CHAPTER 2 All Cats Are Girls, All Dogs Are Boys

The Polytechnic area of Fort Worth, Texas was something of a cross between a university neighborhood and an army camp. It was laid out with streets marked simply by an alphabetical designation. There were Avenues G, H, I, J, K, L, M and N just south of Texas Wesleyan College. No one seems to know what happened to avenues A through F or avenues O through Z. I lived on Avenue J from the end of World War II to Korea. If you want to be more precise about the time frame, it was between"The Hucklebuck" by Tommy Dorsey and "Rock Around The Clock" by Bill Haley and The Comets. Or for another point ov view, it was about the time of "Hound Dog" by Elvis. Somewhere prior to that time period I discovered that "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby could make me cry uncontrollably. I played it over and over on our old Philco 78 rpm record player trying to figure out why. It didn't take me long to figure out the rest of the world, simply by its behavior. I came to the conclusion early on for instance, that all cats were girls and all dogs were boys. For myself, I was an alley rat - a trash picker. From the ages of five through twelve, I could not resist a tempting trash can. I knew the alley ways and could spot a "treasure can" just by walking by it. It astounded the other kids. I would often find very expensive toys or most anything of value to trade to the other kids for other trash or sometimes money. I would always bring the "good stuff" home to my mother. They ranged from silk ties, ornate dishes, costume jewelry and clothes hangers to an inventory of other necessities. I was a good provider in my way, but I almost never checked our own trash. The other kids did that. Cokes came in bottles for a nickle. It was two cents for the bottle deposit but you always drank it in the store. They would stash the cokes in a freezer so that when you opened the bottle it would have little slivers of ice in it. A loaf of bread was nineteen cents, as was a pack of any brand of cigarettes.

There was a little belt-making shop on Rosedale street about four blocks away where they threw away scraps of leather. It was called the Tandy Leather Company which merged years later, with some kind of electronics store called The Radio Shack. I could never figure out how a belt and leather company would want to partner up with an electronics store. I used to pick up leather scraps there for free, to make lanyards for my Boy Scout projects. The Army Surplus store a few blocks in the other direction had a fantastic world of gadgets and goodies for a few cents. I would often buy tank periscopes for a quarter and body tents for a dime. They were smelly, vertical shrouds that had a clear plastic top. They were supposed to protect you from mustard gas. They were also great in a summer shower and you could play Spaceman in them We knew about space men already and these things were round and domed - like flying saucers.

There were some glorious days there as in any child's life. My friend Raymon and I used to create wild fantasies and play them out. One of those fantasies had us digging for treasure. On that particular day I was in "that" state of mind - the reverie that has no explanation. We grabbed some digging tools and I headed straight for a corner of the back yard. It seemed I knew exactly where to dig and indeed, I may have. About two feet below the ground we found a coffee can that had been buried for years. It was so rusty that it barely held together. Inside was someone's hoard of costume jewelry. With the exception of possibly one ring, it was junk. Absolutely priceless to any child.

My years on Avenue J were an introduction to life. There was always music on the neighborhood radios. Somewhere in those early years I discovered the thrill of hearing two radios in different houses playing the same station at the same time. It was astounding. It was a sort of binaural sound long before stereo became commonly known, since stereo was in the early stages of invention. The disc-jockeys of the time were referred to as "announcers" and they always had something to sell. I had become used to radio programs and of course, all presentations were live as far as I was concerned, including the musical performances. These ethereal radio personalities served as Masters Of Ceremonies for some of the most astounding assortments of bands and solo artists imaginable. At most any time you could hear Bob Wills, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw and The Light Crust Doughboys performing one after another on what I imagined must have been the most grandiose sound stages in the world. It was during one of these non-stop performances that I was changing stations on the dial and heard the "This Old House" by Rosemary Clooney playing on two different stations at the same time. The song was the same on both stations but the lyrics and orchestration weren't even close to matching. It was impossible! She couldn't be in two places at once! With some considerable explanation from my mother, I realized I had been duped. These announcers were playing records and pretending!

There was another kind of song in the air as well. It was made up of neighborhood voices, birds and rustling leaves. There were barking dogs and the bell-like sound of emergency brake cables bouncing against the exhaust pipes of 1948 Buick sedans. The 1949 Mercury had the same problem occasionally, but the bell sound was deeper and usually accompanied by the clatter of universal joints that had been without grease too long. The sidewalk from my house to Vaughn Boulevard two blocks away was a straight line. The overhanging trees made it almost a pipeline for sound. From the service station on that far corner would come the punctuating clang of tire tools and wrenches being dropped to the concrete. The city bus line was a half-block in the other direction on Bishop Street and the diesel engines laid down a central background chord for this non-stop jam session of sounds. It was with this musical accompaniment that I learned about Reading Writing and Arithmetic.

Education in those days was based on what you knew, rather than how well you could learn. For instance you had to KNOW the multiplication tables, not just be able to know how to use a calculator. You had to KNOW your history, rather than know how to find the information in a database or encyclopedia. Education in those days was a form of concrete that it was hoped, would solidify in your head. Elementary school was at first, a looming prison building into which I would dissapear and be eaten by some monster. With the help of little Jan Jackson I got past my horror and fear. Right up into the third grade I did fine. There, I became fascinated with airplanes and spent most of my time in the back corner of the room drawing pictures of what I thought would be the planes of the future. That unexplainable reverie visited and completely enfolded me for several weeks. I would do whatever was necessary to deal with my class work and go right back to my drawings. Whatever was happening to me with those pictures in 1949 was irresistible. Images of fantastic aircraft would appear in my mind almost as if it were a movie. I was compeled to draw them quickly, before the images were replaced by the next ones. There were long, sleek aircraft with delta wings and drooped noses like the Concord. There were stubby, engineless craft that resembled the space shuttles of today. I drew constantly, like a fiend possessed with a secret. Then came the Big Bust.

Mrs. Bratton had a very big bust. Other than that, she was built like a football player that had developed a face like a bulldog. She grabbed my collection of drawings and moved me to the front of the class so I could see her big bust and hear her growling lecture better. Lovely. I still drew pictures of the fantastic airplanes in my mind. It took her a while to realize that I was paying no attention to her at all. A note to my parents caused me to be sent to an optometrist for glasses and another doctor for a hearing examination. I got to keep my ears but the vision that had given rise to my drawings was taken away by a pair of glasses. Now I could see Mrs. Bratton much better. I wondered what her dog was like.

I learned to play the trumpet by ear and developed a great set of chops by the fifth grade. I could play the trumpet solo from Perez Prado's "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" verbatim, complete with pitch changes exactly as it was played on the radio. I could also play any bugle call I could hear on record or piano. I was like an idot-savant and my band teacher was a tortured soul because of it. She desperately wanted me to solo
"Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" in a concert for the parents, but knew I would find a way to screw it up. She was quite correct.

I was introduced to Bible Belt Christianity and was "saved" on my way to Sycamore Park one day. There was a Dangerous Looking Stranger in a Dangerous Looking Car parked under the Rosedale street overpass. It was known as a Very Dangerous Place in Poly. I was taking my time on my bicycle, enjoying the day. The man commanded me to come over and get in his car. I was scared out of my mind. I had heard the stories of boys being forced to do unspeakable things by strangers. Most of those stories were playing back in my mind. Being a good obedient kid, I complied. I was sure I would be chased, caught and really hurt if I didn't. Then too, the guy might know my parents and make up some kind of story about me. Some grown-ups did that. I feared and respected adults, but I had become street wise also. With my hand covering my open pocket knife, I approached his open door. He must have seen it. He asked a number of personal questions that no one has the right to ask a kid. He could tell I was ready to give him a lot of trouble. I was treated to a brief and very personal sermon. The dirty sonofabitch saw to it that I was in tears before he permitted me to go. I swore to myself never to be commanded like that again. More, I hated the fear that had brought the tears to my eyes. When I got to the pool, I swam sixteen laps non-stop. Only in exhaustion did I feel nearly innocent again, I never felt quite clean.

Our "parting shot" from elementary school at D. McRae required us graduating sixth-graders to make predictions about the future for our newsletter of 1954. The idea was to place the newsletter into a time capsule and come back later to find out how many of the student's predictions had come true. My two most memorable of those brought chuckles from the adults and ridicule from my peers. I predicted that the world would someday see electric pencil sharpeners. Further, I made the outrageous prediction that airplane-style seat belts would someday be in all cars. They were ridiculous ideas of course but I got a good grade on the project.

Directly across the street from the school was a little multi-purpose neighborhood store. It was the kind of place where beginning scholars could purchase Big Chief writing tablets or Fudgesicles for six cents depending on priorities. I was a frequenter of the ice cream freezer and penny-candy counter on many occasions. On one of my sorties into the school supply section a gentleman came up to ask if he could helpme find something. I must have seemed moonstruck because I recognized Dave Naugle immediately by his voice. He was one of the main announcers on KFJZ radio and a friend of the store owners. There was an illness in the family and he had come down to the store to help out. When I managed to speak, I explained to him that I needed a Big Chief tablet and a pencil but that if I bought the pencil I would only have four cents left over for a six-cent Fudgesicle. I also told him that I had recognized his voice from KFJZ. He smiled and told me that if I bought them both, he would give me a two-cent discount on the Fudgesicle. What a deal! I determined to never forget him for his favor. It was my first contact with the "other side" of radio. Many years later in 1983 I was blessed with the opportunity to remind him of the event.

My education in the methodology of every day living moved along considerably quicker than my courses in school. I became fascinated with mechanical things and often brought home discarded car parts for disassembly and inspection. The back yard was filled with fuel pumps, universal joints, radiator hoses and other junk. It was only allowed to stay long enough for me to figure out what it was and how it worked. I would do this using the same method of learning that a monkey uses. I was often covered with gasoline and grease.

I was introduced to Sunday School, Church, The Boy Scouts of America, street fighting, multiplication tables, cigarettes, dirty jokes and sex all at about the same time. I became acquainted if not proficient in them all, by the age of twelve.

King Harwell had a car. He was about five years older than I and was spoken of in awe on the streets of Poly. It was said he would fight at the drop a dime. His old tan Chevrolet sported Smitty mufflers and he wore his hair in greased-down duck-tails. In this day and age he would be regarded as "Bad". In that day and age he was even worse. It was during one of my own childhood street fights that we met. It was a passing amusement for him, it was a major event for me. One of the kids from my junior high school had insulted me as his bicycle passed mine on the way home. I decided to make a fight of it and we were drawing a crowd when "The King" drove up. He and his buddy watched the pokes and jabs for a while, then King stepped up to the circle. "Why don't you lay him out?" he asked me. I replied that I was doing what I could. He stepped over to the car and drew out a Bowie Knife about the size of a small baseball bat. "Here" he said. "Do it right". I replied that I didn't want to KILL the guy, just blacken his eye. King just kind of smiled, then he and his buddy left. End of fight.

William James Junior High School and I were having a bad influence on each other. I wore horseshoe taps on my shoes, a part of the orchid, pink and black uniforms of the day. I thrived on the stories from the bigger kids, about a local nightspot called The Cellar and stories about the Tenth Street Gang and the Seventh Street Gang. It was the era of the Beatnick which had arrived about the same time as the music of The Clovers, The Diamonds and Elvis. The Dirty Bop was known as the Poly Drag in that area. I figured I was about four years behind what was going on. Gasoline was 19.9 cents per gallon and the service stations would wash your windshield, check your tires and battery, fill your radiator and check the oil before they asked you how much gas you wanted. A cheeseburger, fries and malt were eighty nine cents. I spent most of my waking hours trying to figure out how to get a car, how to get a girl in that car, and how to get that girl to hold still for what I had in mind to do in that car.

In one of my lanky strolls down the halls of William James Junior High I encountered a young lady my own age that I regarded as particularly cute. It was the end of the school day and she was on her way out with a friend. I figured I was cool and experienced enough to at least make a pass, even though we had never been introduced. As we met in the hall I moved closer to her and extended my left hand to snap my fingers before her in the accepted Beatnick fashion. The idea was that she would respond immediately to her new master and follow me everywhere, like a puppy. I suppose all my physical grace must have been oriented to street fighting. I miscalculated ever so slightly and slipped on my horseshoe taps just far enough to touch her in a very private area when I snapped my fingers. No Master was I - the bounds of personal dignity had definitely been breached. There followed several long interrogations with the Vice Principal. They were not counseling sessions by any means.

I began to get into more fights on the streets and even at my Boy Scout meetings. A few neighborhood teen-agers on motorbikes would get their kicks by harassing our troop. It became a problem, and I became a hero at the encouragement of my father who was forced to watch an encounter between myself and Bill Burgess. Bill Burgess was a couple of years older than I and had a reputation. He knew King Harwell, for instance. My father was forced to watch us discuss the options of having a fight while Bill flipped pebbles off his arm in my general direction. It was the same as saying "Go ahead. Knock this chip off my shoulder". There was no fight, and the drive home was very quiet. After a time, my father made his disgust with me very clear. My understanding was that I would either fight or loose face. Plus, I was to experience considerable personal pain in an area of my body that was becoming used to it. The Big Fight came at the next week's Boy Scout meeting and it wasn't between myself and Bill Burgess. One of his bigger friends came by on his Simplex motorbike for some solo rock-throwing at the building. It was Wesley Hargrove, the guy who had just enlisted in the Navy. He was due to leave in just a few days. He was not a bad guy really, just in the wrong place at the wrong time for the wrong reasons. I won the fight but I couldn't help but wonder if I would dare to get into a fight like that with fifty hostile Boy Scouts standing around. He had guts.

Our scout troop was broken up a few weeks later due to a scandal. One of the new kids had gone with the troop for one of the weekend campouts that for some reason, I had decided not to attend. Eve you see, was introduced to another kind of Original Sin many times over on that trip. The kid was gay - "queer" was the word used in those days - and became the central point of entertainment for the rest of the boys for two consecutive nights. Circumstantial and real evidence about smoking and school problems began to pile up and create worry with my parents. When you are an only child, those problems seem much more important to parents than they really are. The entire series of incidents eventually concluded with an announcement from my father that we were moving and that I would be attending a new school soon. Very soon.

Forest Oaks Junior High was just what some doctor somewhere must have ordered. It was new, unsullied and boring. I was almost immediately the object of intimidation in the school. This time it was from a teacher, the coach. I was to go out for Football or be given a failing grade in Physical Education. It was persecution of the most direct kind and would have drawn a lawsuit in these days. I decided to try to make the best of it. I even tried to excel, and I succeeded. I was first off the line in practice. I hit harder, bounced further and became oblivious to pain. My efforts gained me a starting lineup position as Right Guard in a "T" formation even though without my glasses, I could see no further than my wrist. I could block well but any kind of movement beyond my range of vision was mostly a blur. I had won out over a very good team mate for the right guard position, but it cost me a few minutes of consciousness. He attempted to kill me by strangling me me with a towel in the shower room. He jumped me from behind while I was coming out of the shower, looped a towel around my neck and jerked down tight. I passed out almost immediately. There was no fight this time, I went out like a light. He apologized for his bad sportsmanship when I came back to life. I thought it was damn nice of him to apologize. I lettered for three consecutive years of Junior High football and during that time I made exactly one tackle. One.