Filling Your Emptiness  —  Your New Life

 

Circumstances of My Cycle

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The circumstances of your life do not define you. How you react to your circumstances does define you!

 

Murder next door

Please remember that I was the youngest child in this dysfunctional family. So in most occurrences, though understanding may have been vague, memory was not. At the time, few things had relevance or made sense to me, nor in most cases did they really matter.

 

This changed as I grew older, and some things did not “register” until my adulthood. There were times as I learned or experienced life that I may have had an epiphany and thought, Wow, now I get it!

 

One such occurrence was when we moved from our very old and small house on “busy” Ninth Street to Seventh Street and Twitchell Avenue.

 

In the Ninth Street house, I shared a bedroom with two brothers and my half sister. Ninth Street was one of the main traffic arteries and always seemed to have lots of traffic on its two lanes. The Seventh Street house thus had more rooms, and there was less traffic.

 

Though at one time when my sister was in high school and dating, Seventh Street seemed to be an integral part of the “dragging main” route on Friday and Saturday nights. I’m not sure if the route was tradition or because of my sister.

 

But the house itself was the epiphany. In moving in, it had a curiosity to me that all the windows were nailed shut from the inside of the rooms. The windows in the rooms on the east house side all had heavy blinds and curtains. All three doors to the house had at least two locks and screen doors with at least two lock latches. I would soon find out why!

 

In 1943, there had been two murders in the home directly next door to the east. A Dr. Roy Hunt and his wife, Mae Frank, had been murdered in a late-night seemingly arranged “paid killing for hire.” (See this article: https://texoso66.com/2019/08/29/ dr-and-mrs-roy-hunt-murders-unsolved-mystery/.)

 

My dysfunctional family had bought the house next door! A house no one else wanted anything to do with, except my poor family, who savored a cheap buy to safety or peace of mind. I would spend many a night being laughed at and traumatized, going to bed with the covers over my head.

 

Littlefield, Texas (KCBD): October 26, 1943, is a day that left the community of Littlefield in shock.

 

Dana Samuelson writes about the day Dr. Roy Hunt and his wife, Mae Frank, were found murdered in their home and the investigation that followed. Her book Clovis Road details a rumored love triangle between Dr. Hunt and Ruth Newton, the wife of his med school classmate.

 

The author says Dr. Newton hired someone to kill the couple. He appeared in trial numerous times to appeal the case.

 

The niece of Dr. Hunt tells us the community went from leaving their doors unlocked to being too scared to go outside.

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That scar on my neck!

I have a haunting memory as a very young child—I believe around four years of age. Many people say a person can’t remember things from that age, except possibly because of trauma. My memory is extremely traumatic.

 

I remember being carried into the local hospital screaming in dire pain. My vision and sight were blurred by the tears pouring out of my face, but I vividly remember being rushed into the hospital, turning right, rushing past the wall of thick square glass bricks, then left, down a seemingly long corridor.

 

I was to be treated for an extreme burn to the right side of my face. This burn would require a skin graft from my thigh.

 

The burn was the result of the explosion of a glass vaporizer that had overheated once its full content of water had been vaporized. When there was no longer any water for the heating element to vaporize out over the round metal cylinder used to house medicated salve, the element and glass jar exploded, expelling all pieces throughout the room. The metal container hit me in the right cheek below the eye, resulting in the extreme burn but, luckily, not losing my eye.

 

All of this was the result of having a childhood cold and being “put to bed,” forgotten, neglected, and “nothing but trouble.”

 

 

Musician, not!

As a young child, I once performed (sang?) a song on a local CBS TV affiliate Channel 13 program in Lubbock, Texas, called Jack Huddle’s Children’s Theater.

 

Jack Huddle was a West Texas rockabilly musician and song-writer. He performed and recorded with Buddy Holly early in Holly’s career (Wikipedia).

 

At a very young age, I was very neatly dressed and taken to Lubbock early one morning. We arrived at some unknown location and were ushered into a building with many people scurrying around.

 

Being separated from my mother, I was taken into a “studio” and seated with many other young children in a peanut gallery sitting location. Someone read a list of instructions that were not heard as my giant eyes surveyed the premises.

 

At one point, a tall giant of a cowboy, armed with a guitar, came on the stage. He talked a lot and then sang some songs.

 

Suddenly, the captives of our peanut gallery were taken, one by one, out to stage center to talk with this giant cowboy. Then suddenly, he began playing his guitar, and the child began singing.

 

In great anxiety, I remember watching and fearing what was in evidence about to happen to me! But then as each child finished their musical humiliation, they were led to a side stage location and allowed to pick a packaged surprise gift.

 

With less trepidation, when my time came, I marched straight to center stage with eyes glued to the side stage packaged prize board. I answered, without realization, some questions asked by Cowboy Bob.

 

Then suddenly, he asked, “What song will you be singing for us today?” I froze! How could I be so ill prepared and freely sacrificed for such humiliation!

 

Something or someone prompted me back to reality (I’m sure Cowboy Bob had a prepared methodology for this type occurrence). “Sing?” I had to sing a Western song...now...on TV...in front of the whole world (a small child has no understanding of what a TV world is)!

 

Prompted back to reality, I searched my mind for a song. Nothing materialized. Blankly, I stared at Bob and noticed his eyebrows begin to slowly dip. Alas, I began singing “Home on the Range,” the same song that had just been sung by the previous singer.

 

The only memory afterward was clutching my prize package!

 

 

Don’t go to Grandma’s house!

My aunt, who was my mother’s younger sister, and uncle were not able to have their own children. So they arranged and secured two separate children, a girl, then a boy. These children were from Hispanic families that could not care for these unplanned newborns.

 

My aunt and uncle loved and cared for these children. As a cousin, I was never aware they were not my natural relatives or that they were Hispanic.

 

Unfortunately, my paternal grandmother hated these children with a passion. Though it seemed she hated everything pretty much equally.

 

On one occasion, my aunt and uncle—I am assuming by agreement—delivered the two small children to her for an afternoon of babysitting care. This would allow them time to go shopping at the closest big town.

 

Upon returning from their shopping trip, they were not allowed to enter the house, and there were no children to retrieve. While my aunt and uncle had spent the afternoon away shopping, my grandmother gave the children away. She had called a family to come and take the children. She paid this couple enough money to leave the state and have no further communication with anyone in our area.

 

My aunt and uncle were not allowed in the house because, as expected, they were mad enough and wanted to kill my grandmother. So any time my siblings and I heard we were going to Grandma’s house, we trembled with fear. We were not sure if any of us would be coming back!

 

 

Racism—there is no winner in this race!

As a young child, I remember visits to the town’s small library. It was located in the basement of the county courthouse.

 

As you entered the courthouse, you would take the stairs to the basement floor. At the bottom of the stairs, you would choose to turn left or right. To the right, about three doors down was the library. To the left were restrooms and then county government offices.

 

This was in the early 1950s. This is a lasting memory for me as it was symbolic of those days.

 

The restrooms were labeled boldly for both men and women. There were two for each: “Men: White Only,” “Men: Colored”; women likewise.

 

As a small child, I was impressed and thought how neat it was to have more than just one restroom! Nothing in my young impressionable mind interpreted anything negative.

 

A few years later, I was playing youth baseball, as almost all young boys in this area did. Many of my teammates were black and from the northeast side of town across the tracks (railroad tracks) called the Flats. They (Niggers) all lived over there. The browns (Mexicans) lived on the northwest side. Again, I thought how neat to have your own little town.

 

My best friend and teammate was a great black ballplayer that we called Rabbit because he was small and so fast.

 

Before the season began, it was acknowledged that Rabbit did not have a birth certificate and could not validate his actual age and would not be allowed to play. My father was a big baseball fan and would stay sober long enough to coach the short summer baseball season. He so wanted Rabbit for our team that he did all the work needed and paid all expenses to get Rabbit a birth certificate so he could play on our team.

 

I remember we had a great and fun season. I don’t remember wins or losses or our record, but I remember it was great fun.

 

To celebrate the fun season, my father planned for a team barbecue at our backyard with hot dogs and hamburgers. When the day arrived, my dad had me go with him in his work station wagon to drive to the Flats to pick up some of our black teammates. I assumed it was because they didn’t have their own rides.

 

I remember the party was great fun—everyone playing games with lots of food! I did not notice any of the adults. It had been so much fun, when I asked my father if I could invite a couple of teammates to sleep over, he quickly asked “Who?” and said yes. I was excited that my sleepover would extend the fun and that Rabbit could use one of our sleeping bags.

 

When the party ended, my father called for me and the black players to load up into the station wagon for the return ride home. We got to the Flats and were dropping off player after player when we stopped at Rabbit’s house.

 

My father told Rabbit to get out and go on home. I thought there had been a mistake and told my father, “No, he’s spending the night with us!” Rabbit left our car and went home, and my father told me, “They live over here.” I was very disappointed and confused as we drove home, and I found all of my teammates had left and there was to be no sleepover.

 

I asked why and was told, “Those people don’t belong over here.” Again, innocently thinking this was all a misunderstanding, I mentioned the different restrooms at the courthouse: one for whites, one for colored. I was told that was because “those people” are not as “good” as “whites” and to not ask any more questions.

 

For many young children, this would be the indoctrination to racism and exclusion. I did not see nor accept it that way. If anything, I identified with their rejection and, going forward, would watch for anyone being excluded and offer friendship.

 

 

Discipline at a friend’s house

On rare occasions, even society’s outcasts gather together for fellowship and fun. I remember one such occasion that also seemed to symbolize what life is like with those who are negative-cycle enslaved. You seem to have finally found a positive rhythm with everything, not necessarily going well—rather, just not going badly. Then, unexpectedly, just as you begin to trust how to live life, you get cold-cocked right upside your head! Wham! Where did that come from? What did I do wrong this time?

 

We were attending a summer cookout at the Rices’. Mr. Rice was a friend of my father and a well-known town mechanic. He, too, was an abusive alcoholic known for wife beating and family abuse. He had two sons: one my age and a friend, and one older, a friend of my older brothers.

 

A number of families were present and participating in the typical cookout tasks: food and drink prep, barbecue pit prep, chairs and tables, etc. Each group of adults seemed to have a regular routine. The kids in attendance ranged from babies and toddlers to high schoolers, boys and girls. The adults went about their prep and business; and the kids, as usual, knew to stay out of the way, go play, and not cause any trouble.

 

The routine was playing out rather well, it seemed, as dusk began giving way to darkness. Us younger kids would try to keep up with the older kids in their games and fun. The toddlers and babies were tended by some mothers and a group of children helpers who just couldn’t keep up in the games or didn’t enjoy being constantly picked on and made fun of.

 

Occasionally, the kids would get a little too loud and a little too close to the adult domino and card games or the guitar playing and be scolded and eventually warned. I—and I think everyone—specially noticed Mr. Rice. It seemed out of nowhere he would jump up and run to our group and very loudly warn his oldest son to “stop causing trouble!”

 

This same routine of fun and festivities continued through the night, food, desserts, and entertainment. But as aforementioned, fate would not allow us to have an uneventful celebration.

 

Without provocation, it seemed to every one of every group, the night exploded. Mr. Rice came running into our older-kids fun group and grabbed his oldest son and began to yell and scream at him. It seemed Mr. Rice was “fed up” with his son chasing the girls and making fun. The rest of us kids stopped playing and scattered to find our own parents and a safe space.

 

Mr. Rice continued with his son and began spanking him by hand as he violently tossed his son. Suddenly, Mr. Rice grabbed a water hose, bent it, and began whipping his son all over his body. His son was screaming, crying, and apologizing as he pleaded for his life.

 

Women began taking their children to their vehicles to leave. Some of the men began to intervene to stop the beating that had visually become serious abuse.

 

As I was pulled away to our car to leave, I remember seeing Mr. Rice, still yelling threats, being forcibly restrained. I, to this day, clearly remember his son seriously wailing and now filthy and bloodied from being tossed, dragged, and whipped all over the yard. Lastly, I stared with a fixed gaze at the water hose, astonished at the pain it had inflicted from the hands of a seemingly delirious person.

 

Unknowingly, this scene would occur again in my later youth and in a way that haunts me to this very day!

 

 

Pedophile

C. L. Walker (Chama Lee Walker) was a Native American who served in World War II and was a veterans counselor. He had much Nazi war memorabilia that he proudly displayed. He was a very friendly, joyous person and liked by everyone.

 

At first, he appeared as a Boy Scout helper for our local troop and displayed plenty of outdoorsman skills. Over time, he became an assistant scoutmaster and eventually became a scoutmaster of his own troop. That he became a scoutmaster did not create any curiosity at the time, though our town was so small and participation so scarce, it barely had need of more than one Boy Scout troop.

 

It was quietly accepted that the creation was due to a “power struggle” and fit of jealousy between the masters. As mine, I’m sure most parents paid little attention and had little concern regarding who would babysit as long as the cost remained low.

 

All the scouts competed for his attention and the opportunity to be chosen by him for his special secret projects. It was kind of like a crowning of respect and accomplishment to be his chosen recruit for special tasks and priority to be close by his side or be chosen to sleep in his tent on weekend campouts or ride in his car while traveling to events, especially in the front seat.

 

Unexpectedly, many scouts had their trust seriously violated. Beer, naked posing, photos, and eventually, “manly grab-ass tomfoolery” touching.

 

Upon reporting such occurrence to my mother, I was scolded for “making up” such serious nonsense and told to “hush and don’t say another word about it to anyone.”

 

I never again was in his tent or car or alone with him.

 

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Remember, the circumstances of your life do not define you. How you react to your circumstances does define you!

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