Part 1: The grasshopper And The Piss-Ant

The earliest time of my life I can remember is when we lived on Rosedale Street, out in the far east side of Fort Worth. This area of town was known as Stop Six. The name of the area came about from it being stop number 6 on the old Fort Worth to Dallas Interurban train. This doesn’t make much sense, though. The old Interurban ran north of Stop Six, up on Lancaster Street.

I don’t really remember too much of anything about Stop Six except for the immediate area around our house. There was a service station of some kind next door to the west, Boswell Nursery just to the east. Across Rosedale was Amanda Street, with a small shopping center on one corner. In that shopping center there was a barber shop, and the only reason I can remember that is because there was a shooting one night where the proprietor was shot in the wrist during a robbery. I also remember the huge twin power plants about 5 miles east of our house, known as the Handley power station. They were probably ten stories high and had a rather large neon “Reddy Kilowatt” on the side of one of the towers.

We had a nanny even though we weren’t rich. Her name was Hilda and she lived up on Amanda Street, in the projects. She was an older black woman, I would say at least in her sixties. She was a part of the family in a way, always around to watch my brother Jerry and I.

My parents weren’t prejudiced, although most white folks back then were. It was the age of civil rights and there was a lot of animosity between the races. I do remember my mom and dad saying “Nigger”, but I guess that was just the way of the times. They never showed any hostility towards blacks or Mexicans unless they were just plain useless. Later in life I would have this confirmed by the fact that both my parents had friends who were black and Mexican. They treated them just like anyone else.

They had a special word for blacks who made trouble or were hostile. They liked to refer to them as “Jiggaboos”, and illegal Mexicans they referred to as “Wetbacks”, which was in reference to them swimming across the Rio Grande to enter the country illegally.

The neighborhood was somewhat rough from what I can remember. In fact, every area I grew up in down in Texas was rough to one degree or another. Back in the 70’s most of the east side of Fort Worth was predominantly black, or as the folks back then called it, “Colored” When my twin brother and I were 5, we moved from Stop 6 to Poly, just up the road to the west. The Boswells had sold the property to an oil company, and the oil company in return tore the house down, cleared the property and stored their containers there. But moving to and living in Poly later on probably defined my personality and character more that anything else.

My parents were caretakers for old man Boswell, of the Boswell Nursery. He lived in the big house and my parents lived above the garage, rent free in return for their caretaking. Mr Boswell died sometime before I had any recollections of living in the apartment, so I would say probably about ‘67 or ‘68. Once Mr. Boswell passed away, we all moved into the big house owned by the Boswell family.

I very vaguely remember Lyman Boswell, the old man’s son, making many visits to our house. I don’t know how he and my parents came to know each other, but they were close friends. I am pretty sure that Lyman made sure our family was well taken care of, probably in gratitude of taking care of his dad.

The house we lived in was an older house, with a full-length front porch and an enclosed back, in the style of a Florida room. My family would spend many days and evenings on that back porch. We had no air conditioning, so the porch was a natural gathering place during the hot Texas summers. I can remember having small get-togethers at the house, with everyone congregating on the back porch . My dad would have a beer and would sit out there and make hot sauce, wearing rubber gloves to protect his hands from the heat of the Habenaro peppers he would cut. I can also remember the yard we had. It was rather large, especially in the back, with a field of Johnson grass at the very back which led to the train tracks a few hundred yards away.

My dad was a truck driver, working for Foremost Ice Cream and my mom was what is referred to now as a stay at home mom. Now, being good Texas boys, my brother and I would find nine ways to hell to create havoc around the house. We always knew somehow that whatever hell we raised would be punished by mom to some degree of harshness in the short term, but paid back ten-fold when daddy got home. As this story unfolds, keep in mind that what we consider child abuse nowadays was normal punishment in the 70’s down in Texas. To this day, Texas leads the nation in the carrying out of the death penalty, and I truly believe this is no coincidence. Punishment usually consisted of just being yelled at all the way up to the switch.

The switch is a simple device, created by God and used by mortals to instill fear in boys all across the Lonestar state and beyond. I’ve actually heard of “Switch Sightings” from as far away as West Virginia!

It was an ingenious invention by the Almighty, consisting of one very green thin branch from a bush or tree, thinner than a pencil and as long as a yardstick. It was very flexible, which in the world of physics means the design ensures maximum velocity at the point of impact. It whistled as it approached your ass, giving you a nanosecond of warning before the blinding pain let you know that God really does believe in “An eye for and eye…”.

As a four year old, you want to show that you can carry adult responsibilities and perform tasks that would prove your worthiness to your parents. I don’t remember too much of any responsibilities I may have had at that age, but there was one task that I was very fond of, and that was getting the mail from the mailman at the end of the driveway. I relished performing this task, to the point of being obsessive-compulsive. I would use the position of the midday sun as my clock,, kinda like the Romans, and would dutifully go to the driveway and await the postman. Day after day I was the “Sentinel of the Driveway”. And yes, I will take credit for being the creator of OCD.

One day while playing out back in the scorching hot Texas sun, my brother and I were finding new ways to wreak havoc on our little corner of Stop Six when I realized that it was past time, according to my sun-clock, to pick up the mail. Now, mom usually would yell for me to let me know that the mailman was coming up the driveway so I could meet him and get my daily parcels. It was a ritual as time-honored as the Holy Communion.

As I walked to a good vantage point in the back yard where I was able to see the driveway, I froze dead in my tracks: The mail truck was already turned around and headed back towards Rosedale.

I ran to the front of the house, checked the box only to find it empty, and then went inside. I must have had quite a look on my face, because the first thing out of mom’s mouth was, “Honey, I yelled for you but you didn’t answer”.

What happened next will be embedded in my mind until the day that I die.

As I welled up in tears, I blurted out “You Piss-ant!” This was a favorite expression of my mom’s, a derogatory phrase usually used in place of ‘You sonofabitch’.

As the words left my mouth I realized that I was in some deep shit, another one of my moms favorite expressions. At least I didn’t compound my predicament by blurting that out too.

Now, the best way to finish this story is to tell it from my brothers point of view.

According to Jerry, he was by now on the back porch playing when he heard my blunder. He immediately heard the front screen door fly open as my mom yelled “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

In a about ten seconds he observed me running around the back side of the house, with my mom about fifty paces behind me. As I left his field of view, my mom would go by. About another thirty seconds and here I came again. Then mom. Terry, mom, Terry, mom, etc. This went on for about ten laps or so until it was just me, no more mom. Although she was no longer behind me, I kept making laps. For Christ’s sake, I was running for my life!

In the grand scheme of life, the old saying is oh so true. Age and wisdom will always overcome youth and treachery.

Mom knew she couldn’t keep pace with me for long because of her advanced age (She was in her forties), but she also knew that I had to eat sometime. I eventually broke down and, hoping she had cooled down enough to discuss this issue like an adult, went in the house.

Now, remember the way cool invention by God designed to instill fear and blinding pain? Well, the Almighty watched on, pleased with his creation, as it was put to good use.

When daddy got home at about 5:30, not a word was said. Either my mom felt that my punishment was enough or she wanted me to be able to sit down at dinner for the next few weeks. Either way, I felt lucky and relieved.

That was the last time I ever called my mom a piss-ant, or anything else for that matter. She gained my respect that day, and I knew that I was on a short leash with my tongue. But my mouth, even though it wouldn’t be directed at her, would rise up and spew forth other problems. The switch would also be right there to right the wrong…