Lost and Found – a Novel by Ron Rink

How was your Thanksgiving holiday? I hope it was grand! It was fine here and there wasn’t a lot of work being done — so that’s a good thing.

Now we’re back to it again. I need to focus as much time to writing as I can over these next few weeks since another hiatus is just around the corner with the Christmas holiday.

Here’s the next chapter of Lost and Found. It’s hard to believe we’re up to the Seventeenth chapter already. Thanks for reading — and as always — pass it on!

Be well — Be in peace,

Ron Rink
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There was a major happening in my neighborhood during the winter of 1942-1943. A huge ice skating rink was built between my street and the street behind me. I learned how to ice-skate when I was about five or six years old, but unless someone took me to either Belle Isle or Palmer Park, there weren’t any other places to skate. One of the good things about the activities of our church youth group is we did get taken to places like Belle Isle and Palmer Park for things like picnics in the summer and ice-skating in the winter..

My parents had their own rule about ice-skating. They ranked it right up there with dancing, which in their opinion, was sinful. For reasons I never would figure out, ice-skating was allowed. They never stopped me from going skating with the church youth group. They accepted it grudgingly and grumbled accordingly.

The area behind my house, across the alley, opened into a long, but narrow vacant area. It was basically just weeds, long grasses and small bushes. The street behind mine was Cardoni, and there still weren’t any houses on the side of Cardoni which backed up to our alley. The people who lived on my side of Russell, could look out from their back yards and see the front of houses on the other side of Cardoni.

One of the men that lived on Cardoni worked for a company which did excavation work, so he had access to a steam shovel. (The steam shovel was probably the precursor to the backhoe. It was a bit larger than a backhoe, but it served the same purpose. It had tracks similar to what you would see on a tank and a large cab area for the operator. It had a big arm on the front of it that bent like a human arm. Attached to the arm was a huge shovel that the operator could extend out to pick up large quantities of dirt, rocks, or whatever. They also used this machine to dig basements for houses.)

One day in the late fall of 1942, this man showed up with his steam shovel and began to dig out a long trench in the vacant area behind our alley and facing Cardoni. He dug out an area about six or seven lots long (a lot being forty or fifty feet wide). It was the width of the entire area between the alley in back of my house to Cardoni. It was huge. He dug down about six inches and piled the dirt he dug up along the sides to build a bank all around the area. Then the neighbors on Cardoni and Russell ran garden hoses from their houses to the rink to flood it each winter. The kids that used the rink did all the shoveling of snow to keep the ice cleared.

During the first part of the winter I would go and skate most Saturday mornings. I couldn’t skate after school or in the afternoons because I had to work at the bowling alley, and I couldn’t do anything on Sundays except go to church or read. After a few weeks of these limitations, and with persistent begging on my part, my parents did start letting me go out after dinner to skate with just a couple of streetlights for illumination.
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Here’s the next chapter of Lost and Found.

I was reluctant to put this one up today because it’s not exactly “Thanksgiving-like”. However, it is the next chapter and I did want to get at least one chapter done for you this week. So, there it is. If you start reading and it’s not what you want to read right now, that’s cool — just leave it for later.

Since there’s a lot going on this week because of the holiday, it’s unlikely there will be another chapter up before next week.

I hope those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving have a wonderful holiday, and since some of you live on the other side of the pond — wherever you are — please be safe and happy.

Peace,

Ron Rink
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Billy lived on Hawthorne Street on the other side of State Fair. His house was a lot older than mine and was in need of some major work. It was a frame house like mine, but the boards were wider. The paint was peeling off and in some places it was completely gone. His front porch was sagging down in the middle and one of the steps was partly broken off. There wasn’t any grass in front of his house — it was mostly all dirt. There was a tricycle with a broken wheel and an old wicker laundry basket lying on the front porch.

We went around the side of his house and through the gate into his back yard. The yard was fenced in and there was an alley behind it. Although they had a garage, the doors on it were gone and it was filled with boxes and other junk. They didn’t have any grass in the back either and there were empty milk bottles lying around on the ground. His mother had hung up some laundry on the clotheslines. It looked like there might have been flowers along the fences at one time, but now it was just weeds. The steps up to his back door weren’t even attached to the house and one of them was missing completely.

As we walked into his backyard, Billy suddenly whirled around and pushed me with both hands on my chest as his leg came around behind my knees and I was suddenly on the ground looking up at him.

“The first thing you gotta learn is to always surprise the guy you’re fighting. You gotta get them on the ground as fast as you can. You gotta stay on your feet, too. Don’t’ try to wrestle on the ground with them,” he said as he stood over me with his fists cocked and his eyes like slits. “The next thing you’re gonna do is start stomping him!”

I realized I was darn scared about then, but Billy didn’t do anything else, so I got up from the ground.

“What do you mean you start stomping him?”

“You start kicking the sonuvabitch as hard as you can before he can get back on his feet. Once he’s back on his feet, you have to start all over again. Keep the bastard on the ground and use your feet. It don’t matter where you kick him, either.”

Billy was getting more excited as he talked. He was jumping around and making kicking motions with his feet. “Kick him in the head. Kick him in his back. Kick him in the stomach. Just kick him and kick him anywhere. Keep the fucker on the ground and don’t let him up.”

Billy gave one of the milk bottles a good, swift kick, and it went flying across the yard. “Watch his hands while you’re kicking,” he went on, “because he’s gonna try to grab one of your feet and get you off balance. Keep moving around as fast as you can while you’re kicking so he can’t grab you. If you’re moving around fast enough he’ll be using his hands to try to protect himself and won’t have the time to grab at your feet.”

Billy kept dancing around and demonstrating how to move around and kick at the same time. Another milk bottle went flying. Only this time it flew across the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

“You gotta win the fight,” he said. “The only way to do that is to make sure the sonuvabitch stays on the ground. If you keep letting him back up, you’re gonna lose the fight.”

“Yeah, but you jumped me by surprise so it was easy for you to push me down,” I argued. “What about when you and the guy know you’re gonna have a fight with each other? Ain’t he gonna dodge away so you can’t get him down?”

“You gotta be faster than he is. Most creeps will start out trying to box with you because that’s what they think fighting is. But you’re gonna be a street-fighter, Van Buren. You gotta remember that you got your hands, your feet, your head, and your body. You can use anything you want to get him off balance. You don’t have to live by any stupid rules like boxers do.”

Billy started prancing around like a boxer with his hands up like he was going to hit me. “Pretend to box with me and I’ll show you what I mean.”

At that time the boxer all of us knew about was Joe Louis. He was still the heavyweight champ, although he would retire in a couple more years. I had seen some pictures of him in magazines and there were posters about him everywhere, not only because he was the heavyweight champ, but also because he was a Detroiter. I had even seen short movies of him boxing when they would run the newsreels at the movie house.

I assumed a boxer’s pose and Billy started to box with me but kept his hands open rather than making them into a fist. He started to dance around me and kept flicking his hands out in little jabs and sort of slapping me lightly with his fingertips. I tried to throw jabs at him too, but he was moving very fast and had me backing up most of the time.

“C’mon, Van, spar with me,” he chided with a sneaky, smart-ass smirk on his face.

I started to dance around and spar with him when all of a sudden he moved in close to me and brought his knee up sharply between my legs. This made me bend over and drop my hands to protect myself. Billy then put both hands under my chin and lifted my head up sharply. When I straightened up I was already off balance and falling backwards. Then he got his leg behind my knees again and threw his shoulder into my chest. I was once again lying on the ground looking up at him without too much understanding of how I got there. He stood there poised with his right foot in a position ready to kick me.

“You get the idea?” Billy asked.

I looked up at him from the ground and nodded my head.

“You gotta be faster than the other guy. You gotta be thinking all the time about how you can get this guy on the ground. There ain’t no rules, man — anything goes. Keep finding ways to keep him off balance. Remember, if you don’t win, that means you’re gonna lose. If you lose it’s gonna be your head that he uses like a football!”

Billy was definitely enjoying his role as fight trainer. His eyes were alert and wild looking. He was talking more at one time than I had ever heard him talk.

“The guy you’re fighting is gonna be doing everything he can think of to get you down, so you gotta know lots of tricks and you gotta be faster then he is. You can’t get scared, ‘cuz when you’re scared you can’t think—and you gotta be thinking all the time.”

Billy and I continued these “practice” sessions over the next several months. We even did this during the winter because, as Billy said, “You can’t pick the time of year you’re gonna need to fight somebody.”

He taught me more street-fighting tricks and eventually we got to the point where I could give him a good run for his money. He could still surprise me, but I was also surprising him more consistently. My confidence level was growing rapidly. I found that even as Billy made it harder and harder to compete with him, I was able to keep fear out of my mind and keep my focus solely on how to get the advantage over him and win.

My street-fighter training cost me some serious bumps, cuts and bruises, but I knew I was gaining important experience, especially if I was going to survive on the streets. I could hardly wait to try my new-found skills out for real.

As it turned out, it wouldn’t be much longer before I would get my chance.
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Here’s the next chapter of Lost and Found.

This has been a strange week for me. I found myself getting too embroiled in the politics here, and by midday yesterday I was in one of the worst moods I can remember. I did a “rant” on Facebook and then broke out one of my Spiritual Cinema films to watch. (If you would like to learn more about these films, there’s a banner link right under the Table of Contents on the left.)

I watched “Canvas” with Marcia Gay Harding and Joe Pantoliano. It was a really special story and managed to help me to remember to live the way I believe.

Hope you enjoy the chapter.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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The days of playing fun games with Billy ended one day when we were having a slow afternoon at the bowling alley. I was sitting up on my shelf waiting for someone to start using my alleys when Billy came walking over behind me and asked, “How’s it going with your old man? Is he still beating the shit out of you all the time? I still see marks on your face and arms sometimes.”

“Yeah—it’s still happening pretty often. I ran away twice this summer, but I got caught by the cops both times after just a few days. I’d do it again right away, but it’s starting to get cold out and I don’t know where to go to stay warm during the daytime. I don’t want to freeze my ass off!”

He just looked at me with an expression of exasperation, leaned up against the back of my shelf and shook his head.

“You gotta learn how to take care of yourself on the streets. You gotta learn how to fight good enough to keep the creeps from giving you a bad time. You gotta know where to go so the cops won’t keep finding you and bringing you back home all the time.”

Just thinking about how much I wanted to be on my own and realizing how difficult it would be had me hanging my head. “I don’t know where to learn how to do stuff like that. Do you know how to do those things?” I asked.

“I don’t know too much about running away, but I do know how to take care of myself on the streets and how to keep away from the cops”.

Billy kept looking up at me and shaking his head. “I belong to the State Fair Dukes. We’re doing battle all the time with other gangs, and we never lose. We got some of the best street-fighters on this side of town,” he said as he swaggered around over behind his shelf and got another cigarette.

I knew Billy was tough because the guys at the bowling alley never gave him a bad time. There were always fights breaking out among the other guys who worked there, but nobody ever tried to start anything with Billy. He was treated with a lot of respect.

“So, could you teach me how to street-fight?” I asked with as tough a voice as I could muster for a little eight-year old kid.

“I don’t know—you’re still just a kid and you could get hurt. If you go running home crying, then I get in trouble.”

I puffed myself up and said, “I don’t care if I get hurt, and even if I did, I wouldn’t go crying to anyone. I gotta learn sometime. I’m already getting beat up by my old man. It can’t hurt more than that.”

Billy looked at me like I didn’t have a brain in my head and said, “Oh yeah—it can hurt a lot more than that.”

I jumped down off my shelf and walked over to where Billy was standing. He and I stood facing each other as he looked me up and down. I was hoping he would say he would teach me how to fight.

He pushed himself back up onto his shelf, ground out his cigarette against the wall, and said, “Come over to my house after work today and I’ll show you some stuff. Nobody’ll be home so we don’t have to worry about anybody stopping us.”

If I weren’t trying to be super cool, I would have jumped for joy. Instead, I just nodded my head, kept a straight face, and said, “Sure, man, sounds good—let’s do it.”
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Finally — got another chapter up on the blog this morning. This chapter is more of a personal reminiscence than it is a vital part of my life at the time. I wrote this chapter because it is such a fond memory for me. It also leads up to what’s coming next. So, do stay tuned.

Thanks to those who sent some new readers. I really do appreciate it.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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Later in the fall after the racetrack work was over for the season, I started to hang around more with Billy from the bowling alley. Some days he would be working double shifts so we didn’t get a chance to do anything after my shift was over. However, on days that he didn’t work extra, we would go and mess around together, at least until it was time for me to go home.

Sometimes we would play catch with either a baseball or a football. One of our favorite games was mumbletypeg. (We didn’t spell it that way, but the dictionary does. We spelled it mumble-de-peg when we bothered to spell it). This was another of the many kids’ games which were built on the essence of war — taking and holding territory. It depended on two properties of the pocketknife that we didn’t even think about in those days: the fact knife blades are flat, and the fact they’ll stick in the ground if you throw them correctly.

Needless to say, in the days when I was just a kid, carrying around a pocket knife wasn’t something frowned upon as it would be today. Most children, boys anyway, had a pocket knife with them.

We’d start by drawing an outline in the dirt — maybe a big, wobbly circle (although Billy could draw circles that looked just about perfect) — or maybe some kind of polygon. All that really mattered was it needed to be a closed figure. Then we’d scratch a line across the playing area, dividing it approximately in half. We’d each throw our knife to see who could get closest to the dividing line. Whoever was closest would win the right to toss his knife first.

When it was time for the first throw, whichever kid won the toss threw his knife so it stuck upright (roughly) in his opponent’s territory so a line extending the gash the blade had made would cut into the initial dividing line — the “internal” boundary. He’d draw the line, dividing his opponent’s territory into two pieces, and cutting the original dividing line into two segments. He would then erase one of those two segments, adding part of his opponent’s territory to his own.

Now it was the other kid’s turn. He’d throw his knife, draw the line that extended the gash made by his blade, and reclaim a piece of the other guy’s territory.

At any one point in the game, there would be two territories inside the outer boundary. The line that separated them could get pretty jagged, and eventually, one of the players would “own” most of the land.

As one player’s territory shrank more and more, it got harder and harder for that player to throw the knife so the resulting line would reach his territory. With skillful players, though (or where the losing player happened to make a very lucky throw), a game could last a long time. With just a smidgen of territory left, you might get just the right angle on your knife, so one end of the extended line did touch your land and essentially split your opponent’s holding in half.

This was a real favorite game of ours and it was something that I could do and have an even chance of winning. Many times we had to quit before a winner was decided because I had to get home.
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This may be the only chapter I will be able to get up on the blog this week. Some of the issues with my health have been making themselves a little too obvious, so I haven’t been doing as much writing as I should.

You will see as you read this chapter where I reference a song. I tried desperately to find an .mp3 of it somewhere on the Internet so you could hear the tune. I was also tempted to record it myself but thought I’d spare you having to listen to me sing.

However, I finally caved — so I did sing it for you. Please don’t pay attention to the lousy pitch and breathing problems. When you get to that part of the post, just click the little play button — it’s right above the box here it says, “Audio MP3″.

This song was the theme of the old Judy Canova radio program “back in the day”, as we old-timers like to say. She would always close her show by singing this tune.

Enjoy the chapter — and as always, I’d love to have more readers. I do learn of people who are reading who didn’t sign up on the “New Chapter Notice”, so those are nice surprises. The more the merrier, though.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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Unknown to my parents, I was spending more and more time working at the racetrack in the mornings during the summer. They figured I was nearby in the neighborhood riding my bike or playing with friends. It was an excellent way for me to earn a few extra dollars my father wouldn’t know about. I never lost sight of my goal to get away from home permanently, so any way I could find to stash more money away was important.

As I spent more and more time at the track, the people who worked there got accustomed to seeing me around, so doing chores for some of the people other than just the old guy I had been working for, became easier.

My love for horses was growing stronger each day I spent at the track. Everything about them was appealing to me. I loved their smell. I loved the way they walked and ran. I loved the sound of their whinny, and when they snorted, it would make me laugh. The animals which were boarded there were young, well cared for, graceful and beautiful.

One of my favorite jobs, and one I didn’t get asked to do very often, was to help groom the horses. Unless I stood on a stool I wasn’t tall enough to reach the upper regions of the head, neck and back, but the act of brushing the chest and flanks allowed me to feel a calm peacefulness I rarely felt otherwise. As I think back, I wonder if it had anything to do with the fact that, to the best of my recollection, I had never personally experienced any of the stroking and gentleness which was such an integral part of the grooming process.

The horses would just stand there, almost mesmerized, as I ran the brush over their bodies. You could see their flesh quiver with what I imagined was the pleasure they were feeling. After a few minutes of brushing, the horses would slowly lower their heads and their eyes would sometimes close. They would often make small noises that sounded to me like little groans of pure pleasure. The process was soothing to me, especially compared to the loudness of the crashing pins and rolling balls at the bowling alley, or the tension and fear that I felt at home. It was almost as though the horses were transferring their pleasure back through the brush to me.

There was something about the freedom of being at the track which added to my sense of well-being. No one knew I was there and I was anonymous among the people who worked there. I experienced feelings and emotions I didn’t experience at home unless I was at the piano — I could get lost inside myself when I was practicing. In so many ways, the grooming and the piano practice gave me similar feelings.

One beautiful, warm, sunny day, I was helping a woman that worked at the track groom one of the horses. She had asked me to do other jobs for her from time-to-time, like hauling hay to the stables or carrying water, but I think she sensed that I loved grooming and often asked me to help her. She was always kind to me even though her mannerisms were rough and manly. She rarely ever spoke more than a few words whenever I worked for her—just enough to tell me what she wanted me to do. She wasn’t a lot taller than I was. Her appearance was hard, stern and tough. She wore the same western clothes that most of the men around the track wore; cowboy boots, ten-gallon hat, shirt, vest and denim dungarees. I had never seen her without a cigarette hanging from her lips. Her face was dry, wrinkled and weathered although she didn’t appear to be very old. She wasn’t a heavy woman, but she did have a large bust.

She was on one side of the horse, and I was on the other as we brushed. On that day she did something she hadn’t done the other times I groomed with her. She began to softly sing this song as she stroked her brush along the horse’s flank:

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She sang it so quietly and gently. I listened to it as she sang it over and over again, and then I started to sing it with her as I brushed. We would sing it in time with our brushing strokes. It felt strange to be singing, but it also made me feel a new emotion, an emotion of inner warmth and peace. Other than the hymns in church, I rarely ever sang, and this was so much more pleasurable than singing hymns.

After a few minutes, I was so lost in the soft beauty of what was happening, that I didn’t notice her coming over to my side of the horse. Her cigarette was gone. She was still singing as she took me into her arms and held me close to her. She rocked me back and forth while we sang this simple, but beautiful song together. She felt so soft and warm. I felt so safe and comfortable. We stayed like that for a while — just singing softly and rocking with our arms around each other.

Finally, she stopped singing, looked at me with those weathered eyes and smiled. She had a tear running down her cheek.

That was the first time I had ever been hugged.

I looked for her every time I went to the track to work, but I never saw her again.
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