1971 . . . ish . . .
Let's first get something straight . . . I was not . . . NOT a bully . . . way too timid to outright challenge anyone.
When I was a kid, my dad taught me a great number of things . . . one of his lessons was that I should NEVER be the one to start a fight, but should I be involved in one, I'd best learn to be the one who threw the last punch. There were also few things worth fighting for . . . if I could walk away, then walk away I should . . . but he also taught me to stand up for those who could not stand up for themselves.
I was, in those days, bigger than most of my peers . . . I grew at an alarming rate if you compared my growth to the typical charts . . . so I didn't fear many.
There were tons of kids on the base . . . seems those Navy parents had nothing better to do when the dads (not a lot of women were in active duty when I was a kid . . . different time) were home on leave . . . so there was never a shortage of playmates . . . or rivals. In the short time kids were assigned to bases, hierarchy was usually established by how tough you were . . . not necessarily what rank your dad held . . . officers' kids were subject to the same rules as enlisted men's kids . . . and few kids were tattletales . . . we solved our own issues most of the time. Needless to say, there were kids at the top of the heap . . . and some who got their clocks cleaned on a regular basis.
Several kids in our court (a small section of housing was generally referred to as a court in the "New Base Housing" as opposed to a street in "Old Base Housing" since our areas ended in cul-de-sacs) became the neighborhood runts. One family had 3 kids that NOBODY wanted around . . . I tried to get along with them . . . but after they broke into our playhouse and stole some of mine and my sister's belongings (her panda bear for one), they fell from grace with me too . . . they were just bad kids . . . in all fairness, I believe they were abused by their mom . . . she was not a nice woman!
Anyway, there were two boys that lived in our court that I felt very protective toward. One of them was pretty much locked out of his house for the entire day . . . poor kid even had to use the bathroom outside . . . I watched as he squatted to do his business underneath a truck one time. He never lived that one down. The other boy was disabled . . . I don't recall his disability, but he was "slow" compared to everyone else . . . in the 70's they called him "retarded" which is a horribly politically incorrect word today. I wish I could recall his name.
I remember few of the kids' names . . . Joey is a name I recall . . . but only because he made such an impression: he could turn his eyelids inside out, which grossed me out . . . AND he ate glue . . . Elmer's white glue.
Anyway, this little guy was picked on mercilessly. One day, there were 3 or 4 boys really giving him a rough time . . . pushing, shoving, kicking him . . . calling him terrible names. Someone who witnessed it decided they'd had enough and came to get me . . . knowing full well I'd stand up to the bullies. Not really thinking, I grabbed my pocket knife and headed for the brawl!
My pocket knife wasn't very big . . . nor was it very sharp . . . but I figured I'd need some kind of weapon to handle more than one boy!
I got there just in time to watch the boys push the kid, who was much smaller, to the ground, so I got between them . . . swinging my knife . . . figuring that would be enough to scare them off. All but one ran off, and the boy that stayed lunged at me. My knife grazed his hand . . . not enough to break the skin . . . but enough to leave a red streak across it. Realizing I was probably headed for trouble, I took off . . . ran for home . . . hid in my bedroom.
It wasn't long after the incident that my mother answered a knock on the door . . . to another mother with a boy in tow. The woman was livid . . . yelling at my mom for allowing me to have a knife . . . for raising such a dangerous child. My mother listened calmly as the woman finished her tirade . . . checked out the boy's hand which bore only a red streak . . . then called me downstairs. With the woman glaring at her, my mother quietly asked me to produce the knife and chastised me in front of the wounded kid. After she closed the door . . . I guess the woman felt confident I would be suitably punished . . . she asked for my side of the story . . . which I told with tears streaming down my face . . . that I was only protecting another boy.
She gave me a hug . . . assuring me that my heart was in the right place . . . but that my methods were questionable. She kept my knife as further testament that she did not approve of its use in settling a problem. I was sent to my room to "think about it," and I spent the remainder of the afternoon wondering what I'd really done wrong . . . hurt that I'd been punished . . . mad that I'd lost my favorite possession . . . indignant that I'd been scolded in front of that mother and her cruel son . . . in my mind I'd saved that little boy from further harm.
I'll tell you though . . . my little friend never had another problem . . . I made sure to keep an eye on him for the duration of our stay. I often wonder what happened to him. I also wonder what kind of men his tormentors grew up to be . . . maybe they turned out fine.
The incident didn't stop me from stepping in when called upon . . . sometimes all it took was for someone to say "I'm going to go get Yo!" which would end the foray . . . but it wouldn't be my last altercation with a bully . . . it was simply my last altercation with a weapon other than my fists . . . even if the other guy picked something up. I wound up . . . several times . . . on the receiving end of a stick, rock, or other makeshift weapon . . . a broomstick handle was involved in a separate incident . . . another story . . . for another day.
I was in my 40's when that story came up between me and Mom, and she got a funny look on her face . . . left the room. She came back with my knife . . . a tiny little rusted pocket knife that she'd kept for all those years . . . blade still dull. She told me I'd probably figured out that knives weren't meant to be used the way I had used it so many years ago.
This is an excerpt from a letter my Grandmother Cochran wrote to Papa during her visit in 1972 . . . where she referenced my proneness to find myself in some sort of altercation . . .
I find it funny that she wrote about the similarities between me and Aunt Paige . . . I've been called Paige nearly all my life . . . which, incidentally, I have always loved.
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