Lost and Found – a Novel by Ron Rink

It’s hard to believe another week has gone by.

I remember back in my younger days how I would hear people who were older than me talk about how the days seem to fly by as you get older. I didn’t get it back then — I do get it now.

Time flies — and tomorrow I will be enjoying the last day of my 76th year on the planet. A few years ago I began thinking of birthdays not so much in terms of years passing by, but rather to think of a birth-day as being only one day older than I was the day before. Something about looking at it that way just feels better.

Thanks again to all of you for taking the time to read this story. I’m truly enjoying seeing your comments as well. Feel free to share it with anyone you’d like.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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I finally learned Billy’s last name. Everybody who worked at the bowling alley always just called him “Billy” so I had no idea what his last name was. It was in the winter of 1943 when I heard it for the first time.

There was a guy waiting outside as we were leaving work one day. I didn’t know who the guy was, but the minute we walked out the back door, this guy calls out, “Hey, Bradford. I hear you beat the shit out of my cousin last week.”

Billy put his hand on my shoulder, pushed me back by the door and hissed, “Stay back here, Van. Don’t try to help me—you ain’t ready yet—just stay back!”

This guy was a little bigger than Billy, and looked like he might be fifteen or sixteen years old. He was wearing a jacket with the same colors as a gang that hung out over by McNichols and Woodward. He had on peg pants and there was a bandanna tied around his forehead. His face almost made me laugh because it was the longest face I had ever seen. Not only was it long, but also very narrow. He looked as though he ought to be some sort of comic book character named “Long-Face” or something. However, the look on his long face was anything but funny. This guy was mad and it showed.

Billy called out to him, “Oh yeah! What’s your cousin’s name?”

“You know who it was. It’s Johnny—he lives over on Riopelle—he told me you jumped him last week for no reason. I don’t like it when people beat up on my family and you’re gonna find out what happens to people who piss me off,” he threatened.

This guy must have known when Billy was at the bowling alley there wouldn’t be any of the State Fair Dukes around because he was alone. It was unusual, and dangerous, for someone to come looking for a fight without several of his own gang members around.

Billy looked at the other guy and I could see him looking around to see if anyone else was there who shouldn’t be.

“Hey, your cousin was messing around with my girl over by the movie house on Seven Mile Road. I don’t like it when people mess around with my girl, so I gave him a little something so he’d know not to do that anymore.”

Some of the other guys who had just got off work started to walk back to see what was going on.

Billy unzipped his jacket, pushed the sleeves up higher on his arms and went on, “It wasn’t for no reason—I don’t jump people for no reason. And I don’t like people coming around here making like they’re so tough, either,” Billy said as he began to stride over closer to the other guy. “So, what’s your name, tough guy? You just wearing that McNichols gang jacket or are you one of the boys from over there?”

Just then the other guy took a swing at Billy and missed. I didn’t see what happened next but the other guy was on the ground and Billy was standing over him with a switchblade in his hand.

“You want me to invite my friend over there to come over here and use your head for football practice,” yelled Billy, “or maybe I’ll do that myself while I’m just standing here?”

The guy just lay there with complete anger and hatred on his face. He spit on Billy, so Billy kicked him hard in his side. When the guy tried to roll away, Billy kicked him again in his back. “Get the fuck outta here before I decide to really hurt you, asshole,” yelled Billy, “and be sure to tell your cousin to get his own girl!”

Billy backed away and the guy got up and said, “Yeah, I’ll go, but you better keep eyes in the back of your head because I’m gonna get your ass some day!”

When Billy walked back to where I was waiting I said, “So, your last name’s Bradford, huh?”

“Yeah, but don’t spread it around,” Billy laughed.
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It’s an interesting day today. Here I am, posting the next Chapter of Lost and Found which shows an example of one of the many nasty bits of fallout which accompany war.

Also this morning, I’m writing my next article in my Buddhist blog about how I feel about war and focusing the article on peace. (There is a link to that blog at the bottom of the right side-bar. The new article will be posted later today. I’m still working on it.)

Plus, this morning’s news contains items which make me feel sad — the severe aftershock hitting Haiti and its people — people who have endured more than many of us can truly understand. Then, there’s the news of the election results in Massachusetts which could have a major impact on the way our Congress (and our country) is run.

As I said — an interesting day — and for me, a sad one.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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I never had a great deal of understanding about the Second World War even though it was in full swing during this time of my life.

I was only seven-years old when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, but I do have a distinct memory of when it happened. I was in the car with my parents. We were either coming home from church or on our way to church for a service or some other meeting. The car radio was playing music when the broadcast was interrupted by the news about the bombing. The announcement didn’t register much with me, but my mother’s remark of “Oh, Henry. What will happen now?” did get my attention. Her voice was filled with a concern and worry which was uncommon for her.

My father responded, “I really don’t know, Rettie.” He called her ‘Rettie’ as a nickname for her full name, Henrietta.

Although it was rare for him to expound on anything, he went on to say, “We’ve known for some time the world was in a lot of turmoil, but I never thought anything like this would ever happen. I don’t know what will happen now.”

That was all they said about it, but I did get the feeling they were upset about the news, even though it didn’t have much of an effect on me. My parents rarely ever had lengthy conversations about anything, so it wasn’t surprising nothing further was discussed.

Many of the homes around our neighborhood had little flags hanging in their windows to show they had someone in their family who was serving in the war. Most of the flags were red, with a white square in the middle and one or two black stars in the white square, depending on how many members of the household were in the service. Every once in a while I would see a window with a gold star flag in it. The gold star signified that someone who belonged to the household had been killed in the war. What was really sad was when you saw a flag in the window with two gold stars.

There was, however, one particular occurrence which brought the consequences of war home to me personally.

On a Wednesday afternoon late in the summer of 1943, I was at home waiting for Mrs. Wolpert to show up for my regular weekly piano lesson. She was due to arrive at four o’clock, but still wasn’t there by fifteen minutes after four. This was extremely disconcerting because Mrs. Wolpert was never late. She might be a couple of minutes early, but never fifteen minutes late.

My mother called over to Charlie Saunder’s house because Mrs. Wolpert always gave him his lesson just before mine.

After she got off the phone my mother came into my room and told me that Mrs. Wolpert had never arrived at the Saunder’s house.

“Mrs. Saunders doesn’t know what could be wrong,” my mother explained. “The only other time she didn’t make it to a lesson was over a year ago and she called to let them know.”

“Does that mean I won’t have a lesson today?” I asked.

“Well, I’d like you to stay around for a little longer just to be sure she doesn’t show up. Do you have to work at the bowling alley later?”

Since I’d much rather work at the alley than be around the house, especially if I didn’t have any practicing to do after a lesson, I said, “No, I don’t normally go there on Wednesdays because of my lesson, but if I don’t have a lesson, I could go in for awhile.”

“Let’s wait a few more minutes. If she doesn’t show up, you can go.”

It was just a few minutes later that Mrs. Saunders called and told my mother that Mrs. Wolpert had been “detained” by the government because of the fact she was a German and not a citizen of the United States.

We never saw or heard from Mrs. Wolpert again.

A few weeks later I began taking lessons from Miss. Thomas—Julianna Thomas.
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Here’s the next Chapter of Lost and Found.

I really want you to know how much I appreciate the comments you’re leaving about this.

I realize that writing this is much more meaningful for me than it probably is for you. I’m still not entirely sure why I’m doing this — other than some need to show how it is possible for someone who grew up with violence as their code to find their way to an understanding about peace, and how using violence will never lead to peace. How this happens is still to be written, so I hope you’ll stay with me on this long project.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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During the summer of 1943, I did make two more attempts at running away, but still wasn’t smart enough to elude the cops. I did have a little more success the second time since I managed to stay away for over two weeks. Those were two weeks of warm summer days and nights so I didn’t feel I needed to sleep in the bowling alley every night. I still spent a good percentage of my mornings and early afternoons working at the track to pick up some extra money, but I did something different than usual later in the day.

Rather than riding my bike in the evenings, I’d leave it either in the storage area behind the bowling alley, or at another place behind one of the stores on Seven Mile Road where I could hide it safely. Then, I’d get on a bus and ride to another part of town in the late afternoon. I went in a variety of different directions. Once I got off the bus, I’d walk into the neighborhood areas, staying away from the main streets. I was beginning to learn that the cops rarely cruised the neighborhood side streets, but stayed more along the main drags. I also felt the cops in my own neighborhood would be more likely to spot me than those in neighborhoods some distance away.

I went mostly into the Hamtramck and Highland Park areas because they were more built up with older, established neighborhoods. And, since both Hamtramck and Highland Park were separate cities from Detroit, they had their own police forces, which made it less likely that they would have the same information as the police from the Detroit force.

Most of the homes in these neighborhoods had garages behind the houses, and alleys behind those garages. Late at night, those alleys would provide safe pathways to those garages where there were cars which would provide clean, comfortable and dry places to get a decent night’s sleep.

The one thing I hadn’t counted on was the fact a lot of the people in Highland Park and Hamtramck worked in the factories. The factories were usually running twenty-four hours a day. Since they were making tanks and other vehicles for the war, many people worked on the night shifts.

One time in Hamtramck, I was sound asleep in the backseat of a car when I heard the garage doors start to scrape open. I shot straight up in the seat and, even though it was very dark, I found myself staring into the face of a man who looked as frightened as I was at that moment.

He let out a “Hey” and started to back away from the car, stumbling over his own feet as he scrambled to move away from the garage.

I let out an equally surprised “Hey” and started to slowly open the back door of the car.

It only took a split second for my sleepy mind to figure out the only way out of the garage was going to be through the open garage doors where he was standing because that’s how I got in. There was no other door.

“Hey, I’m sorry, mister. Let me go okay?” I pleaded as I slowly stuck one foot, followed just as slowly by the other foot, out of the back door of the car.

“You get outta here,” he yelled in a very pronounced accent, which I assumed was Polish since Hamtramck’s population was almost one hundred percent Polish in those days.

As I stood up and took a couple of tentative steps toward him, he took a couple of equally tentative steps back. His eyes looked like huge saucers and his hands were held in front of him as a way of letting me know he wanted me to stay away from him.

“Just let me go—I won’t cause any trouble—I was just sleeping, that’s all.”

“Okay, go—go on—get outta here now!” he said as he backed even further away, waving his hands around and pointing towards the alley.

I side-stepped past the car, then sidled around the garage door opening to get past him and took off running past the garage, out his back gate, and down the alley as fast as my feet could carry me.

Sleeping in people’s cars in their garage was ideal for staying warm and being reasonably comfortable. There were some nights when I’d choose to sleep under someone’s front porch, but I only did it if I was desperate. Most of the houses in these older neighborhoods had porches that ran across the entire width of the front of the house. The area under the porch was often used as storage or as a place to collect miscellaneous junk.

Some of the under-porch places were closed in with wood with little doorways on the sides, others were left open and others had a lattice enclosure. When I did choose to sleep under a porch, I always picked a house where the area under the porch was closed in. I felt more secure that way.

The main drawback was the creatures of the night didn’t care for me intruding on their space, especially the rats. I would wake up feeling something brushing against my bare arm or my leg, only to see a huge, hairy rat with its bright, beady eyes sniffing at me. It got to the point where if I couldn’t find a place to sleep in the backseat of someone’s car, I’d just walk the neighborhood until morning.

On the last night of my two-weeks of success as a runaway, I rode my bike out to Seven Mile Road to hide it. As I was waiting for the bus, it started to rain. I decided I’d be better off in the bowling alley instead of either walking the streets or sleeping under porches. So, I got my bike and headed over to the bowling alley hoping to make it before the rain picked up.

My luck ran out when the cops spotted me and picked me up.

I spent that rainy night in my bed at home.

It would also be my last attempt to run away that year.
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Back again from a brief hiatus from posting. One of the reasons for taking some time off was to focus on getting some more writing done so I could get ahead of you who are are reading this. However, holiday “stuff” got in the way and I didn’t make hardly any progress at all.

I’m sort of going back to my old ways of doing everything under some sort of stressful deadline. Not a good thing!

I do hope you all had a wonderful holiday and that you are all well …

… and be in peace,

Ron Rink
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My father continued with his periodic temper flare-ups throughout the year. Each time would result in his taking me to the attic for another beating. Each time was the same, with the Bible in his hand, along with the yelling and screaming about my inevitable sinfulness. Each time I was showing more courage and toughness by yelling back at him and not allowing myself to cry or show any pain.

Since Billy was spending so much time teaching me how to fight, and the fact I was getting a lot of confidence in myself, the temptation to strike back was extremely strong. The only thing which kept me from doing it was the lesson from Billy to avoid getting into a fight with anyone bigger than me. He always said, “If the guy is bigger than you, it’s almost impossible to get him down—they either have long arms to keep you from getting close to them—or they’re so much heavier that their weight alone will stop you.”

My father was a lot taller and heavier than me even though I was big for a nine-year old kid.

Billy and I continued our street-fighting lessons as often as we could. One day at the bowling alley right after my father had given me another beating, Billy asked, “When your old-man hits you, is he using his fists?”

“Yeah,” I answered, “he uses his fists most of the time, but sometimes he just hits me with the heel of his hand. Why?”

“Well, what do you do when he hits you? Are you just standing there, or do you move away from him when his fist is coming at you? Are your eyes open or closed?”

I didn’t have any idea what Billy was getting at. He was just leaning on the post by his lane and squinting at me through the smoke of his cigarette.

“I guess I’m just standing there,” I said. “I don’t really know exactly what I’m doing, but I do know my eyes are closed when he hits. I’m learning not to cry any more, though.”

Billy looked at me with a smirk on his face as he ground out the butt of his cigarette on the post.

“After work today we’ll go over to my house so I can show you how to move your body so he doesn’t hurt you as much. It’s not hard to do, but you do have to watch him when he swings at you. You can’t be flinching with your eyes closed. I’ll show you later,” he said as he climbed back up to set pins for a new bowler on his lane.

Later Billy spent about two hours showing me how to roll with the punches so they wouldn’t strike with the same force as they would if my body or face was rigid. It took quite awhile for me to get over the natural reflex to flinch and close my eyes when the blow was close to me. Billy had on boxing gloves and he just kept swinging at me over and over again until I got used to moving away from the force of the blow.

It worked. On my next trip to the attic I was able to do exactly what Billy had taught me. My father didn’t seem to notice the fact that I was doing something different. Plus, it was so much easier not to cry or show pain, because it just didn’t hurt like it did before. I still didn’t dare to strike back at him, but I could now move myself in the same direction as his striking fist so that he landed a more glancing blow rather than a solid hit.
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