Life at 9

I have to apologize for my first breakage of our implied contract, reader-o-mine. The events I am about to describe happened in June, one month before I turned 9, but they were such vivid and detailed memories that I wanted to maintain some sort of symmetry with the length of the preceding chapters (Symmetry has always been a major esthetic influence in my life and writing; it is sort of an OCD manifestation but harmless enough. Makes me a GREAT editor, something most of my fellow writers detest and avoid at all costs). 
At the end of my 3^rd grade school year, I was told that we were going to take a trip to Northern California to visit my Uncle Harry and his daughter, my cousin Jeri. She had been diagnosed with leukemia some time before, and I later inferred that Harry had called saying we should maybe come say our goodbyes. A few weeks later, Dad bought a 1960 Chevy Impala. it was loaded up, and the Miller clan, plus one – Lorena also came with us - began what was to be a singular and calamity-filled trip.

My Dad did almost all of the driving (crucial detail for later), my Mom and Liz sat beside him in front, Lorena, Maw-Maw and I occupied the back. No A/C. Sweltering heat. We took off sometime in the afternoon, not because that was optimal, but because of the adult’s inability to organize themselves to get going earlier. That Keystone Kops epic finally settled, we headed west out of Fort Smith across the Arkansas River Bridge. I suppose the plan was to drive through the night, with my Dad and his Mom Lorena sharing the driving. It should be noted at this point that my Mom Janet, had never, did not, and was to never, learn to drive, so she was unable to give breaks. Maw Maw at this point in her life with deteriorating vision was just downright scary. In all, a disaster waiting to happen. Which it did, minus any great bodily injury. The Impala, seemingly a good reliable vehicle, began to rebel almost immediately, belching black smoke. Dad pulled over in one of the small towns on Route 66 (hard to imagine, but the

Interstate 40 highway was not even close to being complete in 1967, so most of the trip was on the now decommissioned auxiliary highway) and got the bad news – the car was burning oil at a rapid rate. In those days, gas stations sold what was known as “bulk oil” which I’m sure was code for “you sure you want to put THIS into your engine?” and thrifty Toby scooped up a case after refilling the reservoir. This began a herky, jerky process wherein every 30-40 miles he would have to stop, put 2-3 quarts in, and then repeat the process until the next station and the next case of bulk. 

The next crossroad came when the generator, that balky precrsor to the much-more reliable alternator, began to fritz out. In the dark of night, somewhere between Flagstaff AZ and God-Knows-Where, it went out completely. No lights of any kind, no emergency flashers. Dad of course pulled over to the shoulder, but it was narrow and as 18-wheelers came rushing up they were just inches away from our stalled car. This scary situation went on for what seemed like hours before he was able to flag someone down who took pity on us and went out of their way to take us in two shifts back to the outskirts of Flagstaff, where we spent the night and most of the next day in a hotel waiting for the car, which had presumably been towed in, to be repaired.

This accomplished, we started again late that next afternoon, but by the time we reached Barstow, California the same problem began to exert itself again. Dad alternated between silence and rage, though of course there was no one to blame but himself for buying a lemon used car (I was to learn much later that the major American car manufacturers of that era engaged in deliberate planned obsolescence, using inferior parts to build cars that were destined to fail prematurely, in the hope of driving consumers to keep the new car buying pump primed). Somehow, with fitful stops and starts, late that night we limped into Uncle Harry’s home in Lodi just north of Fresno.

Uncle Harry had an interesting back story, as do many of the people who inhabit my history, and this would be an appropriate time to expound. He was just reaching adulthood when America entered World War 2, and unlike his older brother James who joined the Army he attached to the Navy. He was in Japan as part of the occupation force for a year before leaving the service, but instead of returning to Alma stayed in California. Within a few years, he had joined the California Highway Patrol as an officer (the famous CHIP’s) sometimes on motorcycle, at others in patrol cars. It was during one such shift in the latter that his story became compelling.

Officer Harry Miller, C.H.I.P.

What I am about to relate was told to me by my father, initially sometime in the early 80’s, and was rehashed during subsequent conversations over the years. The information was given to my Dad by Harry during phone conversations that began over 20 years after the original event. So, you the reader can decide on your own what to make of it, what to believe and what not, I am just the messenger. But if you ask me, I have no reason to doubt it. Except for the fact that it violates reason and all known laws of physics.

One night in 1959, my Uncle and his partner were patrolling a state highway in Northern California. They came up on a dark car parked on the side of the road, no lights to be seen in an area where the road could be seen for miles each direction. They parked behind it and approached as per protocol one on each side. When Harry reached the rolled-up passenger window, shining his flashlight into it, the light did not penetrate (this was a decade before dark window tinting was produced). The window began to roll down and Harry’s beam illuminated the passengers. 4 men, two in back two in front dressed in identical black suits, gazing forward and, improbably, all wearing sunglasses.

(OK, I know YOU know where this might be going, but please indulge me and continue)

By now Harry’s partner is agitated, starting to yell at the passenger side occupant to “ROLL THE FUCKING WINDOW DOWN!” Harry is frozen at the unreal sight in front of him. The driver turns his head and looks Harry in the eyes through his dark tinted glasses as Harry’s flashlight scans over all four men. The man’s neutral expression changes and he smiles at my Uncle.

And then the men, and their car disappear. All that’s left on the dark deserted highway are two cops, one flashlight beam. It wasn’t long before their screaming began to fill up the otherwise silent landscape.

After coming back from the shock of seeing their world disintegrate in front of their eyes, they agreed that there would be no way to explain it, and indeed they themselves would be targets of mental health evaluations. So they tried to forget, and for Harry it worked, but not so much for his partner, who ended up being committed to the state mental hospital, from which he never was released.

Fast forward to the early 70’s. Harry has long since quit the force, divorced, then remarried and is living in a newer house than the one we visited in 1967. This house, which I was to stay at for several days in 1977, had a den at the front. On this night in question, Uncle Harry was sitting in a recliner after dinner, reading a newspaper. His wife Mary was washing dishes in the kitchen. Without any warning, the man in black last seen in the driver's seat of the disappearing car a decade prior came into his den – through the closed door as if it didn’t exist - saying “Hello Harry, we need to talk”.

And that’s where the information that Harry gave my Dad ended. He would only further say that “I’m not scared anymore” and that there was a reason and plan that made his encounter with the MIB’s not an accident. Dad kept trying over the years to get him to divulge more, which he would not. In a conversation with Mary at some point, he did get an indirect epilogue to the incredible story. From the early 70’s on, Harry, who had never angled before, started making trips to Northern Canada to ostensibly go fishing, trips that lasted two weeks. Mary herself was perplexed by this, but she could get no more info out of her husband than my Dad did. After Harry retired, he spent a great deal of time and money helping the homeless and alcohol addicts in his town, and was the driving force behind the creation of a day center for these less fortunate, later managing the charitable enterprise. Though my curiosity was insanely piqued by learning of all this, I had not spoken with Harry since the late 70’s and regrettably before I mustered the resolve to reestablish contact with him, he passed away in 2008.

My 9 year old mind could not have comprehended the paranormalities that my Uncle was already holding within himself, nor the mind-boggling events to come. Harry was simply to me the fulfillment of what our family COULD be: a stable, successful non-emotional and kind person. So that week in Northern California was an enjoyable one and, as it turned out, was to be the last family vacation that these Millers ever took. This drove me when I became a father to make trips a priority, and though money was at times tight when my children were younger, we always took one substantial vacation every year.

Poor Jeri was bed-ridden, I felt great sympathy for her plight and did my best to cheer her up, but there was little spark of life left even then. I say this because amazingly Jeri would live almost 7 years more before mercifully passing. The Impala was in the shop the entire week, and from my understanding the mechanic finally gave up trying to fix the problem and dictated that it needed a new engine. Whoosh – several hundred unexpected dollars flew out the window. Loaded up once again, we began the return trip, which didn’t last more than a few hundred miles before the water pump failed. Another highway stranding, more kind Samaritans rescuing us, another night in a motel. The journey was nearing its end a few days later when Dad, who had been driving forever, was exhausted and turned the wheel over to Lorena before passing out. I remember clearly being in Oklahoma City around midnight, which was 3 hours away from home and Lorena asked me which way she should go. I was flattered and totally unprepared for the request which I answered by telling her to go left. Then I went to sleep, not knowing that “left” took us north to Kansas, but when Dad awoke hours later his cursing let us know that the cherry had been placed on top of the messed-up sundae that our trip had become, and it would be yet another 5 hours after that before we finally limped across the finish line.

August 17^th brought the newest member of our clan, James Henry, into the world. He was named first for the afore-mentioned eldest son of Ida’s James, and middle for her brother Henry, whom had died the year prior and of whom my Mom was very fond of. The tragedy of James’ death was one that had hung over the family for as long as I could remember. Tracking back to 1958, I was two weeks old, and was ensconced in a small frame house in Alma with Dad, Mom, and Maw-Maw, along with James, his wife Ellen and their children Patsy and Robert.

James and Ellen 1958

Sardine-like it apparently was, I never had the full explanation as to why so many were sharing the same living space, but can guess that money woes were the prime reason. On this summer afternoon, James and Ellen with some friends had gone to a creek to swim (this was in the age where in impoverished Arkansas public or private swimming pools were virtually non-existent). Ellen became distressed, was pulled under by a current, and my Uncle James dove in to save her. He pulled her to the bank, and while the others attended to her, they didn’t see him collapse and fall back into the water. He drowned before they could reach him.

My uncle was such a respected and well-known man in Alma the town stopped business during the afternoon of the funeral to pay respects. Ida never recovered from the death of her eldest, and apparently favorite child. His picture from the war in uniform always adorned a central place on our wall, and she spoke with great emotion whenever he was the subject. From the time of James Henry’s birth, Dad insisted that he was the reincarnation of his brother. 50 years later, my brother has earned similar respect in his community, has raised a son and daughter, served in the Army, and lived all his other years in Arkansas. Symmetry over multiple lifetimes?

This was my 4^th grade year, and though school remained quite easy for me to excel at, the social game was still problematic. What saved me from feeling more outcast than I otherwise would have was that at Belle Point, softball was a quasi-religion, as every good weather day saw us playing at recess in the morning, during the remainder of lunch break, and in the afternoon. The game only required competence, not social skills – unlike the girls who were confined to the see-saw and monkey bar quarter of the yard -and since I was capable of hitting and catching adequately, I was always chosen somewhere in the middle of the pack and was relieved from the pressure of finding my place in the schoolyard pecking order.

It was not more than a few months forward from James Henry’s birth that another bulge appeared in Mom’s midsection – she was pregnant again! Though the money from her inheritance had made hunger just a bad memory, the job situation had not improved for Dad and so things began to get tight again. The fights continued, even escalated, and I have to give credit to Ida for her steadiness in keeping Liz and me from feeling that the world was crumbling beneath our feet. One particularly bad event saw Mom lock herself into the bathroom, and Dad ripping the door off its hinges. In retrospect, it was 2 people equally incapable of bearing the responsibility for what they had, and were continuing to, create. At 9 however, there was no understanding, only pain. It became a relief when Dad would disappear for days though the payback Mom had ready for him when he finally did come back just poured gasoline onto smoldering flames.

One profound event I remember in March 1968 was a fierce violent storm that turned the day into pitch

black darkness. I had stayed home sick from school and was playing on the porch with Liz when insanely huge lightning bolts began to strike around us, and I heard what sounded like a howling train above us. That mass was indeed a tornado that, while missing us, struck a few miles south in the town of Greenwood, making a shambles of it and killing 13 people. It was another of my early glimpses of our fragile mortality and while dramatic had none of the personal sting that was to occur a few months later in June. It was Lorena’s birthday, and Dad had picked her up to go with us to a buffet restaurant. What I wasn’t able to understand until later was that Lorena was malnourished, being in the days before plentiful food stamps and other public support, and her pride kept her from calling her mother Ida or her biological son Toby for help. So like any starving person, she ate far more than her system could handle. She was later taken from her apartment to the hospital with nausea, which strained her already-weak heart, and she died of cardiac arrest. I still have the image burnt into my mind of Dad getting the call from the hospital, and turning into a heaving wreck when told the news.

A few weeks later, I was told that once again we were relocating, and the usual whirlwind of insanity ensued before we ended up just 8 blocks away at 618 S. 20^th. But this was a positive move for two reasons – it had a fenced yard and 3 bedrooms, which allowed me for the first time my own space. The house had been freshly painted, and from all respects this seemed like a new beginning. Baby James Henry (or, the Beaver as we called him for his propensity to gnaw on the slats upon his crib while teething) in my parent’s bedroom, Liz and Maw-Maw in the middle bedroom, and me in my own bed in the back. It was my first taste of perspective away from the ever-present pressure of conversation and bickering that hallmarked daily Miller life, and it was no coincidence that my love affair with reading dovetailed with having the separate leisure time to do it. As a bonus, the change of scenery seemed to have placed a cap on the tensions between Dad and Mom so daily life, at least for that moment in time, was free of flying dishes or holes punched in walls

The two tragic assassinations of MLK and RFK in April and June respectively dominated the emotional landscape in this latter part of Life at 9. I had begun to get a political sense of the world, and to understand the symbolic significance of their lives and deaths.I recall the profound sense of sadness I felt while watching the story unfold on television. I can point to this period of time as being the end of my innocence. If I couldn't trust adults to keep the world sane, either in my micro life or in the macro world, thn I only had myself to rely upon, and that was a scary realization indeed.

This picture of Ida, Liz and me was taken in the backyard of this rental house. You can see how my body had continued to swell under the barrage of cheap carbohydrates that I had by now become addicted to. You can also see the rapid aging of Ida in her face. Though only 65 then, she looked in her 80’s. The physical demands of life growing up in the badlands of eastern Oklahoma territory is inconceivable to us in 2013, but they were profound and real. But as her life ebbed, mine began to swell, both literally and figuratively. As my 10^th birthday neared I was perhaps, except for that magical 5^th year in California, the most content with the world I had ever been. And Yin would turn to Yang.