My Second Life

The Summer of 1948

There was no TV so our evenings would be spent on the front porch or in the living room in front of the radio.  Butch and I liked “Jack Armstrong –the All American Boy”, and as we got older “The Shadow”.  Later in the evening Mom, Dad and Grandma would listen to “Jack Benny”, “Charlie McCarthy”, and the “Lux Radio Theater”.  We would spend most of our evenings as a family around the radio.  I’d fall asleep many nights with Dad and Grandma Talon listening to the Cincinnati Reds ball games.  Mom wasn’t interested in baseball but Grandma Talon sure was, she knew every player, their averages and positions.

Then in 1948 we got our first television, a five inch black and white screen.  There was nothing on most of the day other than a test pattern. At 7:00 it would light up.  I remember inviting neighbors into our living room to watch “The Original Armature Hour” a show that everyone had heard on the radio for years and now there it was before our eyes.  Within months we were watching “Kukla, Fran and Ollie”, followed by the “Howdy Doody Show”.  Mom even bought Butch and me shirts just like Buffalo Bob wore; these became our favorite dress-up shirts.

I didn’t know my Grandfather Talon; he died before I was born.  He must have done well for himself though because the house on Church Street was a nice home in its time.

During the summer the movie theater on Greenlee Avenue would show serials every Wednesday afternoon.  Mom would walk Butch and me up Greenlee to the theater buy our tickets, a piece of candy and sit us down in the theater.  “Now you stay here and watch the movie, I’m going to go to the grocery store and do some shopping and I’ll be back to get you when the movie is over.  Do you have to go to the bathroom before I go?”

Butch and I looked so forward to Wednesday, over the years we saw all the now famous Superman, Flash Gordon, and Gene Autry serials.  We’d come back the next week and the story would be continued from where it left off, always with the hero in a lurch.

Mom would pick us up and we’d walk back down Greenlee holding on to either side of Moms shopping basket.

The two girls that lived next door, the house that was six feet to the side of ours, were our main play mates from age 4 through 6.  Ann, the oldest, was a little older then Butch and Mary was about a year older then me.  Grandma Talon had a stone fish pond in the side yard that had large gold fish in it; somehow they lived through the winter freeze.  This was off limits to me, for fear I would fall in and drown.  To protect me from myself Dad had placed a piece of heavy wire over the top of the pond to make it more kid proof.  One afternoon while playing tag in the back yard Mary aggressively tagged me and I fell into the pond face first.  The wire did what it was designed to do but it also provided me with a substantial poke in the forehead that left a sizable scare that I would wear with pride in future years. Scars are reminders of the past.

There was also a stone arboretum in the furthest corner of the back yard.  Vines had grown up the sides and over the top providing the four of us a perfect play house.  One summer afternoon Ann brought an older girl, Margaret, from down on Greeley Avenue to play with us; she suggested that we play doctor and I was selected as the first patient. 

“Take off your shirt and lay down on the bench,” Margaret directed me.

I removed my striped tee shirt, laid down on the bench and the operation began as the four of them diligently proceeded to work on me.

“Butch, you an I will be the doctors, and Mary and Ann are our nurses,”  Margaret instructed.  “Kobe you lay still and we’ll operate on you.”

Butch and Margaret probed at my belly with small sticks and Mary and Ann assisted. Having finished the operation they moved on to the next step in my examination.

“Pull down his pants and underwear,” Doctor Margaret instructed.

My pants were opened; underwear pulled down to my knees and my wiener was examined closely.  It was determined that it also needed work. 

Margaret leaned over me with the shaft of what we called a wheat weed in her hand.  “Lie still while I fix you,” she said

Margaret secured my wiener in her left hand, pulling it up to its full length, with her thumb and fore finger she pinched the mouth of my wiener open.  She placed the weed shaft into her mouth to wet it and proceeded to insert it into the mouth of my wiener as if she were threading a needle. I rose up on my elbows to get the best look at what was happening.  The weed shaft entered and pricked the inside of my wiener with its end.  I jerked and Margaret said, “Lay still, this is not easy,” as if this was a procedure that she had preformed often for the benefit of many six year old boys.

The pricking sensation continued not only at the weed shafts point but as its edges penetrated deeper.  I started to feel like a small piece of barbed wire was being inserted into my wiener. 

“Stop it that hurts,” I said.

“Of course it hurts, that’s why we have to operate on it,” Margaret explained. She moved her fingers higher up the weed shaft as if she intended to push it its full seven inch length into my wiener, and I didn’t have seven inches of soft wiener at that point of my development.

Butch, Ann and Mary looked on in wonderment while offering assurance that Margaret was doing it right.

The pain grew and I slammed my head down on the bench not able to look any longer. Margaret in full concentration pushed on. She pushed the weed shaft deeper and deeper, as the pain increased and my protests grew.

“Stop, stop,” I demanded. 

Margaret looked at me with disgust, “You’re a baby, your no fun to play with.”  She pulled the shaft out in one quick stroke delivering a maximum of pain and relief in one instant.  The others dressed me and told me, “OK your better now the operation was a success, don’t worry about any pain it will go away.”

“Ann your next,” Margaret said.

Ann got up on the bench and we operated on her.  We took off her shirt and worked on her tummy for a while then pulled down her pants to do some more work.

I bent over and looked closer, “Where’s her wiener.”  I asked.

“Girl’s don’t have wieners,” Margaret said, “don’t be stupid.”

I looked at Butch to see if this was as big a surprise to him as it was to me, but he gave me a “don’t be stupid,” look.

I looked close and it looked like Ann had a sideways mouth between her legs.  I didn’t want to be stupid but I need to know.

“How do girls pee if they don’t have a wiener?” I asked.

“Girls pee out of here,” Ann said pointing to her little mouth between her legs.

“How?” I asked again.

“Girls sit down to pee.”  Margaret said pushing me off.

I tried to picture a girl sitting in the urinals that were in the kindergarten bathrooms at school.  It must be hard.

Margaret bent over and came up with another wheat weed shaft lubricated it in her mouth as if she was preparing for another probing.  I stepped in closer, I wanted to see this.

Having seen my operation and the associated pain Ann protested.  “No, you’re not doing that to me.” She pushed Margaret away and got to her feet. She was quickly dressed and the doctor session ended. 

We all avoided Margaret from that point on.

New Years Eve in Key West

There are two celebrations to bring in the New Year in Key West, the straights gather in the 200 block of Duval and the gays and gay watches in the 700 block. Both countdowns model after the New York City traditional ball drop in Times Square.

The straights gather in front of Sloppy Joes to see the Conch Shell drop from the bars rooftop, a tradition that has a history of fifteen years originated by a local artist, Tobias McGregor. In 1993, McGregor approach Sloppy Joe's management about the New Year's Eve plan and it has grown from there.

Five blocks to the east is where we chose to hang back and watch a sequenced giant red high heel holding a lavishly dressed and coiffed Sushi as she (he) is lowered from the balcony of the Bourbon Street Bar to the delight of the crowd below. The real show is on the street as the gentleman and ladies in drag display their best.

“At Sloppy Joes the crowd tends to get routty, throwing beer bottles into the air, pushing, shoving and far too much testosterone overload. It’s a place that I just don’t feel save.” Nita surmised. “While up at the Bourbon Street Bar, you’ll probably be shocked and grossed out, but you won’t be assaulted or injured, and will possibly be kissed by who knows who or what. It’s just a lot of fun once a year. After the dropping of the red shoe we’ll go down to the White Street Pier for a street party dance and incredible fireworks”

Shay and Ginger stayed on the edge of the crowd with the grandkids so as to limit their exposure to some of the activity; they could still catch beads and see some of the costumes but none of the marginal behavior that took place in the thick of things. The rest of the family drifted in and out of the crowd to feed their curiosity and experience the energy of the night. Shortly after one a.m. as the fireworks were drawing to a finally Kerry and Nita volunteered to take the grandkids back to the house so their parents could finish off the calibration of the New Year.

The next day was dominated swimming in the house pool, bicycling, TV football and lounging.

Christmas 1949

December 24, 1949….12:20 P.M. EST

“There’s no Santa; Mom and Dad are Santa.” Butch tells me as we build a snowman in the back yard at 514 Church Street in Saint Bernard, Ohio.

We live with Grandma Talon. Grandma Talon has a two story white clap-board house with a big fenced in back yard full of flowers during the spring and summer, a stone fish pond and an arboretum. There is a wood porch across the full front of the house with a swing on one end. Inside the front door is a large foyer with the only closet on the ground floor. There are steps on the right leading to two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, there is even a small kitchen in one of the bedrooms. This is where Grandma Talon lives. Down stairs the living room and dinning room are large with hardwood floors covered with flowered area rugs. There’s a small kitchen with a Formica top kitchen table and four chairs, a full bath and an enclosed back porch. Mom and Dad sleep in what used to be the dining room, and Butch and I sleep on an enclosed back porch on two steel cots. We all keep our hang-up clothes in the front hall closet. We don’t have a refrigerator; we have an icebox on the outside back porch off the kitchen that the Iceman fills twice a week in the summer and once a week in the winter with a big block of ice.

“Yes there is a Santa Claus,” the Iceman says as he climbs the back porch with a block of ice. “Don’t listen to your brother.”

“Yah, your wrong Santa is coming tonight and he’s bringing me presents.” I shout at Butch.

Butch doesn’t say anything, not wanting to get the Iceman any further involved in his big brother revelation.

He waits until the Iceman leaves us with a jolly reassurance. “I’m sure Santa will come to see you, Merry Christmas.”

“I can prove it; I can prove that Mom and Dad are Santa.”

“No you can’t.”

“Yes, I can; come with me.” We go in the back door, through the kitchen, through Mom and Dads bedroom and into the living room. Butch climbs up on the sofa that’s against the wall and looks over the back. “Look here!”

I climb up on the sofa and look over the back. To my surprise and confusion there are six or eight Christmas presents all wrapped in pretty Christmas paper. I am speechless; I twist my body and sit on the sofa, legs dangling above the floor.

I sit looking at the decorated tree not knowing what to think. “How could this be, Mom and Dad are Santa, Christmas isn’t for real?”

Grandma Talon comes down the steps and with a harsh voice tells me to go back outside. “I have a lot of work to do to get ready for tonight’s dinner.”

The cousins come to the house and we have a big Christmas Dinner on a long table set up in what used to be the dinning room but now is Mom and Dad’s bedroom. Everyone is happy and loud. “There is more to Christmas then just Santa.”

“What’s that noise, on the roof?” Dad interrupts the loud talk.

No one says anything; everyone listens and looks to the ceiling.

“Thump, Thump, Thump,” a sound form the front porch.

“Kid there’s someone on our porch, go see who’s making all that noise.”

Five of us run to the door, Butch opens the door and makes a quick back step retreat. “It’s Santa! He’s huge!” He’s wearing a red suit with white trim, big black boots and bells ringing as he stepped in the door. “He’s Huge.” He has a large bag over his shoulder which I know was filled with presents. “It’s Santa, there is a Santa, he’s right her in our house. He’s huge!”

I look at Butch, he’s in shock; he’s backed against the wall staring at Santa in amazement. Santa pushes his way into the living room give a few “Ho, Ho’s”, asks if we’ve all been good, empties his bag of gifts on the floor and passes out one to each of us kids.

“You kids have been so good this year that I’ve got more presents for you, I couldn’t get them all on my sleigh so I came last night and hid the rest of them over here.”

Santa walks over to the sofa and with Dad’s help moves it away from the wall, bends over and retrieved more presents.

I look at Butch. His eyes are wide and sparkling; he’s staring at Santa, his mouth hanging open, his hands fumbled with the wrapping on his present.

I lean closer. “There is a Santa Claus.”

Alone

May 1954

This was going to be a great summer, Butch and I are going to get to go to camp. We'd never been on a vacation, or to camp. This year, we were going to camp, Camp Anachegie somewhere in Wisconsin. I had no idea were Wisconsin was or what camp was going to be like. I just knew I was going to camp, and I would be able to swim every day, paddle a canoe, explore the woods, and ride horses. That’s right; one of the campsites was Cowboy Camp. Each camper was assigned a horse that he rode and took care of every day. I had watched cowboys on TV, seen them in the movies, played cowboys in the yard, and now I was going to have the chance to be cowboy... for six weeks. This was going to be great for six weeks.

We had received a brochure on Camp Anachegie and Butch and I had gone over it and studied every detail. Dad had explained that he and Grace Plotner were going to get married and go on a honeymoon and Butch and I would go to camp so they could get to know each other better. This didn’t really make much sence to me but it didn’t have to “I was going to camp.”

Our journey started from Champaign, Illinois and we headed north through Illinois and up into Wisconsin. Camp Anachegie was located somewhere around Madison, Wisconsin, wherever Madison, Wisconsin was. This is probably the first time that Butch and I traveled in a car and didn't pick on each other and fight with each other. We were so excited about going to camp, hell we were just excited to go anywhere. Before the arrival of Grace Plotner, there wasn’t much money around our house so we were lucky to just have the basics. Vacations were things that other people went on, and I don’t really remember being envious or giving it much thought. We had always been active and we had each other, so there were plenty of adventures in our life, but this one was going to be special.

As we traveled north out of Illinois and into Wisconsin the cornfields were replaced by forests. There were trees everywhere, and I envisioned Camp Anachegie buried deep in the woods. Dad was driving us up to Camp Anachegie, turning around and driving back to Champaign the same day. He and Grace Plotner were getting married next week. With Butch and me at camp and Rooney in Cincinnati with Grandma Grinkmeyer, they could have six weeks to themselves.

As all young kids do, we kept asking Dad, “Are we almost there yet Dad?”, and finely somewhere north of Madison, Wisconsin he said, ” We’re almost there boys.”

About five minutes later, Dad spotted a sign, Camp Anachegie, with an arrow pointing to the right. We turned down a dirt road lined on both sides with tall green trees. The road wound up hills, down valleys, and across creeks, then as we crested a hill the forest opened up to a green pasture, and a huge sparkling blue lake surrounded by tall green and yellow trees. Situated at the edge of the lake were several buildings made of logs, and a brown sandy beach that extended across the face of the lake. It was beautiful. Better then it looked in the brochure.

Butch and I were on the edge of the backseat leaning over the front seat pointing in screaming “look at that, look at the canoes, look down there to the right there are Indian tepees.” Dad had a huge smile on his face, seeing us so excited. I’m sure my Dad was as proud as he could be seeing two of his boys about to experience a wonderful stay at camp.

We drove up to the biggest building parked the car and jumped out. Butch and I immediately ran down by the lake. There were canoes; one of them was even made out of that birch bark, like the Indians in the movies had. There were rowboats, and there was a floating raft out in the lake with a diving board on it. The lake was roped off with swimming areas and there was even a chair on stilts for the life guard to sit in.
I was a real good swimmer, Dad had taught me to swim in the river when we went fishing back in Cincinnati, and then I swam in the pool when Dianne Mason, boy she was pretty, took us swimming when we stayed in Cincinnati with Grandma. I had seen the bigger kids use a diving board at the pool, maybe I’d become a diver while I was here at camp.

Dad hollered over to us, "You boys go ahead and look around, but don’t get in the water, I’m going to go in and get you registered for camp.”

Butch hollered back, "OK Dad, we’ll be right here, and we won’t go in the water.”

I ask Butch, “Where are the horses, I don’t see any horses, we will get to ride horses won’t we?”

“There probably kept somewhere else, maybe over by the tepees, don’t worry about it”.

Butch started skipping rocks across the lake, each time they’d skip; he’d count out “one, two, three.”

I picked up a rock, leaned over a little to the side like he did and threw it is hard as I could, “Kerr-plunked.” I never could get my rocks to skip.

“Who do you think lives in those Indian Te-pees over there? Do you think they’re real Indians over there?” I asked Butch knowing that he didn’t know anymore about it then I did, but I was so excited I just need to know everything right now.

“I don’t know,” he replied and skipped another rock, “one, two, three, four.”

“OK boys; come on over here”, Dad called. “I’ve got you registered, but they won’t be ready to take you to your campsites until three o’clock when all the other campers are arriving. Mrs. Elkins made some sandwiches that you can have for lunch, and wait for the other campers to arrive. I need to drive back to Champaign, I need to get back before it gets dark. You think you’ll be OK here for a couple of hours by yourself’s?”

“Sure dad, we’ll be fine, you go on. I’ll look after Kobe.” Butch assured him.

Dad slapped us on the backs, and told us to behave ourselves and have a good time, “I’ll see in six weeks.”

It was a little past twelve o’clock, so Butch and I sat down, where it looked like campers gathered for the evening campfires, and had our lunch. Butch asks me if I’d rather stayed in the Indian Village since I liked Indian so much.

“No, I think had rather be a cowboy, I hope they don’t give me one of those big horses, I’d rather have the small one, but not too small. Do you think real Indians live in those Tee-pees?”

We finished our lunch and I started running up and down the carved out bleachers that surrounded the campfire. About an hour later an older guy came over and introduced himself as Billy, one of the camp counselors.

Billy was about 18 years old, red headed and a lot of freckles just like Berry back home. His head had an odd shape though, kind of flat on the sides and came to a broad point on the top. I would learn later that the other counselors called him “Canoe Head”, and it made total sense. He was a college student and he did this in the summer for college credit and he got paid he told us.

Billy explained that each village had its own counselors, and he was going to be in Cowboy Camp this week. He went on to explain that if Butch would pick up his stuff he’d helped him get settled over in Cowboy Camp and get first pick of the horses and his bunk.

“I’m going to Cowboy Camp too”, I informed Billy

“No you’re going to be in Eagles Nest”, Billy said.

“No I’m with Butch, we’re together, we’re brothers and we’re both signed up for Cowboy Camp. Our Dad just signed us up, but he had to go back to Champaign”

“No, I've got the paper’s right here, and your signed up for Eagles Nest, you have to be 10 years old to stay in Cowboy Camp, and it says here your 9 years old. So you can’t be in Cowboy’s Camp.” Billy explained. “There will be another counselor here in a few minutes to take you Eagles Nest”
“Pick up your stuff Butch; I’m taking you to Cowboy Camp.”

Butch picked up his bag, looked at me and said, “You’ll be OK, maybe you can get in the Indian Village and you’ll be able to sleep in a tee-pee.”

“No, you have to be 10 years old to stay and Indian Village,” said Billy.

Butch and the counselor walked off up a small path and disappeared into the woods.

As they disappeared I felt something that I had never felt before, I know now it was fear. I didn’t know that that was what it was. I just knew it didn’t feel good. I felt my face start scrunch up, and I felt tears coming into my eyes. But I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t allow myself to cry.

I sucked my lower lip in between my teeth and a bit on it, I took a deep breath, and I said to myself, “You’ll be OK; Butch said you’ll be OK.” I sat back down on the bench and kept repeating to myself ”You’ll be OK.”

“Dad said we would stay together, he expects us to stay together; Dad’s going to be mad at these people when he finds out. I wish he were here now, he’d get me into Cowboy Camp.”

About twenty minutes later, I saw another young guy approaching me he hollered out, "Are you Kobe Grinkmeyer, come with me we’re going to Eagles Nest.”

I grabbed my stuff, and followed him up the hill. He seemed so happy and glad to see me. I could feel some of the pain starting to go away. I started to believe, “I’ll be OK.”

We climbed up the hill. About halfway up, he said , “My name is Nathan, your Kobie Grinkmeyer, let me help you if you bag.” He reached down and took my bag.

Nathan looked to be a college student as well, but he looked much more like what a camp counselor should look like. He was close to six foot tall, had dark wavy hair and a good tan, and his head was round like it was suppose to be.

“You’re in the new building, and since you’re the first one here you can choose any bed you want,”
There were two cinderblock buildings whit tin roofs and Nathan took me to the one on the far right. Inside, were rows of bunk beds with an open area in the center, and what look like a bathroom in the back.

“If I were you, I’d take one over here near the back so you don’t have so far walked if you go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. And I take a lower bunk, so you don’t have to climb up and down all week.”

I did as Nathan suggested, and threw my suitcase on a lower bunk. “I’m going to be here for six weeks.” I corrected Nathan.

“Six weeks, are you sure?” he asked.

“Ya, my brother and I are here for six weeks, he’s in Cowboy Camp. I was supposed to be in Cowboy Camp, so I’ll probably be moving soon.” I told him in a weakening voice. I stopped with that so as not to cry.

“Well, OK, you can just hang around here, the other campers should be arriving in about half an hour. I have to go do some things at the administrative building . But I’ll be back to check on you later. I’ll look into the Cowboy Camp mix-up.”

Nathan walked out the door, and I looked around the empty building, which looked nice enough and that feeling started to come back. I sucked in my lower lip between my teeth and bit. I opened my suitcase, took out a pair of socks, and put them up my face. They smelled like home. I took out an old T-shirt that was warn thin, Mrs. Elkins had wanted to throw it away in the rag bag, but I wouldn’t let her. I rubbed it up and down my arm, and it made me feel better. I wandered what Butch was doing now and if he missed me as much as I missed him. I started to cry, but I couldn’t cry, “Men don’t cry”. Dad had told Butch and me that when he was in the war he saw his buddies get killed right next to him and he didn’t cry. “If you don’t cry when you see your buddies killed, you don’t cry over small things” , he told us.

I bit my lip harder and didn’t cry, “Men don’t cry over small stuff, and nobody is getting killed here. Besides Nathan is looking into it for me.”

A half an hour later, the building started to fill up with other campers; just like Nathan said it would. As each group came in they would scramble for their beds, laughing and hollering, it seemed like most of them already knew each other. I later learned that they came from church groups, and school groups, and so they did know each other. Within an hour the building was full and a boy by the name of Brett took the bunk above mine.

He seemed like a nice guy, he was part of the church group and knew a lot of the other boys. He asked me my name and introduced me around the some of his friends. I put the socks and T-shirt back in the suitcase and followed Brett around.

“I was OK, just like Butch said it would be, but why didn’t he come with me to Eagles Nest? Maybe they didn’t allow 10 year olds in Eagles Nest... that must be it.”

Nathan stuck his head in the door and hollered, “Its dinner time guys, come on lets go to dinner. Follow me”
There must have been 20 boys in our building so with the other building there were about 40 of us walking down the hill heading for this long narrow building that they called The Mess Hall. Inside there were long tables with plastic plates, plastic glasses and silverware. I just stayed with Brett. In the center of the table was a big medal pitcher full of what they called “bug juice”. We all got in a line that went to the front of the mess hall and these older guys put food on our plates. I just followed Brett.

Nathan explained, “There’s bug juice and the pitcher, if you want milk it’s in the machine upfront.”
Brett didn’t go to get milk, so I didn’t go to get milk. I drank “bug juice”.

After dinner we fooled around in the area outside our building, climbing ropes, and running through the woods. They had a chinning bar, which I was pretty good at. I could chin myself more times then any of Brett’s friends. I started to feel like a part of the group.

As it started to get dark Nathan told us to get ready to go to campfire. “Put on a jacket, it will get cold tonight and bring your flashlights, because it will be real dark when we come back. Don’t turn your flashlights on at campfire or it will be taken away for the rest of the week.”

I rumaged through my suit case and got my metal flashlight. I had never owned a flashlight before, we always had to use someone else’s when we played kick the can. The brochure had been very clear that every camper had to bring a flash light, and I had mine. I had wanted to use it at home but Dad wouldn’t let me for fear that I would ware out the batteries, after all I was going to need it for six weeks at camp.

We all marched down to the campfire area. There must have been 100 boys there, all sitting in a big horseshoe going up 10 rows around a big campfire, it was huge.

All the counselors were introduced, and each one told us about some of the things we were going to be doing over the next week. We sang songs, church songs and camping songs. Then one of the counselor’s told a ghost story. It was scary, but it was fun.

I saw Butch over on the other side of the campfire with his group. They didn’t have on cowboy hats or cowboy boots that I could see, but he seemed to be having good time and so was I.

The head counselor explain that the bugle would blow at 7:30 in the morning and we were to brush your teeth and head down to the lake in our under ware and flip flops for a bath. After the bath we would go back to our camp area, get dressed and go to breakfast before the day’s activities.

Nathan gathered us together, and we headed back to Eagles Nest with our flashlights on. There was a lot a lot of laughing and kidding, mouth farts, armpit farts, and just general 10-year-old boy fun. We made our way back to our building, and Nathan told us it was time to get ready for bed. I went to the bathroom, came back got into my PJ’s and crawled in the bed. Overall, it had been a good day, more ups then downs, and in general, I felt I would be OK. Often in the distance I heard the bugle playing taps, and I thought “This is neat, this is real camp.”

I fell asleep.

In the morning I was awakened by the sound of the bugle, and Nathan screaming, “Hit the
Deck, it’s time to get up, on the beach in five minutes in your underwear and flip-flops for a bath.”
Although I was awake, I didn’t move, I didn’t open my eyes, and I hoped I was dreaming, I hoped that I was really home on Patricia Court. “I don’t want to be at camp I thought to myself.”

“How could this have happened, I went to the bathroom before I went to bed, I didn’t drink any the water before I went to bed, I only had one glass of “bug juice”. I did just like Dad told me to do, why did this happen to me?”

I had wet the bed; I had been waiting the bed since Mom died. I even wet the bed when Butch slept with me, and he used to complain to Dad, but there was nothing I could seem to do about it. I didn’t move, I didn’t know what to do, if I got up and other boys would see my PJ’s all wet, they would smell that smell, and they would laugh at me, they wouldn’t like me anymore, it wouldn’t matter that I could do more chin-up then them. They would think I was a baby, I wet the bed like a baby.

I pushed by face deep in the pillow, “I wish that I was at home.” At least there, I know how to deal with this; Dad and Butch have grown to expect this every morning. Butch wets the bed sometimes too. I closed my eyes tight, and I asked God to take this away, this cold wet feeling, this smell that I had learned to live with at-home, but was not prepared to share with these boys. I was cold. I was wet. I was ashamed. I was alone. I was here for six weeks. Again I asked God to take it away, I didn’t pray to Jesus or Mary anymore they had let me down when it really counted, I spoke to God himself. I closed my eyes real tight and prayed, “Please God make this go away and never come back again.” Nothing happened; I was still wet and cold.

"Where was Butch, why wasn’t he here? Why wasn’t I at Cowboy Camp with him, Dad had registered us that way.”

Brett poked me and said, “Kobe it’s time to get up, wake up.”

"OK", I said, “I’m getting up” and I rolled over on my back. Now my butt was wet too.

Brett moved off to the bathroom, and I quickly got out of bed, grabbed some clean underwear stuffed my PJ’s under the blankets, slipped on my flip-flops and headed for the door.

I thought to myself, “I hope they don’t smell it, I hope it dries before tonight, I hope it doesn’t happen again, tonight. God please don’t let this happen again tomorrow.”

Nathan, led us down to the beach. Although what had happened was all over me no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to smell what was on me, maybe I would be OK.

At the lakeside everyone’s stripped off their underwear, set them on top other flip-flops, grabbed a bar of soap and ran into the cold lake for their early-morning bath. It crossed my mind that maybe the reason we were doing this, was that every body wet the bed last night.

The days at Camp Anacjegie were full of fun, swimming, canoeing, nature hikes, crafts, and just plain fun. But each night after campfire I would crawl into a wet smelly bed, and hope that it would remain my secret through the end of the week. I prayed to God and my dead Mom to look over me and to not let it happen to me again tonight. It was wet in the middle of the mattress so I would try to stay to the side to avoid the wet. Each night the smell got worse and I feared that the other boys would smell it. If I can just stop drinking bug juice maybe it will stop.

On the third morning as I was coming back from the lake bath and Nathan grabbed my arm. “Come outside with me Kobie”.

“Kobie, I know you’ve got up problem and I’d like to help you with it.”

Oh no, there’s that feeling again, he knows, and he’s going to tell everyone.

“I think you and I need to take the mattress off your bed and hang it over the line behind the building and send your sheets and blankets to the laundry. We can do that when the other boys go to breakfast this morning, and it can stay our secret. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes sir, that’s okay with me.”

“Starting tonight, I’m going to wake you up around midnight and take you to the bathroom and we’ll see if that doesn’t stop this problem, is that okay with you Kobe.”

“Yes sir, that’s okay with me.”

Nathan and I waited until the last boy left building, I told Brett that I had to get something and I would catch up, so save me a seat next to him at breakfast.

Nathan helped me carry the mattress out back, it smelled bad, but Nathan didn’t say anything. He gave me a cloth bag and I stuffed the sheets, blanket and my PJ’s into it. He took the bag and told me to go catch up with the other boys.

For the next six weeks Nathan or some other guy got me up every night at midnight, and I went to the bathroom . I wish I could say, that was the end of the problem, but it wasn’t . I had many more accident, but Nathan and I took care of it just as we had before. When I prayed at night I thanked God and my dead Mom for Nathan, I stopped asking for their help with my problem. I had learned those kind of prayers just don’t work like Butch has said when Mom died.

I don’t know why I had such a bed-wetting problem . I suspected had something to do with something that happened with Mom. I don’t know. At home, after camp, my bed-wetting problem continued. When I was in ninth grade Mom and Dad bought a metallic sheet that went under my regular sheet and when I’d peed an alarm would go off. It really didn’t do any good. I guess the alarm was supposed to wake me up and stop me from peeing, but instead it woke everyone else up and I had to get up and put on clean sheets before everyone went back to bed. It only lasted for about a week and then I was back to getting up each morning in a wet bed and washing my sheets.

I continued to wet the bed off and on up until I went to junior high school. I would get up early each morning, strip my sheets, take then to the washing machine, and then the dryer and remake my bed all before I went to school. I became pretty good at doing laundry.

As I look back on my problem, and I suspect most kids have some kind of problem, the worst part of it was that it was my problem. I had full ownership of it, I shouldered full responsibility for it; only Nathan showed any willingness to make my problem his problem.

Child Abuse 1954

My third-grade teacher was Miss. Anderson, and the principal of the school was Mrs. Anderson. I don’t believe they were related, but they both did get to know me pretty well. I wasn’t really a bad kid more of a confused kid with little guidance. I think even at that age I was trying to figure out just who I was and how I fit into the world. I remain on that quest.

It was a regular practice for the first, second and third graders to spend a half hour after lunch recess each day on the gymnasium floor lying on mats, probably just to calm us down and give the teachers a break.
My best friend at that time was a boy by the name of Chet Lowmeyer. Although we weren’t supposed to be talking during our rest time, Chet and I would use this time to kid around and share secrets. Chet, like me, was a pretty rough kid, but unlike me Chet was good student, and quite around most of the kids. I think it was fair to say that Howard Hooser and I were Chet’s only friends.

Butch and I wore our hair in a crew cut, Dad cut our hair and there was little harm that could be done to a crew cut with electric clippers. Chet’s hair was long and combed back like a man would wear. He looked like a young James Dean, in the movie Giant. Of course, I didn’t know who James Dean was at that time, but as I remember Chet even carried himself like James Dean did in Giant before he discovered oil on his land. Kind of shy and sheepish but observing everything. Chet carried mystery with him.
Chet lived out in the country off Staley Road near the rail road tracks; I would have to say his family was poorer than ours. Chet and his little brother would walk home from school with us and sometimes I’d go out to his house for the afternoon after school. His mom was real nice, a pretty lady with long black hair, and real red lips. The Lowmeyer’s had small livestock and I would happily help Chet with his chores and we would run in the fields next to their house. Today we would call their house a shanty or a shack; they got their water from a well and they had no indoor plumbing. There was an abandoned pickup truck in the side yard that we would play in shooting out the windows with our fingers at the bad guys as we sped down the highway.

Mrs. Lowmeyer always made sure that I headed home before Chet’s dad got home. She explained that he worked hard and didn’t want a bunch of kids around the house when he got home. He wanted the place quite after a hard days work.

On this particular day, on the gym floor, Chet wasn’t kidding around, in fact he was acting quite serious, sheepish.

“Kobie, does your dad hit you?” Chet asked me in a low whisper.

“Once when Butch and I were bad, he hit us with a belt.” I told him.

“No, I mean does he hit you with his fist or his hand?” Chet asked.

“No… why does your dad hit you with his fist?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he turned his head away and was silent, and then he turned back. “Sometimes he hits my mom and when I try to stop him he hits me.”

“Why does he hit your mom?” I asked.

“He comes home from work and drinks beer. Then sometimes he gets in an argument with my mom and gets mad and hits her. She cries but he keeps hitting her, because she’s crying. I get in between them and try to stop him and he hits me.”

“Does he hurt you?”

Chet looked around the room to make sure that nobody was looking and raised his shirt above his pants to show me his side. I saw he was bruised badly. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down to expose his shoulder and upper arm. He was bruised there as well. He pulled his shirt back up, buttoned it up and slid back down. He laid there on his mat looking me in my eyes.

I hurt for Chet; I didn’t know what to say. We lay there looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to say or what to do. His eyes looked like a dog that had been beaten by his master for something but didn’t know why. Ten-year-old boys shouldn’t have to deal with problems like this. A tear showed in Chet’s eye.

The bell rang and we were told to go back to our classroom. As I was rolling up my mat Chet leaned over and said, “Don’t tell anybody Kobe, promise.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Several days later I was pulled out of class and taken to the principal’s office. Waiting there was Mrs. Anderson, dad, Butch and Chet’s little brother, Alan.

Mrs. Anderson spoke first. “Alan tells me the reason he has bruises on his arms and back is that when he walks home from school The Grinkmeyer Gang has been beating on him. Mr. Grinkmeyer, The Grinkmeyer Gang is how some of the children referred to your two boys.”

“Boys, is this true, have you been hitting Alan?” Dad asked.

I didn’t know what to say, I knew we hadn’t hit Alan and I had a pretty good idea as to who had, but I made a promised to Chet and I intended to keep it.

“We never touched Alan, he walks home from school with us some days, but we never touched him,” Butch told Dad and Mrs. Anderson.

“Is that true Kobe?” Dad asked me.

“Dad, like Butch said we never touched Alan.”

“My boys said they never touched this boy, so as far as I’m concerned that’s the end of it,” Dad said to Mrs. Anderson in a stern voice.

“Alan, if these two boys didn’t hit you who did?” Mrs. Anderson asked Alan.

Alan was eight years old, he was confused, he was ashamed, and he was scared. He didn’t answer Mrs. Anderson; he stood looking at the floor.

“Alan, I ask your question who hit you.” Mrs. Anderson asked again.

Tears started to come to Alan eyes and he started to tremble. He wasn’t going to answer Mrs. Anderson’s question, he couldn’t. Alan knew if he did tell the beating that he had taken would be nothing compared to the beating he would get. As far as Alan was concerned it was The Grinkmeyer Gang that had done this to him.

“OK you boys can go back to your classrooms and Mr. Grinkmeyer I’m sorry that I ask you to come in,” said Mrs. Anderson.

I went back to Miss. Anderson’s classroom and wanted to tell Chet what had happened but before I could he was pulled out of the classroom.

That afternoon Chet and Alan walk home from school with Butch and me. Chet told us that he told Mrs. Anderson how he and Alan had gotten the bruises. He said he was afraid to go home, he was afraid of what is dad would do to him and Alan if he found out that he had told. He explained that Mrs. Anderson had assured him that she would turn it over to the proper authorities and he and Alan would be OK. Chet wasn’t convinced, both Chet and Alan were very scared of what might happen that night.

Chet and Alan weren’t in school the next day or the rest of the week. It wasn’t until the next Monday at Chet and Alan showed back up in school. As we lay on our mats, Chet told me that the police had come that night and put is dad in handcuffs and hauled him away in the back of a police car. He told me that his mother was real mad at the police and that she screamed and cried to leave him alone, that he had done nothing wrong. They all had gone to stay with Chet’s grandmother through the weekend and they didn’t know how long they would be able to stay in their house because if their dad stayed in jail they couldn’t pay their bills.

Chet was in school for about two more weeks and then he didn’t come back. I didn’t see Chet Lowmeyer again until I entered seventh-grade and went to Edison Junior High School. He told me that his parents had gotten a divorce and is dad had moved to Chicago and his mom had married another man, who didn’t hit him or Alan. Chet had new friends and I had new friends so we didn’t see much of each other.

At ten I knew why people hit each other when they got mad; I hit my brother and other kids. But at ten I couldn’t imagine why a dad would hit his sons.

What kind of man abuses his kids or allows them to be abused by anyone else? Can a kid or should a kid love a father who allows these kind of things happen? When the kid’s father is old and dying what kind of feeling should the kid feel for his father who allowed him to be abused? Where does a kid keep his feelings for the rest of his life?