I'll be a monkeys uncle, or, my uncle had a monkey

To be truthful it wasn't a monkey, it was a baboon; a baboon! I don't know how he got his hands on one or if it was even legal, but he owned a stinking baboon. As I think back on it, my uncle (my dads older brother) and his wife were the kind of people who would own a animal like that. Of all my aunts and uncles these were the strangest. But that is the stuff of another story. Let's just say they knew how to 'use' the system; the tax system, the welfare system such that it was back then, and generally take advantage of or simply outright cheat people. All this monkey stuff takes place about 1965, when I was 7 or 8 years old. I remember going over to their house, they would tie the baboon up, as a 'courtesy' so we kids would feel safe. They would tie it up right at the door, if we were inside and wanted to go out or outside and wanted to go in, we were out of luck. I don't think the thing would have attacked us, but we were taking no chances. They thought it was funny; we kids hated going over there. One incident that sticks out in my mind occurred at my grandparents, my dads parents, house. I don't remember where my siblings were at the time, and I think my mom and grandma were in the kitchen. My dad and grandpa were probably working outside. I was sitting alone in the living room watching Gilligan's Island, I remember that very clearly. I don't remember be aware of the arrival of my aunt and uncle but while I was watching TV, that baboon walked into the living room. I froze, not wanting to do anything that would startle or antagonize it. To my horror that baboon walked right over to the couch where I was sitting, climbed up on the couch, then got right up and sat on my lap. I didn't know what to do, I was in panic mode, I was afraid to call for my mom or try to get up and leave so I just sat there. Not moving, hardly breathing, I sat there for what seemed a long time. I forgot all about the skipper and Gilligan. Then, as suddenly as he came, he jumped down and left the room. I waited a couple of minutes then quietly went to look for my mom. I needed the relative safety of adult company.
My aunt and uncle had a blind spot where it came to their pet baboon, they treated it like one of their children, which maybe explains why their kids were so screwed up. That baboon had the run of their house and property and even had priority over their kids. At least on one occasion the baboon bit their oldest son, maybe it was provoked, I don't know. But their son was the one who got into trouble over it. My uncle also owned eight or so hunting dogs, dogs he spent money for. My dad also had a couple hunting dogs so I know they were not cheap. On occasion, that baboon would single out one of those dogs and attack it. The dogs were mostly kept in pens but once in a while some or all of them would be out running around the property, it was a real mess with dog crap everywhere. One fateful day the dogs were all out and the baboon also being out and probably thinking he was king of the yard, jumped one of them. When the dog let out a yelp all the others came running to the fight. They knew what was up and I guess they had finally had enough, they all joined the fight and within minutes the baboon was dead. I guess it was pretty ugly. In a fit of rage, my uncle grabbed his shotgun and one by one killed all the dogs. Just like that, baboon gone, dogs gone. In their grief, my aunt and uncle took up their fallen family member and went to a pet cemetery to have a little ceremony and burial. Of course my aunt and uncle being who they were, ultimately refused to pay for the burial. I heard some years later that the owner of the cemetery, not having been paid, dug up the casket and threw the baboon remains in the river. Seems like a pretty mean thing to do to a river.

scared stiff

Fear is a natural human reaction, even a healthy one. I experience fear in different situations and on different levels. It keeps me on my toes. There is one particular climb I do at Devils Lake that just scares me spitless. I have climbed it 4 or 5 times, but about half-way up I am scared I'm going to fall. I haven't yet, and I know if I do, the equipment and my belay partner will keep me safe. They have on other routes where the rock has evicted me. But that one route just scares me. I am not experiencing terror, but it is fear on a certain level. I can't explain it.
When I was about 11 or 12 I developed an interest in snakes. I borrowed books from the school library and read about snakes and how to identify them. I knew there were only a couple of kinds of snakes where we lived that were venomous. If I was careful I could look for them. We were living in central Illinois, near a wooded area and the south fork of the Sangamon River. It was a perfect place to find snakes and other critters. One fine summer day I remember walking along the road to the bridge so I could cross over to the other side of the river. As I neared the bridge I noticed a snake off in the grass. I got a little closer to try to identify it but I could not tell what kind of snake it was. I couldn't see it's head or it's tail and it looked like a lot of snake. It was kind of knotted up and could have even been more that one snake. It looked muscular; it looked deadly. As I tried to get closer, I couldn't move. I was so scared, I was shaking. I could not move closer. I couldn't see the snakes head or tail, couldn't tell what kind of snake it was, couldn't really tell how long it was. I felt that if I moved any closer, it would bite me and I would die. I was terrified. I could see it moving, not much, maybe just breathing, but it was alive. I got out of there. A few days later I went back to see if I could find it but this time I was taking a long stick. I thought that if I could sneak up on it, I could use the stick to flick it up on the road to get a better look at it. When I got there, it was in the same place. It was knotted up it the grass and I still couldn't see head or tail and it looked just as big. As I approached with my stick I felt the same terror as before. Even with the stick, I couldn't move any closer. I was so afraid that as soon as I touched it, it would strike, that it's reaction would be instant and that it would not miss. I knew that I would die on the side of the road.
Over the next few days, it bothered me that I could not make myself flick that snake up on the road, I had to give it one more try. I had a terrible fascination with that snake and could not give up. I had to go back one more time, and I did go back. As I reached out with that stick I began shaking, I felt raw terror. I couldn't do it and never tried again. Now, my memory is not the best, but as I think back over the years and of the things that have scared me, I can't remember anything that has ever scared me as much as that snake.

dealing with bullies

It was the 1970-71 school year and I was in the 7th grade. I started that year at the juinor high school in Taylorville Illinois but at some point my family decided it was time to move. I am not sure if this move was before or after the Christmas break so I don't remember if it was 1970 or 1971, but the important thing here is that in the seventh grade I would be transfering to another school, this time mid-year.We were moving to Virden Illinois, which was not all that far, but it was another town and we knew absolutely no one. I remember the afternoon my parents took me into the school to get regestered and signed up for my classes, which I would be starting the next day. I was so angry with them for moving, and the idea of starting at another school, that on the ride home I was in tears and I remember taking the class list and ripping it up into little pieces and throwing them out the car window. That didn't help because the next day after the bus ride to school, I had to go back to the office and ask for another class list. I was the 'new kid' again and over the next few weeks when I was not being picked on I was being ignored. I was isolated in a school full of kids. I honestly can't remember a single persons name from that school, partly because I was not there that long, we only lived there for two or three months, and partly because I had not a single friend. I never got into any 'fights', but there was one bully and his two toadie friends that went out of their way to pick on me. I didn't like fighting but over the years have had more than my share, some I won and some not. My dad always told me if I ever ran away from a fight, he would kick my ass.
One day school was let out early but I had to stay around and wait for the school bus because we lived several miles outside of town. There happened to be a basketball game going on in the gymnasium so I went in to watch the game while I waited for the bus. The gym had those pull out bleachers and I walked up to the top row of seats to watch. There were only 20 or so people there, but after a few minutes the the bully and his two friends came in and sat down in the bleachers about half way up and a little to the right of where I was sitting. I tried to ignore them but I could see they kept looking back at me and whispering to each other. Suddenly there was a loud 'pop' right next to my head. The bully was using a large rubber band and shooting tightly folded pieces of paper at me. The first one struck the wall behind me but didn't miss by much. He was holding the rubber band over his shoulder and one of his friends was pulling and firing the paper projectiles, one every minute or so. They were doing this without turning around and looking at me but they were hitting very close to me. I tried to ignore this but I was getting angry, and after 3 or 4 misses one struck me in the face. I really stung and it didn't miss my eye by much. I sat rigid, almost shaking with anger. I remember thinking and telling myself that if they shot one more paper wad at me I would make them regret it. It only took a minute or so and another one popped right next to my head. Something inside me snapped, I stood up and casualy walked down to where they were sitting, stopping on the bleacher seat just behind the one they were sitting on. I can still see the bully turn his head, not looking straight at me but looking at me from the corner of his eye and smirking at me. Without really thinking about it, I drew back my right leg and kicked him in the left side of his head. I kicked him just above his left ear, not really hard, but hard enough that his head snapped. I had only hesitated there long enough to kick him, probably only 3 or 4 seconds, then continued on my way. Either no one noticed or no one cared, and the bully surely never told anyone about it because I was never called into the office or confronted by anyone in authority about it. That one act seemed to solve the bully problem, for the rest of my time there those three never as much as looked at me. Oh, and did I mention that I was wearing cowboy boots at the time. That had to hurt.

friends

During my teen years I did not have many friends. My family moved frequently and I didn't seem to stay at any one school long enough to make real friends. I was attending my second high school, and like the first, was relegated to the social outcast group. The dynamics of high school friendships are hard enough for those who have grown up together, but for those who come from outside that social structure, it's the kiss of death. It was at this time that I met Randy Troth. I actually met Randy through my mother, who as an adult had decided to take some night classes. We were living in Azusa California at the time and I was 17 years old; it was 1975. Randy was about a year older than me and was taking night classes because he had dropped out of high school and was taking this route to finish his degree. He met my mother there and she introduced him to me. We hit it off right away. For one thing, Randy had a car. It was a 1965 Chevy Nova that had seen better days, but it was a car. More important than that, Randy was a true friend. One of the best friends I have ever had. When summer came, we spent just about every day together, sometimes it was the beach, other times we would go into the mountains or out to the desert. Most of the time we just hung out at his house or mine, Randy lived only a couple of miles from me. After a few weeks Randy invited me to go to South Pasadena with him to visit some friends from his youth. I was introduced to Robert and Dennis (Bob and Denny) Bassler, brothers, and their cousin, Patrick (Pat) Swanson. That summer may be the best summer of my life. The five of us did just about everything together. Bob was a year older than me, Denny a year younger and Pat two years younger. Bob had a 1965 forest green Mustang that we punished that summer. We were also pretty hard on that Chevy Nova. Later I will have stories about some of the things we did that summer. The five of us were an interesting group; none of us had girlfriends, we all liked the same activities and food, none of us smoked or did drugs, and we all liked spending time together; two in one car and three in the other. Things were looking up for me, I had real friends, and Southern California was a veritable playground for five teenage guys. At the end of that summer my family moved to Central Illinois. I would be starting my senior year at my third high school.

how this all started

For years now, my daughters have loved to hear stories about my growing up years. Every once in a while I would dig up a story to entertain them; sometimes they would laugh. Other times they would give me this sidelong glance like they were not sure I was telling the truth. Growing up as I did, many odd things happened in our family and there are many funny and strange stories lurking in my past that want to escape. I have finally decided to share them. Some are funny, some odd, but all will be the truth as best as I can remember it. Where possible, I will contact members of my family and collaborate to capture the essence of those events. If I can keep up, I would like to post a story every week or so, in no particular order.