Adventures on Kingsley Street

                                                     “Meet my Family”

What was life like for a ten-year-old in 1964?

When you are only ten and living in a small town. Your entire world is your family, schoolmates, and neighborhood kids. That was it. No worries about wars, earthquakes, political bickering, or communism. Although our school did the best to scare us. We would have drills in case the Russians dropped an atom bomb. The teachers would have us hide under our desks. At ten, that seemed logical. Now, looking back, it was rather stupid. A school desk would not save us.

For a ten-year-old it was what am I going to do today, not tomorrow, next week. Just today. Especially if it was summer recess.

Now I can't speak for all ten-year-olds that year, but a lot of us shared the same world. Up in the morning, breakfast with my brothers, mom, and dad.

For dad it was off to work. My mother, like most in those days, had a full-time job, “Mother.” My poor mom had a job harder than even my father. She had three boys, all under fifteen. In one way she was fortunate. My middle brother John was the good son. He never was dirty, never got into any mischief and, of course, was Mom’s favorite. Don, the oldest, was just the opposite. Into everything. He loved building model planes and boats and then going out behind our garage and either blowing them up or pouring lighter fluid on them to watch them melt. Now you may think, what was the point? The point was he was fifteen, and it was 1964. A different world.

Me, I was the up-and-coming Don, but I would reach a much higher level by the time I reached fifteen.

Our mother used to tell Don and me when she was older, we caused all her gray hair. She emphasized “we” but was looking more at me than Don.

Now our father. The three of us were blessed to have someone who never forgot what it was like to be a kid. Grandma would tell us stories about him when he was growing up. Seems he had a tendency not to listen. Funny, but Don and I seemed to have inherited that problem.

That is my parents. I know you are dying to know more about my older brothers.

Don and John did not get along. Get along? That was an understatement. For whatever reason they were like oil and vinegar. I could write pages about just those two, but this is my story. Sorry brothers.

Let me explain about big brother Don. Johnny and him may be at their throats, but God help anyone that goes after Johnny or me.

Here is just one example. John and a friend were playing catch with a football in our backyard. The ball went over the fence into the neighbor’s backyard. The boy that lived there was Don’s age. He was a butthead. I am being polite when I use that word.

John asked him to throw the ball back. He came up to the fence and held the ball far enough away that John couldn't reach it. He called John some bad names and took the football with him into his house.

It was about then when Don walked into the backyard. John and his friend were sitting at our picnic table. Don asked what they were up to. John told him about Billie taking his football away.

Don went next door and rang the bell. When the Billie answered it, Don grabbed him by the throat and told him to get his brother’s football or he would beat the crap out of him. He gave Don the football.

One last story. Don was home watching television one afternoon when John came home with a couple of bruises on his face. Our mother was at the grocery store.

Don asked John what happened. He told him Mike, our neighbor four houses down, had punched him for interrupting him and his friends. Mike was a senior in high school. John was thirteen. Don looked at John and said, “No one hits my brother.”

I 'll remember what happened next until the day I die. Don marched down the street with me hot on his heels.

He went up to Mike’s front door and rang the bell. I stood back by the sidewalk, knowing something was going to happen. So, with a smirk on my face, I waited.

Mike opened the door. No sooner than that, Don yelled, “No one hits my kid brother and gets away with it.”

With that said Don punched him right in the nose.

“You ever touch my brother again. I will give you more than one punch.”

That was my big brother.

Alright, one more story about the “Battling Brothers.” My father came home from work like clockwork at exactly five thirty. A few minutes before dad was to come home, Don, and John got into an argument in the front yard. Mom was in the kitchen getting dinner ready.

The argument turned into a wrestling match on the front lawn. Being the little stinker that I was, I grabbed my bike and rode to the street corner waiting for dad. Sure enough, I see his Dodge Polara coming up to the corner. When he stopped for the stop sign. With his window open. I yelled, “Dad... Don and John are fighting.”

His face turned beet red. I jumped on my bike and raced behind him. I could not wait to see what was going to happen.

My dad wasn't a tall man, but he was very strong. When he pulled into the driveway, he was out of the car faster than superman. He grabbed both by their necks and pulled them apart.

By now, most of the neighbors were outside watching the Battling Brothers.

I am not sure if dad was angrier at them for fighting or them fighting on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.

He literally lifted both off the ground by their necks and marched them into the house.

It was one thing for the two to get into an argument in the house. The fighting on the lawn was another story.

Now, many fathers in those days may have taken a belt to them. Not our father. He had a unique form of discipline. It was the I am disappointed in you discipline.

You see, we grew up respecting our parents. There were times were one of us may have gotten a whack on the butt by dad’s hand. Disappointing mom or dad was by far the worse punishment.

I could tell from my experience which one was far worse.

Over the years, I have seen friends whose children do not respect them. I watched as they talk back or do not listen. They disciplined their children by sending them to their rooms, taking away television for a week, or grounding them. None of that worked.

Respect far outweighs discipline.

Let me finish with this about my two older brothers. Age and maturity have finally brought peace to the former “Battling Brothers.”

                               NEXT TIME: The Emergency Room.