescribed. The idea was to draw the boil to a head so that, if needed, it could be lanced, and the core would come out. I remember my doctor telling me how lucky I was to have a boil rather than a carbuncle because carbuncles are more challenging to cure. The core generally comes out naturally with boils, but with carbuncles, the core sometimes must be surgically removed. My doctor was confused as to why I had so many boils at a young age. He eventually asked me where I was playing, and I told him about the swamp. In uncertain terms, he told me never to play in the swamp again. After his mandate, I avoided the swamp entirely and I never developed a boil again.
In late 1957 or early 1958, my mother, at 27 years old, married for a 3rd time. My second stepfather, Earl, was 17 years older than my mother. They met when my mother babysat his two children. Earl was a ruggedly handsome one-time amateur boxer with a missing finger, a misshaped nose, a scar on his left upper chest from a stab wound inflicted by his ex-wife, and a strong addiction to alcohol. My life was about to change.
(To be continued)
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