by Mike Morris
My brother Leo and I tried out and started playing baseball. Leo was 9 and I was 7. My father must have passed on baseball ability to us, because we both just knew how to play. It was inborn. I was the youngest guy on my team, but I had a great arm and was quickest on the bases. Leo wasn’t on my team, and as far as I remember he could run faster than everybody but me.
Probably due to my speed and strong arm, I played center field. Because of my small stature, pitchers had a difficult time pitching to me, so I got on base a lot, and I stole a lot of bases. I loved baseball.
Before one of our games a few of us decided to take advantage of all the coral laying around and got into a coral rock fight. A piece of coral lodged in my head, right next to my eye socket and my mom rushed me to the doctor. He removed the piece of coral, stitched up the hole, and we went back to the scene of the crime – making it in time for the last inning. When the coach saw me, he put me in the field at shortstop. I was so excited. I had an indistinct recollection of the doctor telling my mom not to let me play, but I had never played the infield, so this wasn’t a time to be listening to a doctor, anyway. This was a big moment for me. Tragically, just as the first batter was coming up to the plate, my mom came running onto the field and dragged me off, yelling something about dirt and stitches.
15
Gone Astray
We left the southern tip of the East Coast and made our way north toward Maryland. As odd as it might sound, traveling north would take us into and through the “Deep South.” Somewhere in me, I knew I was a heathen. I am pretty sure it had something to do with Ma telling me that I was a Creek Indian. To reach Maryland, we had to pass through the “Bible Belt.” But that was okay because, we knew people. We had family all throughout the south. That sort of loosened the “Belt” a little. Anyway, most of us were born in the south. I was born in Alabama – the “Heart of Dixie.” I figured if I didn’t do anything vile and acted normal, nobody would know I was a heathen.
We stopped in Tennessee to visit family. Shortly after arriving at my Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mera’s home, I drifted off into the Tennessee woods looking for the gravesite of a dead dog named Jip. Jip had been my dog once – a mix: half-Chow and half-Wolf. Before our cross-country move west, we had given Jip to Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mera. Jip soon led a pack of dogs through the surrounding woods and chased all the milkmen, mailmen, and anyone else driving a truck away from my Aunt and Uncle’s property. Those frightened truck drivers started to retaliate and took aim at him with their trucks. The first time Jip was hit, he survived, but the second truck that hit Jip killed him.
Anyway, after wandering deep into the woods, and despite carefully having made miniscule mental notes on how to get back, as I traveled the return path, alarm turned to panic. Somehow the path about which I had made all the mental notes was no longer at hand. It was gone!
Well, in my panic, I headed down an uncharted path – a path leading to somewhere I had no intention of going. In my rattled condition I involuntarily concluded that if I ran, I would get there quicker; I began to run. And the more lost I became, the faster I ran.
I came to a clearing, and in the clearing was a decayed, raggedy shack and this derelict-looking, somewhat non-human appearing woodsman, who made me start thinking of Hansel and Gretel and stewing in some giant pot over a very hot pit which petrified the prudence plum out of me. Tears erupted, and I bolted in another unknown direction.
I finally came to someone’s backyard. Even though it had a lawn and looked somewhat civilized, I was afraid to go to the door, so I just walked around their backyard bawling. Eventually, a very nice lady came out and probably asked me what I was doing crying in her backyard. I don’t know what my explanation was, but she brought me into her house, gave me some milk and cookies, and laid me on a bed. In time, her husband began intensely questioning me. I spilled the beans. I told him everything I knew. I told him about Jip; I told him my parents’ names; I told him my name; I told him about Hansel and Gretel and the derelict woodsman; I told him all about my Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mera.
The problem was that I didn’t know my aunt and uncle’s last name. So, I described their house. Using some detective work, the very nice lady’s husband was able to figure out what neighborhood I was talking about, and knowing someone who lived in that neighborhood, he called them. It turned out that whomever he called correctly suspected one of their neighbors had out-of-town guests, who happened to be my family, and I was returned safely to my aunt and uncle’s. For many years, on arriving to visit any of my family, or on their arrival visiting us, or just reporting on some trip somewhere, one of the first topics of conversation surrounded the question, “So, did Doodle get lost!”
16
Temple Hills
For some parts of my life, I must have been in something resembling a coma. Such as, I don’t remember the fourth grade at Temple Hills Elementary School in Maryland at all. A slight recollection of staring out the window with envy at cows eating grass scarcely survives. I keep thinking my teacher was named Ms. Temple, but I am probably getting her name confused with the name of the school – Temple Hills. All I retain from that time is a muddle of memories, unconnected to school – puppy-pee, tomato-pain, blackberries, snake skins, dirt kingdoms, cats and dogs, and skating with pretty girls.
I know I had a classmate named Joey Faircloth. I don’t remember him from class or school but because of a wonderful gift he gave me – a puppy we named Pixie. I loved Pixie, and Pixie really loved me. On the car ride home from Joey’s – although puzzled for an instant – I cheerfully suffered a warm sensation all over my body after Pixie awakened from a snooze, clambered up onto my shoulder, and peed down my shirt. That pee sealed an alliance and bonded us as best friends.
We lived in a somewhat rural area on a dirt road. Next to our very old farm house was a field full of fruit trees, berry bushes and wild critters. I used to catch these really cute baby quails and tried to raise them as pets. I didn’t squash any of them, but none of them ever survived. I have a bad history with feathered creatures.
My dad used to pay us a quarter for a quart of blackberries during blackberry season. One time while out picking blackberries, I saw a snake crossing the path in front of me, and I ran back to tell my dad. He grabbed a hoe from the shed, and as he sprinted toward the field, he yelled at me to guide him to the snake. I ran along behind him, kind of directing from the rear. When we got to the snake my dad erupted into battle, obliterating the snake with the hoe. It turned out though that the thing he obliterated was just a snakeskin. Some sneaky snake had crawled out of its skin, leaving it on the path to frighten people who are frightened by snaky stuff. That action by my dad kind of taught me how to handle snakes.
I learned much later – about 55 years later – that the only thing my father ever feared was snakes. I inherited that fear … but was sort of cured of it … sort of. Both my daughters like snakes, and I think it is difficult to fear something your children like.
Leo and I often played outside in the dirt, creating these imaginary kingdoms. We used twigs to outline imaginary houses and fences, creating giant ranches, full of toy horses that we would paint various combinations of colors. We each had a man – a character – that represented us. Leo had a little plastic orange caveman he named Schwinn, and I had a little plastic blue monkey whose hands and feet had been chewed off. I called him Chip. On our hands and knees, in the dirt, we produced sagas that unfolded sometimes over hours at a time. Twists and turns in our stories often involved villains with evil intent, determined to harm Schwinn and Chip. Leo seemed to consistently come up with some ingenious way for our characters to win in the end. My monkey often seemed smarter than me.
Next door lived a farmer who – based on my recollection – mostly grew tomatoes. Charlie, who was a little older than me lived there. I thought I had a great arm, but Charlie had the best arm I ever saw. At least, he had the best arm of anyone with whom I ever got into a tomato fight. At a distance that was b
arely within my range, we would throw tomatoes at each other across multiple rows of tomato plants. The only rule – a rule Charlie insisted I follow – was ammunition specific. We could only use rotten tomatoes. In combat, I seemed to spend most of my time looking for rotten tomatoes while attempting to dodge blazing red and green projectiles fired across the field by Charlie’s cannon of an arm. Charlie would consistently cream me with these blazing red and green bombs that not only splattered all over me, turning me a brownish puke color, but they hurt a lot. By the end of each battle, I would resemble a rotten tomato – a rotten tomato like the ones that I attempted to heave – festering and fragmenting in flight, decomposing before nearing my intended target. After dredging up the tomato wars, and after reconsidering the spoils, it is clear to me now that Charlie wasn’t throwing “rotten” tomatoes.
We had a pet cat named Smokey, and Smokey had a boyfriend named Midnight. At least that is what we called him. He was a stray. Midnight was black, and Smokey was grey. Together they produced a litter of four kittens. Down the road lived a dog named Rex who liked to eat kittens and terrorize cats. Unfortunately for Rex, Midnight was a very “bad hombre” and wasn’t about to let Rex get near Smokey or the kittens.
One morning I awoke to a disturbing sound of snarling, howling, and bloodcurdling meows. I quickly moved to the window and witnessed a black cat riding a brown dog. It was Midnight, teeth bared, fur blowing in the wind, claws clutching deep into the bloody back of a frantic Rex, and Rex, his eyes rolling, tongue flopping, and slobber flying, racing to somewhere – somewhere where there wasn’t a cat on his back. I know he eventually got there because Midnight later reappeared without his ride.
Smokey gave birth to a second litter, and that was when my dad decided he needed to get rid of Midnight. He took Midnight down to the docks where Dad figured he would be happy eating fish, but I figured Midnight would have been happier with his family.
It turned out tragically for the kittens, because Rex killed 3 of the 4. He also pinned Smokey in the top of a very tall tree. Some of us began yelling at Rex and moving toward the scene. Rex figured he better hit the trail and started to trot across the road. Charlie happened to be with us, and since he didn’t have any tomatoes, he picked up a rock and fired it about 40 yards, beaning Rex right in the noggin – propelling him into a sideways summersault. I never saw Rex after that. Maybe he suffered brain damage and couldn’t get it together to harass cats anymore.
Beautiful girls have interested me for as long as I can remember, and they have held a power over me – an unfair advantage – kind of like the source of an untamed urge. One of my favorite mysteries – or possibly least favorite mysteries, depending on the particular moment in time – is the allure of beautiful girls.
A family of beautiful girls would be too much of a good thing – like a box of French macaroons. Clutching the box in your lap, you would be savoring an almond macaroon while feverishly trying to reach a verdict on which one to enjoy next: the vanilla? – the coconut? – the chocolate? Do I exaggerate? I really don’t know.
The Fox sisters lived close by. Although I may not have been aware of it at the time, or would probably have denied it if I had been aware of it, I think I had a crush on all five of them. Our families would go to the skating rink together, sometimes crowded into the same vehicle. Packaged together with those beautiful sisters so overwhelmed Leo that his actions on those trips were freakish. He would make strange comments that I think were supposed to be jokes.
I rode the school bus with the youngest sister. She was very quiet and shy. She told me that all of her sisters were beautiful, but she wasn’t. I may have told her she was beautiful, too, because she was. Over the years, I forgot her first name, but remembered that it was unusual.
Around twenty years later, while visiting my younger brother in Alabama, I picked up one of his adult magazines – a very famous adult magazine – noticing that the front cover was advertising that this particular issue featured “The Women of the U.S. Government.” Since I was living near our nation’s capital at the time, I thought there might be some chance I would know one. As I flipped through the pages, a picture of a very beautiful girl caught my eye. Her last name was Fox and she had an unusual first name. I read next to her picture that she had many older sisters – sisters she claimed were all more beautiful than she was – and that she was the shy one. I suspected this was the youngest Fox sister with whom I had skated and shared school bus rides. I figured I would never know for sure.
However, 20 years after that careful scrutiny of the famous magazine’s photo, the youngest Fox sister tracked down my older brother, Leo, and through him, found me. Apparently, she had been wondering whatever happened to us and had been trying to find us. I asked her if she had ever appeared in the famous magazine. She confirmed that it was indeed her. She had saved a few copies and generously presented me with one, autographing her picture.
17
Opening Fall
Rat’s Rout
Up to that point in my nine-year-old life, I thoroughly believed that I was the toughest person alive – invincible steel. Woe is the simple mind. How easily things can change. My first inkling into my destructibility should have come that day on the school bus when Hassan Gungi claimed to have the hardest head in the world, and then demonstrated it by head butting me and knocking me senseless. His older brother, Albert, claimed to be a prince from some far-off country. Princes from his country must have grown big ears because Albert had some big ones.
Now, in retrospect, I do believe Albert was some kind of exotic king-to-be. I mean he had this foreign-sounding name, Gungi, and he always had this entourage of imported gangsters with him. But Albert looked too much like a rat and people repeatedly made fun of him.
Prince Albert Gungi was a 6th grader, and you know how they can be. He was also the patrol on our bus. I had this naïve notion that he was there to protect us. Even after he let his little stone-headed brother head-butt me, I still hung on to this feeble fancy. So apparently, while I was staring out the window trying to clear my scrambled brains from Hassan’s noggin buster, some other students on the bus were again pointing out to the Prince how much he looked like a rat.
As the clouds began to separate from my aching head, from my dazed state spurted this image of a rodent, whiskers twitching, ears engaged, and tail slithering like a skinny snake. Once the haze retreated, the rat prince clearly appeared directly before me, snapping at the air in front of my face. As the audio returned to my widely separated brain cells, the hullabaloo the rat prince was exhaling could be absorbed and understood.
“Did you call me a rat?” Albert was demanding a response ... from me.
“Wha-a...?” I uttered, still trying to focus my eyes on the rodent with the crown.
“You called me a rat!”
“I didn’t call you...”
“You called me a rat, and we are going to fight when we get to the bus stop,” the prince decreed. “Unless you are afraid?” Albert dangled that piece of cheese in front of me.
Possibly he knew I was dazed from his younger brother’s head butt, or possibly Albert suspected I wasn’t making fun of him with the rest of the crowd because I was a frightened little 4th grader – afraid of him. Anyway, to save his royal honor, Albert selected me to challenge, even though I was possibly the only one not making fun of him.
I bit on the cheese comment. “Okay, I’ll fight you.” I never liked his Royal Highness the Rat and figured no foreign aristocrat, even with an entourage of gangsters, could beat me, a Creek Indian – a Muskogee. As you can see, I didn’t know my history very well.
We got off the bus. I mean we all got off the bus – the Prince and his entourage, and all the kids who wanted to see the fight whether it was their stop or not. In front of the local liquor store we commenced to battle. I was winning effortlessly. He seemed too easy to hit. The largest member of his court, a guy way too old to be in elementary school, kept giving him instructions in a l
anguage I couldn’t understand that the Prince seemed to be trying to follow without much success. I found myself feeling sorry for him and letting up when suddenly a punch to the area of my diaphragm connected, knocking the wind completely out of me. I fell to the ground unable to breathe. Wow, I had never had that experience before. I never even saw the Prince throw the punch.
As I tried to find some air to breathe, his court in jubilant celebration was embracing the Prince. I didn’t understand what had happened, but when I got my breath back, I was up, ready to go again. The Prince, not looking too happy, was encouraged by his entourage and moved back into the fray. This time I really pounded him. The large, genie, guardian-angel-looking guy continued to shout directions in an alien tongue. I could actually feel his breath on the back of my neck. Then, it happened again. A punch landed, completely stopping all flow of air to my lungs. Once more, I went down, gasping. Once more, the Prince and his subjects began to celebrate. Well, this was really weird.
One more time I struggled to get up. To the Prince’s frustration I was ready to go again. Just then, the owner of the liquor store came out yelling for us to move to an adjoining field. While in transit to our new arena, someone, I think a friend – although I am not sure I had any friends during the 4th grade – convinced me to give up the fight. He said they would never let me win.
When I told the Prince I had enough, he was overjoyed. Actually, he looked much worse than I did, but he and his entourage were victorious. That loss did a great deal to dampen my zest for a brawl. I still wonder from where those wind-ending punches came and exactly where they landed. I suspect the large genie had a lot to do with it.
