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to Priceless
An orphan's seventy year quest for a family.
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This book is dedicated to my extended family.
Nick and Marina Klimov and their wonderful children: Yelena, Sergey, Slava and Valeriy. Each brought their special brand of love into my empty and wayward life.
Yelena, who with her wonderful husband Stas, added the immense pleasure and joy of Benjamin and Nelly to complete the fulfillment of my life.
It is also dedicated to those leaders and members of Grace Family Church, Carmichael California, who live love the way the bible - inspired by God - defines it.
Part One
St. Francis Orphan Asylum - 1940
St. Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys - 1952
On the Streets of Philadelphia - 1955
A Dime A Dozen - 1957
Part Two
Patriotism and Politics - 1960
Publisher, Conductor, Law Student - 1968
Folsom State Prison - 1982
Part Three
Public Service: Secretary to Analyst - 1988
Adopted by Immigrants - 1998
Retirement - 2004
Return to Grace - 2006
Priceless - 2009
Part One
Chapter One
Saint Francis Orphan Asylum - 1940 This is not my imagination. It was a significant part of my childhood, a sadistic ritual that still haunts me more than sixty years later. In the 1940s this butt beating was called discipline. The Catholic nuns at Saint Francis Orphan Asylum in Orwigsburg Pennsylvania routinely carried a note pad and recorded every act perceived to be worthy of the nightly punishment. Called discipline then, today it would be called criminal. (Child abuse and child endangerment are new terms to the twenty-first century. They were non-existent in my childhood. Nevertheless the discipline or abuse had a profound affect on me and may very well be one of the reasons why and how I lived my life. I expect to relive highlights of my journey with this autobiography. Perhaps you will be both entertained and educated on how my life ultimately turned out the way it did. Along the way you may discover why it did, something I have yet to discover or understand. Therein lies the need to write this autobiography.) The oldest boys - about twelve years of age - had the pleasure or task of administering the punishment dictated by the nuns. A two foot long, puke green, hickory stick - a half-inch thick and an inch and a half wide - was the instrument of terror. One whack for every deed the nuns deemed bad behavior was awarded to any child performed during the day.. As childless virgins, what could they know about normal or abnormal child behavior? Some of these young administrators enjoyed their power, perhaps as much as the nuns enjoyed watching and listening to the whacks and screams. But the older boys were only following orders. Where and how often has that excuse been used before? It seems to me now that I was always standing in that line. No matter what I did or didn't do I was enrolled in Sister Frances' note book. Numerous times throughout the day I became part of her record-keeping statistics. Was my conduct normal or outrageous? I think I would still remember if I was behaving irrationally or irresponsibly. But what child knows what either word means at that age. What child diagnoses his or her behavior at that age? What child deserves this kind of discipline? I simply accepted my evening destiny. Today what I remember most is the blood that sometimes materialized or oozed from the welts. This did not occur if a child received only one or two or even three whacks. But often a dozen punishing blows turned a child's ass from pink to red to purple before the swelling erupted and the blood appeared. I never got to see mine bleed, but lived it vicariously as I viewed the butts of my young peers. Later they would describe my welts. Screaming mitigated the pain and fear, like it does on a roller-coaster ride. I was always determined not to scream. Although I bottled my rage and my pain, I was unsuccessful in preventing the flow of my tears. However, I did perfect the art of not crying when I became a hardened teenager. I was tearless for almost the next half century. Although the asylum housed a few hundred boys ranging in age from 2 to twelve, the nightly discipline line consisted of a mere twenty kids. Ten percent of the orphans needed to be disciplined. The rest were probably too scared to misbehave. I was among the repeat offenders. My recidivism rate was one hundred percent. The fear of the discipline did not outweigh the joy of being a child, so I suffered the consequences which lasted for half a century. The nuns were of a German order. The United States was at war with Germany during my first three years in the orphan asylum. Was this fact significant as a contributing factor for the harsh discipline meted out? Nahhh. Many years later I would reflect on these facts and assumed the ladies in black were just doing their part for the war effort. Clearly, their abuse was motivated by religion. It had to be because after the nightly beatings we all gathered around to pray! I never understood the connection. I suppose this lack of comprehension precluded me from being a christian, and planted the seed of anti-religion. My brother Nick and I were brought to the orphanage by dad, an unwed coal miner. He arrived in the United States from Russia, via Slovakia, through Ellis Island in 1905 at the age of ten. He was born January 4, 1896. His full name was Nicholas Stepfan Mizera. I only recently learned his name and date of birth while doing research. This information was found on his draft registration card signed in 1942 when he was 47 years of age. I suppose he was exempt from world war two because of his age and his employment as a coal miner. "Mom", who I do not remember at all, had eleven legitimate children older than Nick and me. I was her thirteenth! Nick and I were bastards! The word bastard had a serious negative meaning. Today that has been softened. The focus is now on the single mom, a position teenage girls focus on as a goal. Of course I don't remember that as infants Nick and I stayed in dad's car while he worked his twelve hour shift in the St. Clair coal mine. Nick told me about this many years later. I heard sketches about mom's character and behavior from other sources in later years. "Mom" claimed to want us living with her yet she periodically didn't want us and dropped us off at dad's at the time he was going to work. She would play games with dad by depriving him from having us while forcing him to take care of us while he was below ground in the coal mine. She would show up unannounced and drop both of us off as he was heading to work. This must have drove dad nuts. She treated her bastards much differently than her other eleven kids. Dad's two bastard kids did not have either an ideal childhood or a normal one. To say we were products of a dysfunctional family is being kind. So at about the age of four and two, we were deposited in Saint Francis Orphan Asylum to be taken care of. And were we ever! The need for an orphan asylum for Schuykill and Carbon counties in Pennsylvania was made clear during the influenza epidemic of 1918. That world-wide pandemic took the lives of one or both parents along with close relatives in many families creating a large number of orphans. The estimated 186,000 Catholics were asked to contribute money to build an orphanage. On October 12, 1921, more than 6,000 people braved the chilly air to attend an open-air mass conducted in connection with the dedication of St. Francis' Orphan Asylum. The red and white building which was a large, old farmhouse together with its 118 acres of ground was purchased for $15,000 and was quickly remodeled and converted to a home to accommodate eighteen girls ages 2 to twelve. Two nuns were assigned to tend to the orphans. Right Reverend Monsignor Francis McGovern, Rector of St. Patrick's Church in Pottsville, conceived the idea for this orphanage and proposed the idea to Archbishop Dennis Dougherty who presided over the opening ceremony. The farmhouse was already over one hundred years old and now became a comfortable, attractive home. Over its entrance were engraved the words: "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, for such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Also engraved was the golden rule of conduct as laid down on Sinai by the Master Lawgiver of the world: "Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you." By 1923 the Catholic churches began to collect money for the erection of a new Orphanage. A goal of $800,000 was established for a building to house 500 orphans. Ground was broken for the new building on December 10, 1928. The new building was occupied on July 3, 1930. By May, 1931, there were 125 orphans in the home. My brother and I arrived in May of 1942, just as the old orphanage was being taken down as it was an obstruction to traffic on the highway between Orwigsburg and Schuylkill Haven. St. Francis' Orphan Asylum reached a population of 250 children, including pre-schoolers. The magnificent structure was originally designed to house 500 orphans so it was quite spacious. The orphanage was a four-story, brick building and cost $815,000 to construct. The Catholics operated their own school with six classrooms. During its history it had also taken in 40 Cuban refugees and a number of orphans created by the Korean Conflict. By 1978 the asylum was down to 11 children. On February 28, 1978, Monsignor David Thompson, vicar general of the Allentown Catholic Diocese, announced that the orphanage would close in June after 53 years in operation. He said the reasons for closing were the same as those for closing Sacred Heart Home in Coopersburg in June - a decline in the number of children to house and a drop in the ranks of nuns to serve them. Along with the population of 125 boys there were also more than one hundred girls in the orphan asylum. But boys were forbidden to talk to them. There was always a mandatory distance maintained between the genders. On the second floor, in the chapel, boys sat on one side, girls on the other. Meals were served on the first floor in the dining room which was segregated the same way. So were all six classrooms. Even outdoors there was a fence separating the girls from the boys and a 10 foot buffer on each side of the fence kept boys twenty feet away from the girls. The simple rule was there would be absolutely no talking to each other. Not even wordless talk. Looks meant to convey communication were outlawed. My curiosity must have been strong as I often breached the 20 foot buffer. Because I violated these rules I suffered the consequence of a number of nightly bruises from the puke-green hickory stick. What has been impossible for me to imagine, however, is the girls standing in a nightly line for a similar dose of discipline. When I was in my early forties I drove from California to Pennsylvania to try to discover my roots. I found a few news articles in the Pottsville Republic that told of a "reunion" of the orphans. I was never invited, because I couldn't be found. (Google was not born yet.) I called Sarah Romanick who did attend the re-union. She was mentioned in a news article. I asked her: "Did the girls get the same discipline the boys received?" She informed me that there was no nightly green hickory stick line. However, she told me that a playmate at the time and still a friend today was still angry at the nuns four decades later because she was "disciplined." Apparently playing the piano was prohibited conduct. Her seven year old friend was attracted to the piano and thought she would try her hand at it. Big mistake! A nun snuck up on her and whacked her hand with one of those three foot sticks nuns use to point at the blackboard. This resulted in four broken fingers. This child, who was disciplined in 1947, refused to attend the reunion held in 1987. But the St. Francis' environment was not totally Charles Dickensonian. Picnics and parties happened periodically. But excluded were those who lined up nightly less they misbehave. Punishment was piled on top of punishment. At least the concept of a picnic or party was learned. There was also an annual May procession. Crucifix and flag was carried by altar boys who were followed by the boys in two lines, smallest to largest. The girls followed and were trailed by nuns. Marching through the countryside was always a pleasant time. There were many white statues. At each we would stop to chant a prayer. Memories of the spiritual aspect of this ritualistic activity remain in stark contrast to the confusing nightly beatings. Other cultural activites are part of my memory of growing up. On one occasion a vistor came to perform a violin solo. She was a young girl and I think I might have fallen in love from a distance. I had never heard such beautiful music. On another day we were treated to a magic act. I was overwhelmed and overjoyed and astonished to see the magician put a hot dog into his big black hat and pull out a live rabit. Yet other memories linger, although not as profound as the nightly butt busters. In college in my early thirties while taking a psychology course, I learned that a child is naturally curious, especially about body parts, at about the age of five. So that must have been the age I was when I was sitting on a toilet examining my penis, trying to figure out what else it did in addition to pee. A dark shadow interfered with my contemplation. That shadow was cast by Sister Theresa as she peered over the top of the stall's door. She yanked the door opened and pulled me off the toilet. This caused me to pee all over me and her. Yes, I was in that night's line of deviates deserving of at least a few hard whacks. In Sister Teresa's mind I was masturbating, whatever that was. She had me go immediately to confession. "Bless me Father for I have sinned…" The priest must have been amused, or perhaps excited as I described my sin. His assignment of a penance of three Hail Marys was no match for the four welts of the stick. But that I can remember the incident sixty-plus years later seems to indicate that this was the start of my wayward journey through life. Perhaps it was from that day that my life became much more confusing and conflicting. And there were other good times at the asylum. Christmas comes to mind. Each year we received a brown paper bag containing an orange, an apple, a few mixed nuts, some hard candy and a shiny new dime with the current year imprinted on it. We had to sing Christmas carols to visitors for this annual gift from our unknown benefactors. And later the nuns confiscated the money. Each year we were instructed to write a letter making a request. These letters were read on the local radio station and interested residents would wrap up a new shirt or socks and deliver them to the orphanage. These were also distributed. I don't recall a tree, or a santa claus, or lights. We always enjoyed a turkey dinner on Christmas day. Food at the orphanage was always good and plentiful. But if anyone let any food remaining on the plate, that was grounds for at least one ass-whack. One benefit in being raised in the orphanage was the development of a great work ethic. Today, I somehow keep looking back at it as child labor. Child labor laws were relatively new and besides, who would expect nuns to obey them anyway. The downside of an orphanage has always been in my mind the lack of accountability. The orphanage was located in a very rural area. One reason for building such an expensive orphanage in its location was that it was one of the few places where coal was not present underground. Farming occupied the countryside between Orwigsburg to the east and Schuylkill Haven to the west, both very tiny towns. There was an active farm attached to the orphanage. In exchange for cheap child labor, the orphanage received food. I can recall the pleasure of pitching hay to a horse-drawn wagon, and picking potatoes from mounds of dirt. This was the kind of "fun" for which we were NOT punished, unless, of course, we harassed the horse or threw dirt or potatoes at each other. We also fed the pigs the food that was left over from our meals. I can specifically recall feeding hot dogs to the pigs. And I had never heard the word cannibalism. Once I had the rare pleasure of riding a bike to Schuylkill Haven. One of the kids missed Sunday mass and I was directed to ride him to Saint Ambrose Catholic church so he could attend mass. (It is a mortal sin to miss mass on a Sunday and as a Catholic if you die with one of those on your soul you go straight to hell and burn forever.) Yet even this joy turned into a bit of hell on earth. Upon returning to the orphanage, with the mass-misser sitting on the bike's handlebars, I took a sharp left turn from the highway rather fast as I returned down the long driveway to the orphanage. Me, he and the bike flew through the air. Both of us suffered wounds, torn clothing and I earned a place in "the line." The bike was destroyed. I always assumed it was my fault for going too fast. At the age of nine there is no such thing as too fast. Reviewing that accident objective I know what really happened. The handlebar rider advertently let his toes stop the forward motion of the front wheel by bringing the spokes to a halt. So I was actually punished for his negligence! Every kid gets disciplined, some a lot worse than others. But one would think that being orphans, being mentored by purported agents of God, being so young and impressionable, we would have had an exemption from discipline especially that which crossed the line into abuse. No such luck. Perhaps the discipline or abuse was intended to have built the character that the lack of bonding failed to incorporate into our personalities. But instead it created a life-long resentment, a lingering hostility, the opposite affect, and prevented normalcy from ever getting a foothold. But on the other hand, maybe discipline - even abuse - is healthy. Actually, I also contacted a male who attended the re-union. Louie Domday came to the orphanage in 1945 at the age of four. He was the same age as me. He too was quoted in the September 1987 reunion news story. He told the Pottsville Republic that he wouldn't be what he is today if it hadn't been for the discipline he received at the direction of the nuns. I tried to telephone him when I returned to California. He picked up the telephone and after I briefly mentioned that I wanted to discuss his discipline statement he went silent. He did not hang up, but let me know he was still on the phone by his breathing. No matter what I said he just kept doing his heavy breathing routine. I can only wonder if that is what he meant by "what he is today." Just about everyone else I talked to who was at that re-union admitted to having one or more compulsive obsessive behavioral problems. Mine has always been overeating and as you will learn something much more horrendous and dispicable. In addition to overeating, a more serious problem has been my lifelong belief has plagued me: that I had to buy anyone and everyone's friendship. I am sure there are more but I have not done a lot of self-examination. Underlying most of my problems has been the inability to form relationships. Some people like and even love me, but it is not because of anything creative on my part. They see something that most do not. But would they if they were aware of the most serious behavioral problem which is the subject and object of this autobiography, But let us go back to the fun of growing up. After the loving discipline, religion was a big priority at St. Francis's Asylum. In retrospect I have looked at my first home as a nun and priest factory and at myself as a reject from the assembly line a serious defect not permitted to become a priest. We started every day off with a visit to the chapel on the second floor where we said our first prayers of the day. This was followed by breakfast prayer, before and after the meal. And the first class of the day was catechism where we must have learned the stories from the bible. We did not learn them from the bible because that was written in Latin and we were forbidden to read the bible! Recess was usually spent in the chapel and after the rest of the morning classes, we prayed before and after lunch. After school we had a treat. The boys lined up in twos with the smallest in the front, Like an Alaska dog sled setup, just like the May procession. The nun, who accompanied us through the countryside took up the rear but without a whip. We chanted the rosary. The Catholic rosary consisted of repetitious voicings of the Hail Mary prayer- fifty plus of them, interspersed with a number of Our Fathers, or The Lord's Prayer. It took about an hour to complete. My contribution, for which I was always awarded puke points, was in taking an unofficial lead. I would raise my voice just a little louder but loud enough to play leader of the pack. Once my voice dominated, I sped up the chant going ever faster and faster until most chanters tripped over their words. The rosary chant would come apart and halt. The nun, with her lip quivering, exchanged glances with me and did not say a word. She did not have to. She always talked ever so softly because she had underlings who carried her big stick. My brother Nick and I were not close, not even close. I recall a time when Dad came to take us to a county fair where there was a carnival. A nun thought I needed more punishment and prevented me from going. That still hurts today. One of the rare times I would have participated in a family activity was denied me, and I cannot remember why. I do remember that when Nick returned with some souvenirs, he did not bother to share them with me or even share the details how he obtained them at the fair. We were brothers in name only. Dad did come to visit on occasion. The shout "your people are here" always got everyone's attention, but the adrenalin subsided as soon as you determined that it was not "your" people, your parents or relatives, that were being announced. But when dad did show up, it would be for about an hour. We would sit in his car and talk, I guess. If I would have had told him about the nightly whippings, perhaps he might have done something about it. In retrospect, that is hindsight. I do remember him talking about the Chinese on one of these visits and how they had so many people. I recall that he said if and when we ever went to war with them we would lose become we could not kill enough of them. Was this at the start of the Korean police action? Perpahs it was in 1950 and I was nine or ten years of age. When he did show up he always brought a bag of potato chips. I think that was my first introduction to foil. Dad had a house in Cressona, Pennsylvania. On the few visits there I recall picking beetles from plants in the back yard and putting them into a coffee can. I remember that he was making wine in small barrels in the cellar. It seems he was remodeling the house as half of it was not usable. I also recall he would dry mushrooms on newspaper. But for the most part I have very few memories of him. The most vivid memory is of his pending death and subsequent funeral. I was about eleven years of age. The nuns gave Nick and I brand new brown trousers and informed us that we were to go to the hospital to visit our father because he way dying. I recall being at his bedside. He had on one of his thighs a large water-filled blister. I don't know how or if it was connected, but he was dying of miner's asthma or black lung as he had worked in the coal mines for a few decades. I recall making three promises: that I would never visit mom and never drink wine or work in the coal mines. I have no idea what the basis was for any of those promises, but I did not keep two of them. I only slightly recall the burial, but remember the wake. It was a party and most everyone there spoke a foreign language. I also learned I had a sister, Anne, much older, who flew in from Seattle, Washington. I do not recall much about her at all as this was probably the first time I learned I had another sibling. She did not share the same mother. Her mother had been commited to an insane asylum. I think this was because she had withnessed someone die in an auto accident and went crazy. Or, that was an excuse used to cover a genetic defect. I came to this conclusion based on what Anne did to Nick and I after the funeral. Anne apparently got together with the executor of Dad's will. Together they managed to split the assets: the house, a few bank accounts and an insurance policy. I recall pleading with her to take me with her, but she was too focused on "her" inheritance. Another rejection, another wound, and this also hurt much more that the butt busting. It seemed that within days Nick and I were whisked away to a place and world much different than our safe home for the past decade. We were being driven to Saint Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys in Philadelphia. This was the beginning of a nightmare for me.
RESUME HERE
Saint Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys - 1953
This new home was quite a contrast. All boys, all older than me, no nuns, it was situated in the heart of a black ghetto and it was lily white. Located at Sixteenth and Allegheny Avenue it housed kids from twelve to eighteen. Freshman and sophomore classes were taught in the orphanage, but junior and seniors went "outside" to Roman Catholic High a half dozen miles away on Broad Street. A number of contrasts greeted me: instead of nuns there were laymen. The city was very different that the farm. I was soon to learn that there was no green hickory stick and in its place reigned an absence of discipline. But the most profound contrast was with the adults who were charged with our education and care. One guardian who I recall fondly was Mr. Goodwin. He was old, thin, gray haired and funny. At night he played gospel music to put us to sleep. Quite harmless, he was in a way a sanctuary. Another interesting adult was a Scottish gentleman whose name has long since vanished from my memory banks. His claim to fame was that he coached the soccer team and he was an alcoholic. I guess the alcohol kept him warm on the sidelines as he urged us to head it referring to the soccer ball. Other than his stirred speech and wobbly demeanor, he was harmless. A Mr. Brown taught history and I remember him as a very serious person. I don't recall any time where he caused harm to his charges. He was soft spoken and sincere and took his history seriously even if his students did not. There was Bernie Meehan who taught biology. He had a way of slipping a piece of chewing gum into his mouth, believing he was not observed, and taking ten minutes to do it. That got his attention while his biology lesson was ignored. He made a lasting impression on me because while I tried to be the class clown and mimic him behind his back, he apparently had eyes in the back of his head hidden in his black bushy hair. He saw me, spun around and knocked me to the ground. But Mr. Whelan was another case. First, he does not deserve the title Mr. Perhaps Monster Whelan would be more appropriate. Each of these adults took turns watching the kids overnight. There was a very large dormitory where the kids slept and there was a small bedroom where the adults retired to after the orphans went to sleep. And what happened after the kids went to sleep is how Whelan earned his designation Monster. Almost every night he would creep through the aisles of beds and select one of the younger and newer children to accompany him to his room. He often waited until he thought all the kids were sleeping so he could have his privacy, his secret. He selected me one night. He woke me. He took me by the hand without saying anything. He led me to his room and closed the door. He was a huge man. I think it is appropriate to say he was rather fat. He was mostly bald and had wisps of red hair above his ears. As he sat on the side of his bed he was holding both my hands and talking softly. He was mumbling something about praying. He was not a priest and this was my first encounter with an adult who wanted me to pray. He had me kneel down, fold my hands and bow my head. My hands and head were on the edge of the bed. I followed him as he led the prayer. While praying he put he hands behind my head and applied pressure. With one hand he re-positioned my hands by lifting them and placing them on his penis. I was scared. I had no idea what was happening. He started to tell me how much he liked me and that we were going to be good friends. He had me stand, turned me around and pulled me back so I was sitting on the edge of the bed. He pulled me toward him as he started to rub my penis. He was wearing clothes and all I had on were briefs. He reached into my underwear and with the tips of his fingers started to slowly masturbate me. I had recently experienced a nocturnal emission - a wet dream - and now I ejaculated. He squeezed my pulsating penis until I finished. He removed his hand and told me to go to bed. On my way to my bed I heard snickering from a few of the boys who were faking sleep. It took a long time for me to get to sleep. The next morning was different from previous mornings. I did not like it. As I walked by Whelan to the bathroom he treated me with indifference. Was I dreaming? Was this normal? What happened to me? Whelan taught the tenth grade. I was in the ninth. His shift required him to "supervise" his charges for three nights about twice a month. It was a long time before he selected me to pray with him again. But I was aware he was selecting others. And I was relieved that I was not being selected. I never discussed this with any of the other boys. I was really too embarrassed. I certainly did not discuss it with the alcoholic Scotsman, the senile Godwin, or the serious Brown. There were no personal relationships between the adults and the kids. It seems they were doing time and would rather be elsewhere. When it was the Scotsman's turn to watch over us, he sought refuge as soon as possible in his room with his alcohol as his companion. Mr. Godwin was heavily into music instead of children. No other adult to my knowledge was into sexually abusing their charges. The priest who ran the orphanage was a Jesuit. This type of priest is considered the Catholic Church's legal arm. He was never present overnight. Our only supervising was at the hands of the laymen. Was he aware that the orphans were being molested? I have no knowledge or even suspicion that he was aware of the criminal acts of Whelan. Were any of the other laymen molesting the kids? Again, I have no firsthand knowledge although vague rumors circulated that this was commonplace. There were more adults supervising the kids than the four I am referring to in this writing, but none stand out for good or evil. Father Brown, the Jesuit, had an office on the second floor of the orphanage that overlooked the yard where kids hung out. I can only recall one interaction I had with him. Two cats came under the fence into the yard. I was sitting petting both and decided to see their reaction when I held each cat's tail and bent them simultaneously as they faced each other. They screamed, clawed and became the focus of Father Brown who was aware of my act of cruelty. I thought the reaction I got from the cats was funny. Little did I know it had a deeper, sinister, psychological meaning. He let me know that he saw what I had done, but he never chastised me or disciplined me. In fact, I don't recall any discipline being meted out to anyone during my stay. No hickory stick. No nightly line. Only the apprehension that Monster Whelan would be selecting me to satisfy his sickness acted as a punishment. Another aspect of my religious instruction that was missing at St. Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys was visits to the chapel, daily rosaries, and legitimate prayer sessions. I am, of course, not counting Whelan's private prayer sessions. These did continue at random and infrequently. They evolved from masturbation and fondling to oral and attempts at anal sex. After my first year of high school I dreaded entering the tenth grade because I would be taught by Whelan. I knew I was in for a confrontation and had no idea how I would deal with it. I was thirteen years of age. He had to be in his forties. Our last confrontation was my refusal to submit to his sexual desires. He told me I would regret it. So to time for regrets had arrived. I am not sure if I was a good or bad student, based on grades. One indication is that a citywide test was given in geometry. Students at St. Joseph have participated. I learned that my score was third highest in the Philadelphia Catholic school district. Whelan taught English. How he fulfilled the threat of my regret was he flunked me and I had to repeat the sophomore year. This took the wind out of my academic sail. The following school year I started to attend Roman Catholic high. What a rush. Instead of being one of forty-five students in the sophomore year, I was one of hundreds of students in my junior year. I was drowning in peer pressure. As orphans, a wardrobe was super-minimal. So was knowledge of the real world. In Saint Francis, we were immune to outside world influences. Most orphans arrived as infants and the nuns defined our knowledge of the real world. In Saint Joseph's orphans arrived in their teens and brought lots of baggage with them. Bags of mis-information - especially about sex. I learned obscene language and fighting. I also learned survival techniques, otherwise known as gang affiliation. So I was not interested in making friends at Roman Catholic High. I did not know how to. Relationships were not my favorite pastime. I did not last long at this high school. A priest taught the first class: catechism. He was arrogant and intimidating His favorite pastime was threatening and berating the students. I happened to obtain a starter pistol. It looked like a real gun but only shot blanks. The noise was used to notify runners that they could take off. I took it to class and found another use for it. As the priest came down the aisle, berating my classmates as usual, I jumped out of my desk into the aisle, pulled out the "gun" and fired it at him three times. I then immediately jumped out of the first floor window. That ended my high school education and my term at St. Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys. I was now really homeless. But I was free. I was Free from Whelan. Finding a place to stay was not difficult. A lot of boys ran away from the orphanage. Seems they had an apartment a few blocks away. And that was the airlock that allowed the transition from the orphanage to the real world. A brief education on survival in the real world was freely available. I was a few weeks from turning fifteen.
On the Streets of Philadelphia - 1955
There are a number of considerations a runaway must deal with once he is free from the shackles of institutionalization. These include housing, food, clothing, medical care, spending money, and goals to mention a few. I considered none, that is, until the need arose. Housing, as I mentioned, was initially the easiest. Advice to all potential runaways was the same. You can stay at the third floor apartment at 15th and Tioga. That is where all orphans desiring a better life start life. So I did. Seems there was a single adult in his forties who was a bookkeeper by day and a child keeper by night. He paid for the apartment rent and in exchange extracted sexual favors from some of the boys who did not mind getting head, as I later learned it was called. He was booked solid so did not have time for me on his schedule. The next consideration - breakfast - was almost as easy to accomplish. In the mid-fifties in Philadelphia milk was still being delivered by horse-drawn wagons. That meant getting up pretty early and walking a few blocks in any direction. Before long, the milk man would come by and exchange full glass quarts of milk for the empty bottles. When eggs and orange juice were also delivered, they were a bonus. Together with stolen fresh rolls dropped off in front of the area mom and pop store, these freebies provided a nourishing breakfast. And breakfast was generally the only meal eaten. Caution had to be exercised that the same address was not visited too frequently. Clothing was a little trickier. But clothing wasn't what one called a necessity. Teens are known to wear the same clothes for long periods of time, unless peer pressure dictates that the rules of fashion be followed. That did not apply to me. At any one time a half dozen runaways lived at the Tioga apartment. When new clothing was on our agenda, we would find a local, small clothing store and make our selection of new jeans and a shirt or two. But instead of paying a visit to the cashier, two of us would create a diversion such as a fake fight to distract the clerk while the others ran out of the store with the merchandise. I did have a need for medical assistance once. During the day we hung out at a local soda shop. Three strangers stopped at the door and motioned my friend to come outside. It did not take long for me to figure out they were trying to pick a fight with him, by falsely accusing him of making an insulting remark to one of their girlfriends. My friend was not a fighter and definitely would not have committed the insult he was being accused of, so I went to his rescue. I told him to get inside as I started to challenge the trio by claiming I was the one who said the girl's mother was a whore. Two of the three and me went at it for a few minutes and I was getting the best of them when the third came up behind me a hit me behind my left ear. Down I went, and off they ran. There was a hospital about two blocks away. I walked into the emergency room and was told to have a seat with the other dozen or more waiting to be examined. After a short wait and observing very little movement of those needing help, I took the initiative. I stood up and started to walk toward the nurse and fell down. That got their attention and it got me examined in a hurry. With the bandages still in evidence, I visited the home of one of the trio who caused me to visit the hospital. It does not take long to obtain this kind of information, because kids love to brag about their exploits and conquests. I borrowed a 38 caliber pistol came into their front door waving it while demanding everyone come to the living room. I did not intend to shoot anyone. The "thou shalt not kill" command echoed in my mind. I announced my threat by stating that their teenager caused my head wound and that he would be getting his in the near future. I was beginning to understand that my bark could be more effective than my bite. I wanted the entire family to know that I was wronged and payback was in their future. I can still hear my performance: "It may not be tomorrow or next week, but he is going to suffer just as much as I did." I gave him nasty look and departed just as quickly as I arrived. I never followed up believing that the threat was sufficient payback. I was sure he would relay this incident to his cohorts and that would be enough to keep them out of my life. For months I did what any irresponsible runaway would do. What took up a lot of my time was joyriding in stolen cars. In the suburbs the subway system has parking lots to benefit the riders. They drive to the parking lot, leave their cars complete with gas and subway it to work for at least eight hours. We kind of did the reverse. We would sneak on to the subway by squeezing thru the exit turnstiles and exit the last subway stop. Taking out choice of cars for the day was a little like shopping. So many to choose from. Starting cars in those days was rather simple. Behind the keyhole were four connections for wires. One connection was for accessories such as the radio and one was for the starter. Two others powered the distributor etc. It was simply a matter of using the silver foil that came with cigarette packs and wedge it amongst the four wires. After the engine started, removing the foil from the starter wire was necessary. We were never caught. Often we brought the car back to the parking lot, unless we ran out of gas first. Most of the former orphans living at the Tioga apartment eventually got jobs and found their own places. I found myself the only runaway left. Me and the book/child keeper. He decided to have a man-to-boy talk with me. He explained that he was gay, but did not explain what gay meant. Whelan never did either. I suppose he was making an attempt to seduce me but it went over my head. He did not try to force himself on me or make any further suggestions. My knowledge of sex could fill most of a tea-cup, but I was soon to get an education. And my cup would soon runneth over! I spent most of the day swimming in the Delaware River drinking coke. We did not use alcohol. I came "home" to find everyone and everyone gone! I guess the bookkeeper concluded that he would not get to first base with me, and that he might get a beating instead, so while I was off, he moved out. Another surprise was in store for me before the night was out. This apartment was on the third floor. There were two apartments on that floor. In the other apartment lived an older married couple. The man was absent a lot and his wife sought refuge in the proverbial bottle. She came home rather drunk that night and like a gentleman I helped her into her apartment. She was so drunk she did not know who I was and for once neither did I. I carried her to the sofa and plopped her into it. She inadvertently spread her legs, her dress fell back exposing most of her privacy. I had never seen a naked woman before and my curiosity tugged at my morality. Here was my opportunity to experience sex with a woman first hand. I popped my belt, dropped my jeans, leaned over her, put one hand each under each of her thighs and pre-maturely ejaculated! Wow. Opps. Geezz. What just happened? I had to get out of there before she sobered up or woke up or before her old man showed up. The morality issue along with all the other nagging questions would have to be dealt with later. Days earlier I found myself hanging out at a restaurant and the waitress took a liking to me. She was plying me with free coffee. She had asked enough questions to determine I was a runaway. I found myself once again at that restaurant. I manage to mention that I was looking for a place to stay because the bookkeeper moved. I was oozing with confidence. I supposed that now that I had my first piece of ass I could go in search of my next. But did I hit the jackpot! She, a twenty-six year old, gave me the key to her apartment on Broad Street, two blocks away, and told me to make myself at home. Wow. I would have a home at last. She said she would be there after work. I don't think she waited ten minutes before she had me in bed with her. I guess my ego was as hard as my penis. This classy lady wanted me! No premature ejaculation with her. They were all premeditated ejaculations. One after the other. Sex was fun. I was only fifteen and now I had an "old lady". She, and I honestly cannot recall her name, had plans for me. She insisted that he apartment was my home. "Just be here when I get off work" she warned with the nicest smile. "Who wouldn't be" was my attempt to be conversational. Even more than fifty years later I can remember that happened on a Monday. On Tuesday, after she returned home from work, she gave me an energy pill. It was such a tiny white pill. Unknowingly, I had my first bout with speed. And she had an exceptional bout with me for much of the night. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were repeats, except that Friday concluded much differently than falling asleep. St. Joseph's, which was less than three blocks away, conducted a dance every Friday. It was one of the ways they raised money. I had a number of friends, orphans and girls, who I wanted to see as the dance broke up at eleven that evening. As I started to leave, my lover turned into Mrs. Hyde. Although I tried to convince her that I would be back after visiting friends at the dance, she was not buying it. I was determined to go. She was still naked as I opened the door to leave. She came running toward me. I ran away from her. I was actually a bit scared. She followed me out the door and chased me for twenty yards down Broad Street. This is a main thoroughfare in Philadelphia. Lots of traffic and horn honking added to this unusual scene. Fortunately I was able to outrun her. Unfortunately, I was homeless again. The dance let out at eleven o'clock. Twenty minutes later everyone was gone. I found myself hanging out on the corner of Broad Street and Allegheny Avenue, just two blocks from St. Joseph's. I was with someone I barely knew and let him know that I needed a place to crash. He offered a place and we walked about five blocks and entered a building that had apartments on two floors. As I walked into the apartment out of the corner of my right eye I observed a guy, fully clothed and a naked girl on her knees. I was not even curious and turn away as I walked away into the living room. I found a place on the couch and started to watch TV. Amid lots of noise and yelling I was awaken by someone who grabbed me and yanked me off the couch. I was being dragged across the room and down the flight of stairs I had previously ascended. I was being dragged by two cops. Into the back of a patrol car I went. I was not told what was happening or where I was going, but within ten minutes I found myself being deposited into what apparently was juvenile hall. I was locked in a small room, a really small room. There were no furnishings and the walls were covered with padding. A sink and toilet shared the room with me. What seemed like hours later - I could not tell whether it was day or night - a bowl of what appeared to be oatmeal was shoved into the room and the door was slammed shut again. Where was I? Why was I here? I could not understand what was happening to me or why. I was really angry and the longer I was held there the angrier I got. I could not communicate with anyone. There was no one to talk with. Periodically food on a tray was shoved past the opened door and it was slammed shut after the previous bowl, dish or tray was removed. The person who brought the food would not talk to me. He would not answer my questions. He just took the old tray and spoon and replaced it with one with food and another spoon. I had no way of knowing the time or if it was day or night. The food deliverer would not even give me the time of day. I thought I was losing my mind. The room was opened a short time after an oatmeal meal was served. Two big men ordered me out of the room and motioned for me to go down a hallway. They would not answer my questions either. At the end of the hallway was a door. Before I reached it I vented my anger by putting my fist through the wall. It hurt me but I got my message across without saying a word. I was ushered into the room. The naked girl, now clothed, was sitting on a chair next to a guy in a black dress - a judge as it turned out. She was asked a few questions only one of which got my attention: "Was this one of the guys who raped you?" she was asked. She looked at me and then she looked back at the person who asked the question and said softly: "No, he was not." Had I really known how to pray, I would have prayed to God to thank Him for her telling the truth. Rape? What was that? Was that what happened when I entered the apartment? Was I a coward or simply ignorant that night? I soon learned what happened after I went to sleep. The girl asked to go to the bathroom and slipped out the window and jumped, naked, to the ground. Two naked girls in one night. One a crazy criminal (having sex with a fifteen year old boy and being ten years older is called child-molestation.) And the other, a victim of crime. I was whisked out of the court room and within minutes found myself on the courtroom steps. I was free to go, but to go where?. I had no idea what I would do or where I would go. I knew I was homeless and alone and had to deal with both very soon. When I was raised in St. Francis Orphan Asylum I was protected from outside influences. In St. Joseph's that was not the case. Words like rape, gay, or other words dealing with sex were either not used or explained, or substitute words were uttered like gang-bang and faggot or queer. There was no such thing a sex-education. My informal education came from sister penis peeper, Monster Whelan, child-keeper, old-drunk lady, young-crazy, naked lady, and recently, rape victim. I was not in the loop anyway as those kids who were snickering pegged me as a "faggot" because I ended up in Whelan's web a few times. Only one time did any of them have the balls to make a direct comment. That happened about ten o'clock one night. Our dormitory was on the third floor. Five blocks away was Connie Mack Stadium where a night baseball game was being played by the Philadelphia Phillies. Every time there was a home run the noise from the crowd would erupt. Kids hung around by the window to see if they could see the ball flying through the air. Three kids were sitting on one bed and one made reference to me as Whelan's punk. I did not know what a punk was but knew it was an insult. I slowly walked over to them, leaned over and took one punch at the kid who made the remark. I broke his nose. He was taken to the hospital. I was not disciplined. And, the insults stopped, at least publicly. I was not a violent person. But from somewhere I found the courage to take a stand. From the courtroom I decided to head back to north Philadelphia, to my old neighborhood. I was told that I made the newspaper. I never read a newspaper so I did not know the significance of being the subject of a news article. I was not interested in finding out. I had to find a place to crash. Finding a place to crash was easy enough but boy did they end up in weird ways. I flashed on the Tioga apartment, the naked lady's apartment, the rapist's apartment. What lie ahead for me? Should I sneak back to St. Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys? I found myself in south Philadelphia and had both a place to stay and a job! The place to stay was a room in the cellar of a "mom and pop" store owned and operated by three Italian brothers. The job was to be their employee, their only employee. The entrance to the cellar or their warehouse was a flight of stairs three feet wide upon which were nailed two foot-wide boards. This made it easy to slide boxes down to the "warehouse". It also made it difficult to retrieve inventory or to climb back up with boxes. I was told I could have the room rent-free, could eat what they had for sale in the store, and would be paid fifty cents an hour. I worked ten or more hours each day. No one kept track. I started on a Friday and was told I would be paid the following Friday. I worked seven days and when I asked for my pay I was told: "Next Friday". I suspected I was being exploited and might never see a pay day. I was angry but hid it well. I slid down the ramp and found boxes that contained five-pound containers of coffee. The coffee company was running a promotion. They had put a coin in each can. There was at least a quarter and some cans contained a silver dollar. No one else ever came to the cellar so I was free to open all the cans, dump out the coffee and collect the coins. I went through twenty-four cans and collected two silver dollars, three half-dollars and 19 quarters for a total of $8.25. The sixty hours I had already worked would have paid me $30 so I was still short. Pocketing the loot and brushing off the coffee, I went upstairs. I waited until only one of the brothers was in the store. I waited until he opened the cash register. Then I grabbed all the twenties and tens and raced out the store. I did not stop running until I reached the subway station. I had outrun him and outwitted him. And after counting the money, my payday amounted to $230 plus the $8.25 in change. I headed back to the only neighborhood I knew, that which surrounded St. Joseph's House for Homeless and Industrious Boys. This is what they must have meant by industrious. I ran into Bill Pegliaro. He had also run away from the orphanage. But now he had a job and he had a very small one-bedroom apartment. After a short discussion, I became his roommate and was able to split the rent and pay for groceries. He turned me onto a job at Gimble's Department store in downtown Philadelphia. He worked in the record department at John Wannamakers Department store two blocks from Gimble's. My job was supposed to be for the Christmas season only and although I worked full-time, it was to be a temporary job. I made it! Having had a great work ethic, I caught the attention of supervisors who kept me in the employ of Gimble's after Christmas. I was assigned to work in the automotive department. This was not actually a part of Gimble's but they sublet space to a firm in New York who sold the tires and auto parts and used the Gimble's name and advertisements. I worked for a fellow named Robbie Robbins. Somehow I learned he was Jewish and we got along just fine. He was a father-figure. He was kind and always lent me a buck or two before pay day so I could buy lunch. I was being paid $37.50 a week for only 48 hours work. The government was keeping some of my pay check for taxes, whatever they were, and social security. I was only interested in the cash I was given when I presented my paycheck. Every week I had more than $32. I worked had for this money and I did not mind hard work. And Robbie really appreciated my hard work. About three months into this job I arrived one morning and Robbie was not there. He had been replaced by a twenty-one year old college graduate who was related to one of the owners from New York. I was both devastated and apprehensive. How could this happen? Robbie was such a good person and a hard worker and my friend.
A Dime A Dozen - 1957 The other employees on the second floor, where the auto department was located, told me about Robbie being replaced. And moments later I met his replacement. A short, skinny guy popped up in front of me and announced: "You're a Dime a Dozen". He said this with a look of disgust on his face and a sneer, and added: "and don't you forget it." Now I was dumfounded, and pissed. This was my new boss? I didn't think he should be talking to me that way. What had I done to deserve this insult? Surely Robbie must have told him what a hard and dedicated worker I was. My mind was spinning. My world was upset. Would I be fired next? I kept hearing You're a Dime a Dozen echoing in my ears. I knew what I had to do. I simply had to prove that I was work more than a dime. Although I did not have an appraisal on my self-worth, it had to be much more than the dime a dozen he though I would appraise at. My job was to keep the shelves stocked with wax, light bulbs, seat covers, batteries, and everything else one would expect to find in an automotive department of a store like Gimbles or Wannamakers or Macys. They were the big three and their only competition was Pep Boys. NAPA and AutoZone and specialized stores were not yet on the drawing boards. But the big item for sale was tires. Ours were kept in a warehouse on the tenth floor of Gimbles. Periodically we ran a full page newspaper ad on Sunday and Monday would be very busy. I would wait for a call from the sales floor and grab two or four times and race down to accompany the buyer - usually a woman - to the parking lot and load the tires into her car. Often I was offered a tip, but I refused them saying I am already being well-paid. And it was from the sale of tires that my big opportunity to get even with Mr. DimeAdozen. For those customers who did not want to take the tires with them in their car, we would ship them by United Parcel Service. I would take these orders, tape the tires together and affix a part of the sales slip. Once a day, UPS would take a pallet or two or three away. They would check the slip on each bundle of tires. This was the only security in place to remove tires from the store. On the sales floor, when there was a tire sale on, the five part sales slip was often not inserted correctly into the cash register. The part of the sales slip for UPS would not print and the sales person would have to use a blue pencil to write one line of information that would have been printed had the sales slip been inserted all the way. That was the way I would get tires out of the store. I was also the inventory clerk in addition to the stock boy. I had to keep a record of all tires unloaded from the trucks and deduct those sold. Each Friday, the owners of this sublet business would drive in from New York, and visit the tenth floor. They were content to count: how many high, by how many columns by how many rows. And compare it with their cash registered inventory. That number would also match one of the two sets of books I kept after my theft of their tires started. The first pair of tires I stole I sent to my friend Ronnie Gibson who had an apartment in West Philly. He was also an industrious boy who ran away from St. Joseph's and was no longer homeless. I told him if the driver asked any weird questions to deny the tires were ordered by "his father" and refuse to take them. If, on the other hand, they were merely dropped off, and he had to sign for them, to call me when the driver left. I waited nervously for that call, but when it came and he reported success, I was overjoyed. Mr. DimeAdozen would have to re-appraise me one day. There is honor among thieves. I soon had four "salesmen" selling brand new white wall tires - even snow tires - for $20. Ten due immediately and ten after they were delivered. The sale person kept $5 and got another $5 upon delivery. I kept a good set of books. In my books I sold 1250 tires in two and a half months or about 20 tires a day on average. My take was more than $3000. The tires sold for about $20 from Gimble's or four times as much as I was selling. (I did not charge sales tax, as I did not know what that was.) Gimble's lost about $25,000 which represented the cost of the tires and the lost profit. I had one potential buyer - a good Catholic - change his mind before I had a chance to ship his tires. I returned his $10 and hoped he wouldn't upset my apple cart. To keep the New Yorkers at bay and in the dark, I would take the freight elevator to the eight floor where large furniture was sold, a retrieve large cardboard boxes. With these I put in the center of the tire inventory and covered them with the appropriate height of tires, as well as columns and rows. The number matched the cash register report used by the New York owners and matched one set of my books. All good things do come to an end. I was rather loose with my new found wealth. I would put my tail between my legs and even though I would have pockets filled with twenties, I would appeal to Mr. DimeAdozen for a dollar on Wednesday to I could buy lunch an inwardly chuckle as he made me eat shit while getting out his fat wallet. I enjoyed his insults as I planned to have the last laugh. If you knew me then you made a buck out of our "friendship". I gave anyone money for any reason. I had two cars, both 1941 Plymouths. One was a white convertible and the other a black coupe. But I took the subway to work. I did not want to risk driving to work and parking at the indoor lot across from Gimble's. And I started to do a lot of dating and partying, which meant drinking of course. One Monday morning I showed up with a serious hangover. I was not paying attention to the fact that we had a full-page ad and a big tire sale on. The phone must have rang for twenty minutes. I was sleeping off my hangover and noticed Mr. DimeAdozen wagging his finger and screaming something about I would be fired. I eased out of the couch - borrowed from the furniture department - and stood up to face my boss. It only took one punch to put him out of his misery temporarily. And rather than suffer the humility of being fired. I quit! I had to get out of town fast. And I knew where I was headed. St. Joseph's maintained a summer home in Sea Isle City, ten miles south of Atlantic City in New Jersey. Each week a number of orphans were bussed down for their vacation week. The previous winter, Albie Schmidt and I took off from the orphanage in the winter, and broke into the summer house. We spent a few days there and hitch hiked back to St. Joseph's. No one was the wiser. We were not missed. We enjoyed our little adventure. I was about to go on another. I had heard that Albie recently tried to rob someone with a gun which went off accidentally, and he was sent to prison. Wish he had contacted me, we could have had this adventure together. I arrived in Sea Isle City and spent the first night in the back seat of my car. Had a run of good luck in the morning. While having coffee in a small café I learned that the owners had a small trailer for rent. I had plenty of cash so we were a match. So for much of the summer I would not be homeless and would be a beach bum. I soon learned what cash flow meant. Rent, meals and recreation made it flow away, but it would take a job to replenish it. And Ben Alexander had a job he needed to fill. Ben owned and operated - by himself - Sea Isle City Automatic Transmission Service. In 1956 most new cars were offered with the standard transmission. Automatic transmissions were an option. Sea Isle City had a population of about 10,000 year round residents, but in the summer it swelled to more thank 100,000 people, most of whom were from Philadelphia or New York City and maintained summer homes on the Atlantic coast. There was plenty of work for Ben. He had three or four cars with automatic transmission problems. My job would be to remove the transmission and replace it when it was either rebuilt or repaired. I learned to do this very quickly and I had plenty of time to watch as Ben took a transmission apart, replaced the worn parts and re-assembled it. He was kind enough to explain what the parts did. I stopped looking over my shoulder for whomever Mr. Dimeadozen might have sent to try to find me. I enjoyed weekends and evenings on the beach. I didn't bother making friends or developing relationships. I guess I just did not know how to do either. Accidentally, I did meet and enjoyed puppy love with Joyce Kitchens. She just turned sixteen, was from North Philadelphia and had to have had an impact on me because after fifty years I still remember her telephone number: Livingston 9-3196. But I did not have much of an impact on her as she went on to marry and moved to Oklahoma. She owned a bike and I took her for a ride one evening. She was on the handlebars and I was singing the Elvis Presley song " I want you I need you I" …..crashed into a pole and she broke her watch . I memorized her number hoping to have a date with her one day in the future, if I ever returned to Philadelphia. But my only memory is her phone number. Summer ended rather abruptly as it always does after Labor Day. Ben's business dropped off dramatically as did his income. By early November he was concerned about having enough money to pay the rent. He got lucky. A fellow who owned a funeral business in Pittsburg Pennsylvania was on vacation with his wife. She had been driving on the beach and got stuck in the sand. She tried rocking the car back and forth by using low and reverse gears. She managed to get unstuck but ended up with only low gear. Her husband brought the car to the Chevrolet dealer in town but they did not have anyone who could fix automatic transmissions. Because business dropped for them too, they had laid off their automatic transmission specialist, but referred him to Ben. I jacked the car up and noticed the problem. It would be a very simple fix. An "L" shaped piece of metal that connected the shifting rod to the transmission had snapped. I figured it would cost less than a buck and take five minutes. Out of ear range of the customer I appraised Ben as to the problem and solution. He had the biggest grin on his face as he went back to the counter, pulled out a box of parts from below the counter, switch his grin to a grimace and started to sadly tell the funeral director that it would take two or three days to fix and that he should book a room in town. After he left to book his room, Ben had me take a rag and can of gas and make sure I cleaned the transmission so that it looked like we had removed it. Three days later he called the owner of the 1957 Pontiac stationwagon with the good news. We fixed it. The bill was for slightly more than $500. I made a mental note to myself: so this is the business world. A few weeks later a package arrived from Detroit. It was from General Motors. The letter that accompanied the plaque thanked Ben for helping one of GM's good customer's in his hour of distress. But that was the last of the good business. Ben started to date the daughter of the owner of the building. She was in her later twenties, heading for spinsterhood as she was rather plain looking and easily a virgin. Ben would become a member of the family where rent would no longer be an issue. He must have professed his love for her in such a way to sweep her off her feet and cause her to accept a wedding date in early December. I was asked to be the best man. Ben had a 1948 Hudson Hornet, a fine car that he spent more time with than his bride-to-be. I also think he love the car much more than he loved her. On the wedding day, he gave me the keys to his pride and joy and told me to park it outside the church and wait for he and his bride to exit the church. I was to chauffer them to a local motel for their honeymoon. I raced back to the shop, threw open the garage door, started the Hudson and started back out the garage. Those Hudson had such small, narrow windows in the rear. What looked clear to me was not enough clearance for the roof of the Hudson. I knew that as I heard the roof screaming at the bottom of the door. Ben was not happy to see me drive up in his modified pride and joy. As there was no work, I left for greener pastures. I went north to Westfield New Jersey. There was a really nice, large shop specializing in automatic transmissions. It was operated by a father and son. I dropped in on a Friday, noted they had lots of cars and proceeded to pass myself off as an automatic transmission expert. The son pointed to a 1954 Chrysler and said it has no reverse. If you fix it Monday you have a job. The library had a Chilton Motor Manual so I check the book out for the weekend. I also found a room for rent almost across the street from the transmission shop. I buried myself into those parts of the book that discussed and illustrated troubleshooting and replacement of parts. From what I read I could simply remove the pan at the bottom of the transmission and replace a strut, a piece of metal the size of a postage stamp that normally fit between a servo pump and the band that wrapped around the clutch assembly. According to the troubleshooting guide, this part generally broke if a drive tried to go into reverse from drive without stopping. Chrysler products had pushbuttons to change gears, and this was a common problem. On Monday I put the car on jacks, drained the transmission fluid and removed the pan. I drove to the local parts house and obtained a new seal for the pan along with a replacement strut. When I returned to the shop I used a long screw driver to compress the band while I slipped the strut in place. Both men were surprised that I removed the car from the jacks and backed it out of the garage before ten o'clock. They charged the customer almost three hundred dollars for my two hours of work and offered me a job at $75 for a five day week. I actually made a few friends in Westfield. Also found time to drive back to Philly to see if I could score with Joyce Kitchens, my first love, but no luck. Mondays were bummers for an unusual reason. I worked hard and smart and would earn my $75 well before lunch. The next four and a half days I was working for the owners. I decided to open my own business. I was 17 years old. I had cheap ball point pens imprinted with my name and phone number and Automatic Transmission Specialist. I started to distribute them to every car lot and gas station in Westfield. One of my newfound friends had a business rebuilding starters and generators and had lots of extra space. I made a deal with him that I would give him ten percent of any money I was able to make. If I made none, he got ten percent of nothing. On the following Monday I approached the son who actually was the brains of the shop. I said I needed to get another $25 a week expressing my dissatisfaction with working four and a half days for them. They said they could not afford it but finally offered me $12.50 more. I left the shop and set out on my own as a businessman. It took two weeks before I received my first call. A leaking transmission did not command a lot of money as it required simply removing the transmission from the torque converter and replacing a seal. It took three hours. I charged $35 plus the cost of the seal. I did not know you could charge a customer more than what you paid for the seal, or more than $10 an hour. But soon the phone was ringing constantly. Within two months I "hired" my first employee, whose job it was to remove and replace the transmission. I was now doing the rebuilding. Ben would be proud of me. Somehow I found myself getting involved with SPEBSQA, the Society of the Preservation and Encouragement of Barbershop Quartet Singers of America. I was beginning to get the hang of socializing. Even met a young lady and we dated. Estelle Zinger was from a rich family in Wynnwood, Pennsylvania. She was attending a fancy private school and singing was one of her interests. I was tagging along. Unfortunately I was not good at cementing relationships. I guess after being deprived of relating to females, other than nuns, at St. Francis, and their absence at both St. Joseph's and at my one week at Roman Catholic High, curiosity and caution were my guides. I suppose I always expected a little bit of crazy naked lady to surface. Estelle had a real mothering instinct about her. She invited me to her home to meet her parents one weekend. This was really awkward for me. Her mom took a liking to me and her dad took pity on me. He had a sense of humor I did not understand. He was a lawyer and I suppose he looked at Estelle and I as the mismatch of the century. She took me to her prom and instead of attempting to get a little sex afterward I fell asleep, to the relief of her parents. As I now recall, I must have had a normal or boring existence for the next few years. Although I was "in business for myself" it was not normal. I was not yet eighteen. I did not have a driver's license or insurance. I did not have a bank account. I had a few relationships or friendships but they were not close. I seemed to be drifting aimlessly. Nothing outrageous or even exciting happened in my life. So I decided to join the United States Air Force NOTE: Need a transitional hook to get to the next chapter. Finds something nice to say about this orphanage. Ask Cindy to research this too.
Chapter Five Patriotism and Politics - 1960 There were so many things I had not done by my nineteenth birthday. Flying an airplane as a passenger was among them. Choosing the Air Force was an easy decision: I was a bit of a coward so I did not consider the marines. I did not want to get shot so the Army was out. I did manage to get out on the Atlantic ocean once, but got sea sick so the Navy was also out. That left the Air Force. I was not interested in airplanes but was interested in doing something different. I view my enlistment as a vacation. Although my formal schooling was completion of the tenth grade or my sophomore year in high school, (twice - thanks to Whelan's revenge), I managed to score high enough on the entrance exam administered by the USAF. My scores were: INSERT FROM AF DOCUMENT. So I was told by the recruiter that I would be flying to Texas. I showed up at the office where I joined other recruits in a bus ride to the airport at Newark New Jersey. One nervous kid expressed his fear of flying so I suggested he sit next to me on the plane. I lied when I told him there was nothing to fear. I bragged that I has flown many times. It was dark outside when the plane took off. As I tried to re-assure him that there was nothing to be afraid of I realized we were no longer on the runway. The plane shook and my fear must have showed and stripped him of any confidence I lent him earlier. We made a quick stop in Washington D.C. to pick up other recruits, and then we were off to Lackland Air Force Base near San Antonio Texas. It would be a ten hour flight. The stewardess was handing out sleeping pills and although I never heard of them before, I took a few. They did not work to so asked other guys to get me a few more. During the flight I took at least eight pills. As we were landing at Lackland the sleeping pills started to work. I struggled to stay awake as we received an orientation speech, received uniforms, and got a free haircut. We ended up at a barracks where I quickly responded to the pills by falling asleep. The sergeant's screaming did not have much of an affect on me. His voice was no match for the pills. I got off to a poor start in my four year career with the USAF. I spent five weeks at Lackland Air Force Base, doing physical exercises, jogging, rifle-practice, cleaning toilets and a variety of other exciting activities. I also took a number of tests. One test determined that I would be a good radio operator so I was ordered to Biloxi Mississippi after basic training. A long bus-ride across Texas was my introduction to boredom. Kessler Air Force Base in Biloxi Mississippi would be my home for the next ten months. Radio operator school taught me two things: the morse code and typing. Both were good learning experiences, as was the camaraderie. I was even introduced to a little culture when volunteers were sought to travel to New Orleans to hear Isaac Stern (the violinist) in concert. But just as I did in Texas, I avoided going into town and felt comfortable staying on base Perhaps I would have added to my culture and learned firsthand of the discrimination against blacks. The ten months were mostly uneventful. One morning I was a little lazy and did not feel like shaving before falling out for an inspection. The drill sergeant noticed my stubble and demanded to know what my problem was. I responded quickly and like a smart ass, and told him someone stole me radio. "What's a radio have to do with your unshaven face," he barked. My reply: "My razor was on top of it, sir!" did not go over well. After ordering me to do twenty-five pushups, he ordered me to visit the base psychiatrist.. I have no recollection of that interview, but he must have confirmed the sergeant's opinion that I was just trying to be funny. After radio school was completed I was enrolled in something called Channel and Technical Control class. Turned out it was a bit like being an old fashion telephone switchboard operator. In addition to making people connections we also replaced transmitters, radio receivers and telex machines that were not working with spares that did work. So I was being sent to McClellan Air Force Base near Sacramento California. While I was at Kessler, Estelle had gone to the trouble to write to the Base Commander at Lackland AFB to find me. She wrote a letter to me at Biloxi and informed me that she was going to the University of Pennsylvania and invited me to visit after my tour at Biloxi was over. One of the dumbest things I did in my life was to ignore her and not take her up on her invitation. I was not aware then of my inadequacies. Fifty years later and I am still not. Just before leaving Mississippi for California I met Lane Missamore. He was a troubled airman and that was the reason we hit it off so well. I stopped him from throwing a brick through the window of a bar on our last night in Mississippi. He too was being sent to California, to Beale Air Force Base in Marysville, just forty miles north of Sacramento. We chipped in and bought a 1949 Ford to drive to California. I still did not have a driver's license and of course we did not have insurance. We found another airman who lived in Flagstaff Arizona and talked him into going west with us. I have always liked driving so it was me behind the wheel until the first problem occurred: a water pump went out when we were 420 miles into our trip. We had that fixed in Shreveport, Louisiana and proceeded across the boring state of Texas. It was almost midnight when we arrived in Albuquerque. It was very hot, almost eighty degrees. As I crawled into the back seat to get some sleep I had just driven more than 1200 miles from Biloxi, or more than 800 miles non-stop from Louisiana. I awoke to hear a conversation about snow and that it was a foot deep and that we had gone off the highway and were stuck. I then learned we were out of gas and not quite to Flagstaff. We were fortunate in hearing a voice via bullhorn of an Arizona Highway Patrolman asking if there were any children in the car. I announced that there were three, and as if by magic, a tow materialized and pulled us back onto the highway and gave us enough gas to get to Flagstaff. In 1960 gas was less than twenty cents a gallon. It cost $5 for the towing service. Our passenger's mom owned a Chinese restaurant so we had a free chow mein breakfast. There was a blizzard in Flagstaff, Lane had a nasty cold, and we had no chains. That may not have made a difference as I had never driven in snow before. We were heading south to Yuma Arizona. It was an exciting ride downhill and only after the snow disappeared did we get to relax. By early afternoon it was more than 90 degrees in Yuma and this was February. Our compass was pointed west toward San Diego, where my "sister" Anne Morgan lived. I did not know that she had ripped me off of my inheritance and I had long ago forgotten that she could have gotten Nick and I out of the asylum and did not. So the overnight visit was relatively pleasant. She had two young daughters and she was grooming both to become nuns. What a fine Catholic she was. Little bit of a hypocrite and thief but offering her kids up as nuns was probably designed to offset her dysfunctional behavior. The end of our adventure found us going north to San Francisco where Lane lived with his parents. I can still recall racing across the bay bridge. Lane was driving. Believe it or not, I left my heart in San Francisco was playing on the radio. I noticed the very large sign that required our speed to be 10 MPH because of construction. It was night and raining. When our car hit the bump my head hit the roof. It still hurts. Lane's Dad owned a bar in the Mission district. His mom was an alcoholic and she immediately reminded me of my first attempt at intercourse. We stayed at his home for a week and I did not mind that Lane's mom had her way with me. I think this is the first time that I considered myself a mother-fucker, and a good one at that. Lane and I remained good friend for the next few years. He would come down to North Highlands from Marysville and we would head off to San Francisco. He enjoyed drinking and booze was always available at his Dad's bar - free! During my early career as a car thief I took a fancy to a 1953 Lincoln and vowed one day I would own one. (Lane got to keep the 1949 Ford that made it the 2,341 miles from Biloxi.) I found a 1953 Mercury, that looked a lot like the Lincoln at a car lot in San Francisco. My experience gained under the guidance of silver-tongued Ben Alexander in the transmission field came in handy. I took the car for a test-ride. Out of site of the lot, I managed to loosen the adjustment so that the car would only go into low gear. No reverse, no drive, only low. When I returned it to the lot I was able to get a significant reduction in the price because the transmission was "broke". But what goes around comes around and I was about to learn this for the first of many times. I had the oil changed a few months later at a gas station in Sacramento. On my way to San Francisco, the oil plug, which was not tightened, loosened enough to allow oil to leak. I almost made it to Davis where the engine seized up. I was able to have my 1952 Mercury towed back to McClellan AFB. I could not take it onto the base because I did not have insurance. It was not mandatory in those days. I still do not bother to get a driver's license. It was parked outside the gate. I could see it from the barracks. Lane had the brilliant idea to take the car to San Francisco and we could have a re-built engine installed at his parent's home. So after one weekday mid-night, he showed up with his Ford and - believe this or not - we removed the driveshaft, put it in the back seat with the front of it stuck out my window. He would push me with the Ford up to fifty miles per hour, back off and I would coast. We did this for the entire 93 miles right over the Golden Gate bridge. At the toll both, I made believe my car wouldn't start and hung my head out the window and shouted to Lane: "Mister, can you give me a push?" God had to be watching over me during this trip. His home was at 19th and Santiago, a mere five miles from the San Francisco side of the bridge. At three in the morning, there was no one paying attention to this incredible (and stupid) journey. In retrospect, I guess I was rather irresponsible and maybe I did deserve a few of the butt-beatings. My military career was like going to summer camp. Our barracks was next door to the Air Police barracks. To keep them on their toes, we periodically played practical jokes. We would tie a wire from the door to the fire alarm box so the first person who entered would wake everyone from the three floors and we would be entertained by how quickly they would evacuate. Practical jokes in our own barracks were often just as entertaining. Most everyone had at that time KP or Kitchen Police. This meant the lucky person would have to get up at 3 am, report to the chow hall and start his day off peeling a ton of potatoes, and enjoy the pleasures of washing dishes, pots and pans throughout the day, and only after sixteen hours would the exhausted airman return to his bed. But we would set their clock ahead an hour or so. That meant they arrived at the chow hall an hour or more early. (Now that I am an adult, and presumably mature, that doesn't look as funny today.) I blended in with my fellow airmen. Drinking was high on our agenda. I purchased a Honda Dream, a 300cc motorcycle, and I know my guardian angel worked full time to keep me alive. Although at the time speeding and running lights and stop signs felt like fun, today I would be inclined to chastise youth who I see doing the same thing. At the age of 21 my inability to form relationships should have been obvious, but it was not to me. I had very few friends, and no close friends. I rarely had dates that I initiated myself, although I did double-date a few times because someone else fixed me up. I did not think myself abnormal. I did not think. I did assume I was normal. But I was aware that I did strange things, irresponsible things, and even bold/stupid things. For example, Lane Missamore got busted by the Shore Patrol (Navy cops) in San Francisco, and his mom called me to see if I could advise her on how to help him. I called the Shore Patrol and represented myself as Lieutenant Morgan from Beale AFB. I showed up in San Francisco and found Lane in a cage in the middle of the floor where he was being held by the Shore Patrol. I signed a few pieces of paper and he was released to my custody for transport back to Beale. We both had a good laugh at this, and I actually did not realize I was committing a crime. Guess I was lucky. It was clear to me early that I would not have a career in the military. It was, as I perceived it early on, a vacation. So I used this time to enjoy myself. My relationship with Lane seemed to vanish. I can't recall how or why, but I suppose I was looking for greener pastures. My job in the Air Force as a Channel and Tech Controller was a little like the internet is today. With the use of radio and telex machines, and radio signals and landlines, I could find people in faraway places and have mini-adventures. One was with Jack Zicker who was stationed on Guam. He was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He and I would have a nightly chat. He was always calling home to his parents - free - through out switchboard. And one evening he gave me the good news. He was being assigned to McClelland AFB. So we became real and close friends. He liked to drink. And that was one way I socialized. He was a womanizer and I tagged along. So now I was getting lots of double-dates. And, I was even getting laid, something that was not a part of my life for half a dozen years. But after a short time together he was discharged before I was and went back to Wisconsin. That left me friendless once again. I had associations with people I worked with, but not any close friends. But again, my relationship with Jack seemed to evaporate, and I never examined the reason. I had not kept in touch with any other runaways from the orphanage like Bill Pegliaro, or with my first "mentor" Ben Alexander, or with "quasi first love" Estelle Zinger. Had I been asked why, I could not have provided an answer. I had the makings of a loner/loser and did not recognize it. But the military did teach me to type, to socialize, and it modified my concept of discipline. The puke-green stick was replaced with a barking voice during basic training and written regulations later. It also gave me an opportunity to enter the world of politics. On a base bulletin board there was an invitation for airmen to enter a contest. It was sponsored by Let Freedom Ring and asked that one submit 500 words to explain what voting meant to the writer. Well, I had no idea what an election was. Voting was a foreign concept. But I entered the contest anyway. I have no idea what I wrote or why and after depositing the entry in the base mail, I forgot all about it. Months later I was shocked to learn that I won second place. Max Rafferty, the Superintendent of Public Education for the state of California won first place. I was contacted by Josephine Spalding from Auburn, California, a small town north of Sacramento. She was a political activist and extended an invitation to me to have lunch to talk about my medal. At the lunch I met her husband Ray who was in the lumber business. He owned sawmills in Truckee and Eureka California. They lived on five acres outside of Auburn and invited me to spend time at their home. I had leave coming and was able to take it without a problem. New friends, and they were rich. They owned an airplane - a Cessna 180 - and I went on a few trips with them to both Truckee and Eureka. They were very active in Republican politics. During my initial stay Ronald Reagan was on the stump for Barry Goldwater who was running for president. I had free time so I sold tickets in the Auburn area to people who wanted to hear what Reagan had to stay. The actor stayed at the Spalding's home overnight and my career in politics was off and running. Josephine had the local radio station record and play my award-winning essay. A week later, Robert Welch was an overnight guest at their home. I had no who he was or who the John Birch Society was, but quickly learned he founded the right-wing organization and what they stood for. I did not hesitate to put a GET US OUT bumper sticker on the back of my car, although I had no idea who the United Nations were or why the US should get out. My education or indoctrination came fast and furiously. I bought it without a question. Anything to please my new-found friends. I went back to the base and now as a proud American. The Republicans held their convention at the Cow Palace in South San Francisco and the Spaldings were personal friends of Barry Goldwater. They invited me to the convention. I did not own a suit so I wore my Air Force uniform to the convention. I did not know what the Hatch Act was or that it prohibited anyone in the military from being active in a political convention. I showed up on TV waving my Goldwater for President sign. The TV cameramen had a field day at my expense. Goldwater was a general in the Air Force and I was an Airman 1st Class. Perhaps that is what interested the TV folks. After the convention I was back at work. Early one morning I made a telephone connection between our base commander and the base commander of Hamilton Air Force Base. Except to make sure there is a good connection, we never listened in to most conversations, but this call was an exception to that rule because I heard my name being mentioned. Yes, it was about the TV coverage. I listened to them discussing what would be done and learned that if Goldwater lost, I would be busted. It is nice to know your fate in advance. It is easier to take. Barry lost and so did I. I was demoted to Airman 2nd Class. I always felt more comfortable as second class anyway. Besides, I was getting discharge in a few months as my four year enlistment would be completed in April, 1965. In retrospect, the positives of my air force career were an honorable discharge, a skill of typing, a few socializing skills. The negatives: still not able to develop relationships, (specifically, no girl friend,) and no idea what lie ahead in my future. The relationships with Jack Zicker and the Spauldings were soon to evaporate. I really hadn't given a second thought about a job upon leaving the military, but because of my relationship with the Spauldings I was introduced to Harriet Ross. She ran the Heritage Bookshop, filled to the rafters with right-wing propaganda, especially John Birch Society books, pamphlets and bumber stickers. Her husband ran the California Fruit Exchange, a farmer's co-operative, whose members grew a wide range of fruit. So I was offered a job as assistant to the Export Sales Manager, Ron Worden. Ron was very talented and a dedicated employee. He taught me a few people skills but was a strict boss. He was a disciplinarian but did not use a hickory stick. We got along fine for a few years before he left to work with a competitor Levi Zentner in San Francisco. His replacement was an alcoholic who really had no idea what was going on, except he had a "Ben Alexander" method of communicating: a con artist. Fortunately for him, I was well trained by Ron Worden and I was able to carry out the duties Jack was being paid for. He took long lunches and would come back to the office intoxicated, and would leave early. No one ever called him on it because the job was being done satisfactorily by me. No one ever acknowledged my contribution to his position as Export Sales Manager. When he departed after two years I fully expected to assume his position, but that was given to Bob Sanguinetti, the son of a co-op member. That did not sit well with me. Just as the fruit-selling season started, I departed. But during my short career with the California Fruit Exchange, I became active in politics. I joined the Young Republicans and live at the Fairlake Apartments in Sacramento. The main character in both the Yrs and Fairlake was Mike Abernathy. He and his younger brother came to California from the farm country of Indiana. Mike was a real people-person. He was good looking, had a great friendly personality, and always had a half-dozen girls chasing him at any given time. One in particular was the proverbial sex maniac. Mike was also the farm reporter on KFBK radio and would have to be at work at 5 in the morning. His sex maniac would jump in my bed after he left for work. Being a member of the Young Republicans gave me the opportunity to have a lot of "friends" or at least associates. Due to Mike's leadership there were lots of parties. We shared a three-bedroom apartment and it was always cluttered with guys and girls night and day. One of my fondest memories is something I organized called the Joy of Giving party. I suggested that our group actually do something beneficial in the community in addition to partying. As Christmas was not too far off, I suggested we throw a Christmas party for under-privileged kids. Our goals were set. We would host 100 kids. We would pick them up from their homes, bring them to the Fairlake Apartment clubhouse, feed the kids and give them three gifts each, and return them to their homes. Most members got behind this idea. My contributions were raising money and playing Santa Claus. As I was de-facto export sales manager, I suggested to our export trade that the winter grapes were in short supply, but if they would make a contribution to our Joy of Giving party, I would give them serious consideration when filling their orders. I was able to raise $6500 in just a few days, and none of the contributors brought my scam to the attention of Loren Ross, who probably would have fired me. I also talked a lot of local companies into contributing food and other materials. As I was dressed as Santa and viewing the souls of children through their eyes was immensely rewarding. It took a lot of self-control not to cry. I flashed on me being a recipient of a brown bag at St. Francis Orphan Asylum three decades earlier. The Joy of Giving was a genuine joy for me. I had always considered myself as a giver so this made me happy. Perhaps it was my way of purchasing friendship. The inaugural party was a huge success and the YR Joy of Giving Party became an annual event. My interest in photography was born during this period. I would take slides of the various parties and activities sponsored by the Yrs. Later, at a party, I enjoyed showing the slides. Hiding behind a camera was my way of socializing. I felt safe there. So it was normal that I took a number of photographs at this event. A friend took a few of me making the presentation of the presents. I later assembled these slides together to tell a story. It included narration and Christmas music. Our club submitted this presentation to the National Young Republican organization at its annual convention and we received well-deserved recognition. The years 1965, when I left the Air Force, to 1968 were consumed by working at the California Fruit Exchange, and playing in the Young Republicans. Although I did not have a "girlfriend" while I was in the Air Force, I did get laid a few times. These were nothing to write home to mother about, even if I had a mother. But being a member of the Young Republicans was to change my status. Judy Schaffer caught my eye very early on. She was pretty and very soft-spoken. I learned from her that she was raised in Salt Lake City and was a catholic. She mentioned that she suffered discrimination at the hand of Mormons, who apparently dominate Utah, especially Salt Lake City. What I did not learn from her was that she was in search of a husband. Initially, she focused on me. We did a lot of things together, mostly partying with other Young Republicans, but we never had sex. I actually did not know how to initiate a sexual encounter, especially with someone I viewed as a sweet girl - wife material, even though I was not looking for a wife. I did not know where to begin. I had always been a reactionary. One evening I stopped by her apartment and she had to go to the store for something. When she returned she related to me that she almost was hit by a car. I did not pay much attention to what she said and that was a big mistake. She became enraged and the message I got was that I did not empathize with her and showed no concern. She was right. I was stupid and inattentive. It was our first and last argument and resulted in our breakup. This breakup was a little hard to take for me, as I did not make relationships easy. I tried on a number of occasions to get back together with her, but she was determined to call it quits. It was difficult being in the YRs with her but she solved that problem for me. She was married three weeks after our breakup to someone she worked with. She never returned to the YRs. It became a little easier to forget about her. Janice Kling made it easy. Janice was slim, very attractive and had a sister Sherry who was gorgeous The YRs have conventions where clubs from all over the state get together once a year, elect officers and party hardy. They also invite candidates running for public office and endorse some. Thereafter they promise to work for their election by stuffing envelopes, going door-to-door, raising money etc. At their convention they also elect a Miss YR who goes on to compete for the national Miss YR title at a national convention held every four years. The Fairlake YRs, who choose this name because most members lived in the Fairlake Apartments in Sacramento, were headed by Mike Abernathy. He always had a dozen single girls trying to nail him. He was college educated, good-looking and was always polite and complimenting every female, not tipping his hand as to who he favored. He therefore got laid quite frequently. He decided to enter Sherry Kling into the Miss YR contest. And he asked that I be her "handler." This required that I escort her to many caucuses and introduce her to as many YRs as possible. She was easy to handle. And that is how I ended up with Janice. Sherry won the title Miss California YR. And I won the right to woo Janice. We were constant companions. There was a big difference between the Kling sisters. Sherry was naturally beautiful and did not wear makeup. Janice wore makeup but did not know how to apply it. This was actually the first time I became aware of makeup. Janice looked a little like she had glue thin sheets of leather to parts of her face, but I knew that beauty is only skin-deep so I ignored this. We attended a lot of YR events together. One event was a local endorsing convention. There was a black running for a county office. When it came time to vote to endorse him, I was the only one who voted for him. I got a few boos and a few dirty looks from my fellow conservative Republicans. The right wing was in charge of most of the YRs and I seen for the first time that many of them were rascist. "Why did you vote for that nigger," asked a number of members later. My answer - that he was the best qualified caqndidate -fell on deaf ears. But as he did not get the endorsement, my sin was forgiven. Janice and I made out like teenagers, but never had sex. I assumed she was a virgin, and was saving herself for her future husband. And I assumed that would be me. After knowing her for about a year, I took her to dinner, and secreted a wedding ring in her drink, which she almost swallowed. She said she would and about midnight we went to her home to give Mrs. Kling the good news and to get her blessing. There was a Mr. Kling but he was a vegetable. He never said much of anything. Mrs. Kling did all the talking. She apparently was raised in England and had been in this country for twenty-five years. Both of her daughters were born in the US. Yet Mrs. Kling, who had a job with the state, was constantly running down America and praising Great Britain. We were not close and would never be. When Janice proudly displayed the ring, Mrs. Kling went berserk. She started screaming at me, berating her daughter and moving toward us in an intimidating manner. I backed Janice and I out the front door and whispered that we would discuss this with her later. Mrs. Kling followed us through the front door. I couldn't get Janice or myself into my car fast enough. The last words out of her mouth was that I was a nigger-lover. I should have been more observant. The obvious reason Mr. Kling was vegetated was due to the domineering character of Mrs. Kling. I don't recall him ever saying much to me. Initially I thought the reason was "me" but later concluded that he was mentally handicapped. I did not know that Mrs. Kling was the reason for his mental state. How on earth did he father two beautiful girls? Janice was adamant. She was not going to let her mother screw up our engagement. I took the next day, Monday, off from my job at the California Fruit Exchange and found a nice apartment at 25th and H streets in downtown Sacramento. Janice worked for the Sacramento Savings and Loan a few blocks away so she could walk to work. I plunked down almost $1000 for the first, last and cleaning deposit. I was now broke. Within twenty-four hours, Janice changed her mind and moved back home with her mother. Although we slept under the same roof, I was respecting her virginity and slept on the sofa. I had explained to her gently that if we were to be married, that her relationship with her mother would be altered and that we would be building a life together. Although she initially agreed with me, her mother got the last and final word. She would not even talk to me when I tried to visit her at the bank. I was hurt and even angry, but I walked away in favor of her mother. About a year later, I learned that Janice was in a hospital in San Francisco. Because I still had feelings for her I drove down to visit her. She had a miscarriage, out of wedlock, and convinced me that she was still in love with the father who did not want anything to do with her once he found out she was pregnant. I could only dream of the reaction Mrs. Kling had during this course of events. She went on to die of cancer, Janice went on to become a state-worker, and Sherry got married, had a beautiful son, and as far as I know, is living happily ever after. The Young Republicans did two things for me that I was not expecting. At a party at my roommate Mike Abernathy's apartment I engaged in conversation with a young black person. He was not a YR, and it was rare to see any blacks in our circle or at our parties. He mentioned he was going to college. I mentioned I was a high school drop out. Then he suggested I take the SAT Test (Scholastic Aptitude Test). He told me I did not have to be a high school graduate to go to American River Junior College. Have I mentioned that I was naïve? There was so much I did not know. Going to college might help me overcome both my naivety and my lack of a formal education. I signed up for the test and passed with grades high enough that I did not have to take any remedial courses. Mike's other roommate moved out (because he got married) and Ray Robinson moved in temporarily until escrow closed on the house he was buying. When it closed, he talked me into moving in with him by arguing that it would be less expensive rent and that it was very close to American River College. I agreed. Two other pieces of my career move puzzle found there way onto the table. Although I was honorably discharged from the Air Force, I was not aware of GI benefits. That same black stranger at the party clued me in to them and he was never in the military. Ray Robinson worked on the railroad as a brakeman. He ignored rules like I did, but I did not know it was against the rule for a non-employee to ride a freight train. He took me for a 400 mile round trip ride to Dunsmuir.. He convinced me to apply for a job. I did. And I was hired. So now I was in a position to quit work at the California Fruit Exchange, get a formal education and have it paid for by the government, and start my railroad career. I was about to turn twenty-eight years of age. It was 1968. The job on the railroad proved to be rather interesting. For generations, the only persons who were hired as crew members were sons of railroaders. The hours crews worked ignored the natural clock. Just about the time one was ready to go to bed, the crew dispatcher would call two hours before you had to show up at the yard office in Roseville. Then you waited two hours for the train to be made up before you took it on an eight hour trip over the Sierra Mountains to Sparks Nevada. If luck was on your side you made it to Sparks before twelve hours. If you did not, you had to stop your train, wait for a relief crew and take a company taxi to Sparks. After eight hours of sleep you were ready for the return trip but it may be another twelve to twenty hours before a train needing a crew would arrive for the west bound trip to Roseville. Sleeping on the train was commonplace. The engine crew consisted of a brakeman and an engineer, and sometime a fireman. Quite frequently all would be asleep as the train headed home. Brakemen and conductors seemed to always be away from home. Their kids picked up the language of the railroad after hearing it for more than a decade so they could hop on an engine and were comfortable hearing words like dynamite the train, big hole, highball, etc. To dynamite the train simply meant to put the train into emergency by pulling a lever. All the air in the breaking system is released and it sounds like dynamite exploding. Big hole was a two-mile long tunnel drilled a hundred years ago at the top of the summit of the Sierra Mountain. This was a little confusing because it also could mean put the train into emergency. For me going to work for the Southern Pacific Railroad was a blessing. Because the crews operated on a seniority system, I would only get to work during the summer and on holidays when regular crews did not want to work. And because I could work after only eight hours rest, I could earn a lot of money in a short time. This would allow me time to pursue a college education. There was no formal training for working on the railroad. The Railroad simply showed you a faded ball of yarn that formerly was either red, yellow or green. They wanted to make sure you were not colored-blind. And they also wanted to make sure you had a strong back so you could throw 100-year old, iron switches, so a quick x-ray was the only other qualifier. Railroading was a dangerous job. Listening to crews tell stories of brakemen or conductors who were crushed between two knuckles of a car when making up a train, or had one or more legs cut off trying to get on or off a fast moving train was sufficient education for me to be super cautious.
Chapter Six
Publisher, Conductor, Law Student - 1968
I had no idea what a major was. Perhaps my background prepared me to be the epitome of an naïve person. But I selected journalism as my major. ARC published a weekly newspaper called The Beaver. I learned in an early class that I would be writing and using the who-what-where-when-why and how format. That sounded easy. And, I thought it would be fun. Although I was recently introduced to marijuana by Ray Robinson, the weed was now readily available and often used by my fellow students. It was illegal to possess or smoke it. In Nevada, persons caught with as little as one joint were incarcerated for more than a dozen years already. During my first year I took the required classes to get them out of the way: English 1-A, an Introductory Geology class, as well as an introductory Psychology class, along with my journalism classes. All were interesting and relatively easy. I had plenty of time to study and curiosity motivated me. Taking fifteen units was not a burden as I did not have financial worries and did not have to put in a forty-hour work week. Most of my expenses were covered by the Veterans Administration - the GI Bill. And that was supplemented by the very few trips I took on the railroad. A round-trip from Roseville to Sparks Nevada on the weekend was equivalent to a full-time job flipping hamburgers. But unlike a MacDonald's job, the railroad did have its own doctor and hospital. My grades were all A or B. For the first few semesters I did not socialize with other students. I still participated and partied with the Young Republicans, but that was getting old. I actually had a relationship with a girl - Judy Schaffer - a Catholic who was raised in Salt Lake City, and whose claim to fame was the discrimination she suffered at the hands of the mormans. The relationship was short-lived and taught me something about women. We had been in her one-bedroom apartment. She decided to go to the store to get something. When she returned she apparently was almost hit be a car. She became furious when I did not show a sufficient amount of concern, probably because I was not listening to her. She terminated the relationship immediately. She married someone else in less than a month. The lesson: pay attention to what your would-be mate is saying. But I did pay attention in journalism classes, I worked my way up to Associate Editor by the second semester and really enjoyed the writing assignments. I even produced a featured story or two and once on my own initiative I wrote an expose. My fine investigative reporting was not printed because it dealt with corruption in the college's financial aid department. I was eager to let our readership know that the girlfriend of the Beaver's editor received money from the college aid office - a grant to help with her education. But instead of using it for education, she purchased a car. The financial aid office was run by the father of the Beaver's editor.. The professor was very conservation and did not like to rock the boat. American River College received a lot of national publicity in 1969 for one of its unique programs. A professor in an advanced psychology class used rats to teach the principals of negative and positive re-enforcement. Psychology giant B. F. Skinner's claim that successful child-rearing required rewarding only positive or good behavior and ignoring bad behavior. Likewise the rats were fed cheese or peanut butter treats if they found their way through a maze, or performed successfully in a high or long jump, or were able to navigate a high-wire act without falling. The rodents were either given an electric shock or ignored as negative reinforcement.. Those who ignored punishment were rewarded by producing star performers. Others almost cooked their rats who refused to perform even when their feet were smoking. Some students appeared to relish frying or almost electrocuting their rathalethes. Observing the training session brought back fond memories of my butt welts and the nuns who enjoyed my pain. The professor, Jack Badaracco, used his rat class to raise scholarship funds. He was a very thin and hyper, but was a brilliant teacher and had a huge nose. It fell on me to write the news stories for the Beaver that promoted his scholarship program. On a Saturday near the end of the semester students mimicked the Olympics by putting on their Rat Decathalon. (The rats competed in five activites - twice!) A pictorial magazine, crammed with advertising sold to the local business community, was also sold. The event raised a few thousand dollars each year by producing the magazine. . The editor of The Beaver was in Southern California for a journalist conference so the task of publishing the newspaper was delegated to me. The journalism professor watched closely as I supervised the layout of the weekly paper. He left early satisfied that I was conforming to his dictates. But readers were surprised to see that the name of their newspaper was changed from The Beaver to The Rat. So was the journalism advisor. He promptly fired me and angrily announced that my grade would be an F. But for every door that closes, one opens. Jack Badaracco sought me out to thank me for the name-change. When he learned I was fired, he went to bat for me. He liked confrontation and rocking the boat. Soon the journalism instructor sought me out to ask that I re-join the staff. I agreed on the condition that the F be converted to an A. He reluctantly consented even after I demanded his written promise. I did not bother to attend any additional journalism classes that semester. The following semester I enrolled in Jack Badaracco's rat class. I did not need nor did I desire any more journalism classes. As my first semester was ending, I was living with Ray Robinson, helping him pay the mortgage. He was tough to live with. Once when my car would not start, I asked if I could borrow an extra car battery until I could replace mine. He turned me down with some lame excuse. As I rode my bike to school I committed to memory my observation or warning that Ray would give you the shirt off his back, unless you needed a shirt. Some time later I would have been late for class if I stopped to do the breakfast dishes, so I left a plate, glass and silverware in the sink. When I returned from class Ray was not there but he left a note. It was a long Rules of the House list. Rule number one dealt with leaving dirty dishes. I did not bother to read further. I was packed and looking for new housing within a few hours. I found an apartment across the street from American River. We resumed our friendship much later although I did not initiate the move. I had difficulty making friends, and I usually accepted blindly people who befriended me. But I was good at terminating relationships on the drop of a hat and generally did not need a good reason. I was an expert in burning my bridges behind me, but never asked myself: Why? It was time to go to work. Summer was the time when new brakemen with could earn a small fortune. Fruits and vegetable where shipped by train to the east coast so there was a lot of work. A brakeman could earn more in a summer than many people earned all year. But it meant giving up any social life and adopting instead the attitude of a slave to work and to money. By definition, this also meant no steady girlfriend. Professor Badaracco was a chain-smoking, hyperactive person. But he liked me and I liked him. He invited me over to his home and soon I became a fixture there. He had a few kids from an earlier marriage and was married to Adrianne, a sweet, nice looking and much younger person. She was also secretary to one of the departments. On one visit, we were all working on a project at the dining room table. The lights went out and in came Adrianne carrying a birthday cake she had made. There was a paper cutout of a beautiful blonde and the rest of the layer cake had two distinguishing features. First there were two pink mounds, representing breasts, and chocolate decoration representing pubic hair. This was the one and only surprise birthday party I ever had. Yes, I ate the pubic hair portion. Although it had a faint odor of fish. it tasted good! I did not bother to train a rat in Jack's psychology class. I think I already knew the concept of reward and punishment to regulate behavior. All I had to do was touch my butt and I would get a quick flash back of the asylum's negative reinforcement. But Jack's class was very interesting. Even though the rest of the class was fifteen or more years younger than me, it kept me young and tuned into the generation. Smoking marijuana, for instance, was a regular activity. One of the students in Jack's class was Jim Sanderson. A good-looking kid, who drove a nice car purchased by his parents. He did not work. Many of the student\s in Jack's Rat Decathlon class met a few times a week at Jim Sanderson's home which was located within a few miles of American River college. His father was a doctor and they had a beautiful home in a secluded neighborhood on Park Road, between highway 80 and Auburn Blvd.. We got high after class and listened to music. Jim was a bit shy when it came to women. I could afford to be outspoken because of my age. He was too shy to ask one particular girl for a date, so I did it for him. I asked her if she wanted to go to the Rose Bowl, an annual football classic held on New Year's day in southern California. She immediately said yes. I then asked if I was unable to go would she go with Jim. That happened. She was sweet and beautiful. I never really got to know Jim, but when they married very soon after that date, and then divorced very soon after getting married, I suspected the problem was with Jim. It seems his father was too busy in medical school to pay much attention to Jim as he was growing up and there was a very distant relationship between them. Even after his father started his medical practice, money was substituted for love. Jim got whatever material wants he had. So maybe it was his father's fault that Jim did not know how to make and keep a relationship with his bride. He and I did develop an interesting relationship. A friend of Jim's father was a con artist who claimed to be an investor. Jay Shack had "created" something called The Student Guild. He was selling directorships for $25,000 to ten persons, including Doc Sanderson and Jim. Jay lived in Tacoma Washington and had a connection with a printer there who produced a few plastic cards for the scam and colorful brochures that explained that students would get a significant discount on virtually anything they could purchase. On one visit to Sacramento, Jay signed a lease for a very small office at 555 Capital Mall, a local skyscraper. The photo of the building implied that this was the Student Guild building. Jay tried to convince me that I had a future with the Student Guild. Being a director, Jim's ego was over-inflated. Once I picked Jay up at the airport. He made a telephone call to someone in the Governor's office. Before the connection was made, he instructed me to ask to speak to someone and to state that I was Mr. Shack's personal secretary. . Because of that lie, over the next few months I viewed The Student Guild with a lot of suspicion. One obvious flaw with the proposed organization was the definition of a student. Anyone wanting the proposed discount could claim to be a student. I share with Jim my suspicion that Jay was a con-artist who was bilking his father. But Jim did not want to hear it. He stayed in denial. I chose to avoid the Student Guild. This was the beginning of the end of my relationship with Jim. But I poured my time and talent into making the Rat Decathlon a success. Our class made it an international event in that we had three colleges from out of state entering the competition, and someone managed to have a student from Guan attend. My participation was to publish the magazine that accounted for most of the profit to be used as scholarship money. My hobby as a photographer, my journalism education and my experience as a salesman seemed to work together to produce a 56 page, color magazine. Because the cost of printing was donated, the sale of advertising and the magazine was profit. We had raised almost $4,000 for scholarships. While attending American River college I worked for Southern Pacific railroad. Because I did not have a lot of seniority, I could only work on weekends and holidays during the winter, but could work as much as I wanted to during the summer. Between this job and obtaining veterans benefits, I was always flush with money. Besides being related to someone already working on the railroad, the qualifications to be employed on a crew of the railroad were minimal. You could not be color-blind and had to have a back in working order. I was not related to anyone on the railroad. Typically, a person working as either a brakeman, conductor, fireman or engineer, would come home and talk railroad. It had its own unique language. It was in its own world. So naturally when a son of a crew member turned 18, it was assumed he would go to work on the railroad. There were no daughters involved, as there were no female crew members. Railroading was divided into two types: working a local or through freight. In the pre-Amtrak days, Southern Pacific ran a passenger railroad. There were only two trips a day. One was a six hour trip from Roseville to Sparks and return the following day. That train originated in Oakland and turned in Chicago Illinois. The other scheduled train went from Davis California to Dunsmuir. It originated in Los Angeles and turned in Seattle. It was called the Coast Starlight. Local trips usually had a lot of work to do. Rail customers either had a box car to be picked up, or wanted an empty to be loaded. Switchmen in the yard would have the train ready. The trip might be up to 150 miles round-trip. And, it could take 12 hours. There was a federal law that railroad crews could not work more than 12 consecutive hours. The weather factored into the job. Some jobs in the winter included taking snow removal equipment and clearing the track before regular traffic could go to work. During the summer the heat in places like Red Bluff could be torture - no shade, 110 degrees, walking on baked gravel. The railroader language was rather unique. Words like dynamite the train, big hole (both of which meant to put the train into an emergency stop) and highball (was the word used to move the train) began to define the foreign language. There was absolutely no training when I hired out in June of 1969. Railroading had always been one of the most dangerous occupations. Because working on the railroad killed and mamed so many of its workers, congress passed special legislation at the turn of the twentieth century designed to protect the workers by making railroads liable for any injury suffered by its crews. Many of the workers took advantage of this loophole in the law by faking injuries. I learned this aspect of railroading right away. When it appeared that my ability to go to work was disappearing because summer traffic slowed down, I would learn to "get injured" and went to the local law firm - before ambulance chasing became ethical. They fixed you up with a corrupt doctor and fronted you money to handle your expenses until they settled your case. Through-freight trips usually did no work. Some were really desireable such as "the pigs". The pigs were flat cars each loaded with two freight trucks. There were sometimes as few as 20 of these which, together with four engines, consisted of the entire train. Regular freight trains might have as many as 125 cars and four engines. Needless to say, they took a lot longer to travel from Roseville to Sparks than did the pigs.. The pigs were a very high priority train, second only to the passenger train. They always had more than enough locomotive power to get over the sierras at the maximum speed allowed. They never broke down and the trip took about four hours. Regular freight trains, on the other hand, were so boring as they seldom exceeded 20 miles an hour and took about ten hours to go from Roseville to Sparks. They were subject to breaking down. A regular train usually had three engines on the front and one behind the caboose - a helper engine. If the train was very long, it had two engines about two-thirds the distance between the front and the caboose. Because there was a lot of terrain that ascended and descended it was necessary for the engineers to coordinate their use of power or braking. If they were not successful, the train would break a knuckle, the ninety pound hunk of steel that coupled the cars together. In some cases, a drawbar, much heavier, would break and brakemen used chains to pull the disabled car to the closest siding. When a knuckle broke, the brakeman had to carry a spare back to the break a replace it. Carrying a ninety pound piece of steel a quarter or half mile was not a lot of fun. Both kinds of trips paid about the same. A brakeman was paid about $110 and a Conductor was paid about ten percent more. A round-trip could take from six hours to thirty-six hours. If too many crews were waiting for return trains to Roseville, the company sent a company truck to return crews to Roseville. This was called deadheading. To become a conductor required five years service as a brakeman and passing a test. The test required you to know the rule book. This book was 176 pages and contained a lot of strange terms. Even the so-called definitions were way beyond the comprehension of most employees, many of whom did not have a high-school education. Today, most employees must have a college education and they are given thorough training before going to work. There was a shortage of conductors and I was asked before my third year to take the conductor's exam. I was ill-prepared to take the test. As a brakeman, you followed the instructions of the conductor and let him worry about following the rules. So I stole the answers to the exam, and passed the exam with flying colors. Insert following But during the week leading up to the super bowl I suffered an injury playing football at ARC. I jumped into the air to catch a pass and three other players came down with me and on top of me. When I tried to get up, I couldn't. I hobbled over to the college's nursing fascility and was told to go to a doctor. I was given a crutch and excused. Jim SanderIn response to th
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Folsom State Prison - 1982
Public Service: Secretary to Analyst - 1988 Adopted by Immigrants - 1998 Retirement - 2004 Return to Grace - 2006 Priceless - 2009
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