Kirkpatrick The Prodigal Patriot

A Memoir
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-0983-1601-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 363 Seiten

Casualties of war come in many forms. During the Vietnam War, our servicemen and women left the battlefield and returned home to a new, horrific suffering. 'The Prodigal Patriot' is the true story of a young man, Jim Kirkpatrick, who never saw combat. While trying to perform his duties as a lower-ranking Airman, Jim was keeping his eye on the war raging in Vietnam, and it was making him crazy.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kirkpatrick, James

Leseproben

I. “Down by the station early in the morning, seven little puffer bellies all in a row.” The first memories I have are of the house on the hill in Ventura, California, just north of Los Angeles. I must have been around 4 or 5 years old then, I guess. Just a little guy. Happy for the most part. It was a rental house, kind of small and shabby as I remember. It was probably built in the twenties, maybe earlier. It seemed a little run down, even then. Drafty and cold, and kind of scary. Memories of my life before that have faded over time, but some have remained, like riding on a train with my mother to where I haven’t the foggiest idea, being sick with Rheumatic Fever and crying for days, playing in the dirt with the little girl next door. My mother always liked to tell the story of my first girlfriend named Candy, who lived next door. Although most memories of my life before the house on the hill have faded, some are as vivid as if they happened yesterday, like riding in my Dads 40 Ford Coupe. Standing up in the front seat, sometimes sitting on his lap steering as we drove through town. I remember sitting on the floor in front of one of those giant wooden cabinet radios listening intently to radio shows like The Green Door, The Lone Ranger, Amos and Andy, The Shadow. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” “The Shadow knows.” My mother told me that Country music was always playing on that radio, and that I had my favorite songs. She said whenever “Mule Train” by Frankie Lane would come on, I would run to the radio to dance and sing along... Mule Traaaaaaaaaaain, Hya!!! Clippity Cloppin aaalong...” I believe my earliest fears cultivated in that old house on the hill. I vividly remember there was an access hole in the kitchen that led under the raised foundation of the house. It allowed access to the plumbing, etc. My dad, in his infinite wisdom, told me not to open that door, because there were “Puffer Bellies” in there that would get me. What is a Puffer Belly, you ask? There used to be a song called “Down by the Station.” In the song, there was a verse that went, “Down by the station early in the morning, see the little Puffer Bellies all in a row.” I had always imagined them as happy little potbellied cherub-like creatures running around spreading cheer like Santa’s elves. I asked my Dad, “What’s a Puffer Belly?” He said, “They’re little dwarf-like characters with long fingers, sharp teeth, and little potbellies from eating little boys when they are bad.” I think that was my first real “Holy Shit” moment. Not only did I never open that door, I didn’t go in the kitchen unless it was necessary. My Dad thought it was amusing that I was so scared of that kitchen. At night I would lay there in bed wondering if those damn Puffer Bellies came out at night, looking for little boys to eat. So I spent a lot of time outside that little house on the hill. Away from those childhood fears. Where I could run and jump and play my cares away. When I say “The House on the Hill,” I should say, “The House at the Bottom of the Hill,” because there was just a short elevation from the street to the house, and then the hill became much more elevated as it moved upwards from the back of the house. There was an old barn up towards the top of that hill, all grown up with weeds. There was a big scary looking door on that barn, but I was always afraid of what I might find if I opened it. Spiders? Snakes? Puffer Bellies? I spent an awful lot of time on that hill. Up and down, running, walking, and riding on any number of contraptions. First, it was a piece of cardboard. Drag it up, ride it down, drag it up, ride it down. Until I wore the inevitable hole and had to search for another piece of cardboard. It wasn’t long before it became evident that I needed to find a more durable material for the trip down that old hill. I tried a piece of plywood but soon found that to be too dangerous with splinters and such. An old piece of sheet metal worked great until my mother came running out, shouting for me to “Stop that right now!” Before I cut my head off with flying sheet metal, I suppose. I thought about a wagon but didn’t have one. I tried to befriend the neighbor kid in hopes of using his wagon, but he took one look at that hill and said, “No Way.” Eventually, my Dad built me a swell little racer to ride down that hill on. It was kind of a hillbilly version of a soapbox racer. It was just a piece of plywood with wheels, an old tractor seat, ropes attached to each front wheel which moved on a pivot point on the front end for steering, and a wood crate on the front. It even had brakes. It had a side handle positioned, so if you pulled up on it, one end would drag the ground and slow you down. My dad painted a big black five right on top. To this day, ask me to pick a number, and I’ll say “5” every time. Man, what a sweet buggy that was. I must have drug that thing up that hill 500 times. There I go with the 5’s again. There also was a huge walnut tree in the yard with a tire swing hanging from one of its branches. I spent many a day swinging in that old swing. The cool part was that you could twist the rope one way, then swing and spin at the same time. I was always looking up the rope to see where it tied to a big heavy branch—never worried whether it would hold or not. Just swing, like there was no tomorrow. I remember a little green lizard that my mother bought me at the pet store. I remember making all the usual “I’ll take care of it and eat my spinach” promises if she would only just please buy me that green lizard. I worked her hard until she finally gave in. I loved that lizard. I kept it in a big glass jar with holes poked in the top and all kinds of fresh branches in there where he could cling and hide. I fed him fish food, which he loved, and the occasional fly that I would find lying on the windowsill. He would run over to where the fly had landed and stood there with his head up high, looking around all cocky like whipping his tail back and forth before he devoured it. I kept all my promises to feed and care for my green lizard—all but one. Never leave your lizard in a jar on the windowsill with the hot sun shining in. My mother and I had a burial ceremony for that little green lizard under the cool shade of that old walnut tree. It’s the first time I ever heard my mother pray. “Dear God, please take care of Jimmy’s little green lizard… Amen.” We had chickens and rabbits in the back yard, and it seemed like there was always some varmint after the young ones. In the spring, there were newborn chicks and bunnies to worry about, because there was always some kind of predator lurking in the shadows. Raccoons, possums, coyotes, skunks, wildcats. Even dogs and alley cats would try to get in to get those babies. Dad was always on the lookout, and always ready to shoot anything he caught trying to get a free meal. Not to mention the rats and mice that were always getting into the feed. When I got older, it was my job keeping these predators at bay-- usually with a pellet gun lying handily by the back door. Then there was that earthquake at about 3 in the morning. I woke up to my bed, shaking and moving across the floor. In the approximately 60 seconds of shaking, that bed moved from one wall across the room to the other. It scared me to death. By the time my mother came into my room, I was hysterical. I thought it was the end of the world. Up until that time, I had never even heard the word earthquake. It knocked out power, and I remember sitting in that damn kitchen with the gas stove on and the oven door open for warmth, and sitting there in the dark with those retched little puffer Bellies just behind that door. Quite possibly, the most frightening night of my life. At least up until that point. Some 20 years later, I was passing through that area on my way to a Yosemite vacation, and I stopped to see if the old house was still there. My Mother had remembered the address, and after some searching, indeed, it was still there. It had an addition and some different landscaping and a paved driveway now, but it was still there. I found it quite amazing how much a hill can shrink in 25 years. And the walnut tree and the swing both were gone. I sat in my car across the street and watched for a while, remembering those early days. My wife, Kay, slept in the seat next to me, as I stared blankly at that old house. Suddenly I realized that I was sitting in the very spot where I once was confronted by a passing motorist. I had, for whatever reason, found it entertaining to throw a rock at his moving car, when he suddenly stopped and backed up to face me. “Why did you throw a rock at me?” He asked. The first thing I noticed about him was that he didn’t appear to be angry, but instead was grinning a kind of sinister grin that chilled my young heart. I was so terrified at that moment I was afraid to move or answer him. I just stood there, looking at that man with the evil grin. He stared at me, grinning for what seemed like forever, then finally said, “I’m the devil, and if I hear about you throwing any more rocks at cars, I’m going to come back and eat you.” My throwing rocks at car days were officially over. It also came to me at that moment how I had first met my older half-sister Glenda, my dad’s daughter by...