Lost and Found – a Novel by Ron Rink

In this next Chapter of Lost and Found, we get a look at why this amazing person, my Aunt Dorothy, occupies a special place in my heart.

It’s been a quiet week in my neck of the woods. I have very little to report. However, I can confess this — I’ve been a major procrastinator this past week. I haven’t been doing the writing I wanted to do. I do know that one of the factors which plays a role with keeping my mind free and open to do the writing, is the way politics has been here in the USA. I won’t bore you with any of those thoughts here, though. I will be writing more along those lines, and sharing some of my feelings in my blog at: http://www.theleaderinside.com over the next few weeks.

For now, on with sharing more of my life ….

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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It was in the spring when I rode my bike over to Aunt Dorothy’s house the day after my father had given me a particularly awful beating. I didn’t really give a lot of thought as to why I chose to do this other than I knew it was still too cold to try to run away again. I also knew I needed to do something which might give me the same feeling I would get when I did run away, and I knew whenever I was at her house I felt free and safe.

Their house was small like ours. From the outside, it looked almost the same. The inside was completely different, though. Their living room was much larger and had a lot more light coming in. They didn’t have a dining room, but instead, had a much larger kitchen where they ate their meals. The kitchen table was where most things happened in their house. They had their meals there; they read the paper there; if either Uncle Lisle or Aunt Dorothy had paperwork to do, that’s where it happened; they did jigsaw puzzles there, and Diane did her coloring and school work there. The table had metal legs and a metal top which was always covered with a patterned oilcloth. There were six matching chairs around the table. I never paid much attention to the rest of their house because the kitchen was where I always went whenever we were there visiting
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I had looked in the mirror at home that morning and saw I had two sizable bruises on my cheeks, my lower lip had a cut on it and my upper lip was swollen. When Aunt Dorothy answered my knock on her door she just looked at me, shook her head, took me by the hand and pulled me through the door into the house. She didn’t ask any questions or say anything.
Still holding my hand, she led me into the kitchen, pointed to one of the chairs at the kitchen table, poured me a glass of milk and put the cookie jar on the table. I could see she was upset by my appearance, but she never said a word. She went into her refrigerator, cracked some ice out of one of the trays and put some of the cubes into an ice-pouch.

“Just finish with your cookies and milk, then put this on your lower lip,” she said quietly as she patted me gently on the shoulder. “If your lip gets too cold, just switch the bag to the swelling on your upper lip.”

She pulled out one of the other chairs next to mine and sat down. “After the ice has a chance to take some of that swelling down we’ll see if we need to put anything else on it. How about your cheeks? Are they painful? Do you need more ice for them?” she asked.

I shook my head no, broke off a piece of a cookie and dunked it in my milk. It was a chocolate-chip cookie—my favorite kind. I had to put small pieces into the corner of my mouth because I discovered my front teeth hurt and I couldn’t bite the cookie normally.

I kept dunking the pieces, which helped to make them more chewable—not that I wouldn’t have dunked them even if my teeth and lips weren’t sore. Those cookies dunked in milk were one of my favorite treats. I don’t ever remember a time when there weren’t chocolate-chip cookies at Aunt Dorothy’s house. The only time we ever had them at home was when Aunt Dorothy brought some over. It was another one of the contradictions about my parent’s rules – they wouldn’t make any cookies because they considered them to be against the church’s teachings, but my father would devour Aunt Dorothy’s cookies anytime they were around.

I ate a couple of the cookies and then put the ice-pouch on my lip. I didn’t realize how much the lip hurt until the ice began to numb it.

“When did this happen, Roland?” Aunt Dorothy asked with a look of concern and sorrow in her eyes. “Did he hit you with his fists?”

She didn’t ask how it happened – or who did it. In fact, it was the first time I realized she knew what was happening.

“Yes,” I mumbled through the ice-pouch, “It happened yesterday afternoon right before supper”.

I had never been at my Aunt’s house after one of my beatings, so I was nervous about whether she would want to talk about it. It was one thing to talk about it with Billy or for the people at the track to see the cuts and bruises. It was another thing to talk about it with my Aunt who I loved so much. I was also worried about what my parents would think if they knew I was talking to anyone about this. However, those worries were outweighed by the part of me which hoped she would ask questions. Perhaps it was the hope she could do something to change things.

Then Aunt Dorothy revealed something which was a huge surprise to me.

“Oh Roland”, she said as she dabbed away at the bruises on my cheeks with a cold, damp cloth, “I wish I knew how to help you. I’ve known this was happening for quite a while. Your mother and I have talked about it a few times, but she is convinced what your father is doing is right. I don’t know how your father was brought up, but your mother, myself, and all of our sisters and brothers were brought up with very strict parents. Your Grandpa and Grandma, my stepmother and father, believed that children needed to be sternly punished when they did wrong things. It all had to do with the way they were taught and treated when they were young.”

“Do my parents feel this way because of their church?” I asked.

“Yes, I think it does have a lot to do with the way your parents, especially your father, understand the Bible. I think he believes the Bible tells him he should be doing this to you. My father was also very strict as far as his religious beliefs, but neither of my parents ever punished us the way your father does you. We were spanked, and plenty often. Sometimes it was with a belt, or sometimes with a switch, especially if we were awfully bad. Most of the time, though, they would just put us across their knees and spank us with their hands on our behinds. Nevertheless, our parents never struck any of us with their fists, not even our brothers. The only place any of us were ever hit was on our behinds.”
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(NOTE: There is some rewriting needed before I can publish the rest of this, so the next Chapter will be a continuation of this incident. Thanks for your patience.)
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My other blogs:

http://www.theleaderinside.com
http://www.buddhistbelief.com
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Another week — another Chapter.

This Chapter is on the short side, but I needed to take a moment to introduce you to a new character — and one who is very dear to me.

Here in the Dayton area of Ohio, we’re experiencing some wonderful snow. (Ouch! — I’m sure some of my friends who are reading this will disagree with that statement!) As someone who lived for so many years in Vermont, I learned to love the snow. Normally in this part of Ohio, snow in great quantities is rare, so now that we’re approaching 20 inches on the ground, it feels like home (read Vermont) to me.

Hope you are all well — thanks again for taking the time to be here and share this writing.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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Life wasn’t entirely bad, however.

One of the genuine saving graces was the presence of my Aunt Dorothy in my life. She was my mother’s youngest sister and she lived in a small city just north of Detroit called Ferndale, which was in the Nine Mile Road and Woodward Avenue area. It was an easy, half-hour bike ride from my house to hers.

Aunt Dorothy wasn’t at all like my mother. In fact, she was nearly the exact opposite. While my mother was rigid, cold and unyielding, a person who never showed emotion or expressed her feelings to anyone, Aunt Dorothy wore her heart on her sleeve. She was a warm, open and gentle woman who wasn’t afraid to show her love for people. When she came into a room, or whenever you found yourself in her presence, an aura of kindness and peace seemed to surround her. She was in the perfect profession for someone with her way of relating to people — she was a nurse.

I learned to love her when I was very young because of how kind she was to me. Whenever my parents and I would go over to her house for a visit, she would always make sure I had fun things to do. Either she had saved the funny papers (that’s what we called the comic section of the newspaper—something my parents would never let me see at home), or there would be some new toy or game to play.

Since Aunt Dorothy’s daughter was only a year or so younger than me there was always a variety of books and magazines which would appeal to kids my age. My cousin’s name was Diane and she was okay to play with even though she was very quiet. She was also gentle like her mother.

Aunt Dorothy was married to a quiet, peaceful man, my Uncle Lisle. He was shorter and generally smaller in stature then Aunt Dorothy and seemed to always have a smile on his face. He treated Diane and his wife with great respect, gentleness and kindness.

It was always interesting to see my father and Uncle Lisle in the same room when we visited. Neither man had any understanding of the art of conversation. Their conversations were almost laughable.

“Good to see you again, Henry.”

“Yep, good to see you too, Lisle.”

Then there would be total silence for a few more minutes while they would rub their hands over the whiskers on their chins — scrape—scrape — or they would shift around in their chairs as they crossed one leg over the other, and then reverse their positions and cross the opposite leg — all the time rubbing their whisker stubble — scrape—scrape.

Then Uncle Lisle would say, “How’s work, Henry?”

My father would shift around some more in his chair, look up at the ceiling — scrape—scrape some more, and reply, “Oh, pretty good.”

There would be another lengthy, uncomfortable silence and then my father would say, “How’s work for you, Lisle?”

Uncle Lisle would think for a moment or two, rub his hands through his hair, cross his legs back and forth and finally reply, “Oh, pretty good.”

Then both men would sit quietly, listening to the women talk. That was as much idle conversation as either man could manage in one evening.

Another wonderful playmate for me whenever I would go over to their house was their beautiful black cocker spaniel, Smokey. My parents really hated having animals around them, especially dogs. They usually complained to my aunt and uncle whenever we would be at their house, but Aunt Dorothy either just ignored their complaints or politely explained how important Smokey was to their family. My mother often asked her sister to put Smokey in another room while they were there, but Aunt Dorothy just commented in her gentle way how this was Smokey’s house too, and he had a right to be with them. Smokey wasn’t a barker or a dog that jumped up on people. He did bark whenever we would ring the front door bell, but he always stopped once we were in the house and got busy sniffing us to see who we were. He usually fell asleep once he got used to people arriving unless Diane and I were playing with him, and then he could make plenty of noise, which really irritated my parents.

Diane and I would invariably be asked to go into the kitchen to play with Smokey if we got too rambunctious.

Aunt Dorothy didn’t look at all like her other sisters. She was short and stout like they were, but she didn’t have the harsh, stern, cold look in her facial features like the others had. She seemed to ooze kindness. She wasn’t usually a hugger or a kisser, no one in my mother’s family was, but she never left any doubt she really loved you. When she looked into your eyes, you knew she would go out of her way to do whatever she could to help you.
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My other blogs:

http://www.theleaderinside.com
http://www.buddhistbelief.com
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Here’s the next Chapter of Lost and Found.

I want to say how delighted I am to hear your comments about this book. On some of those days when the aging process makes staying motivated an issue, your comments pick me right back up and make the effort seem worthwhile. So thank you — your words do mean a lot. I truly value them.

There is a pretty good group of regular readers now and hopefully we’ll see the list continue to grow. Don’t hesitate to encourage others to join us.

We have been experiencing some snowy weather here in Southwest Ohio — we actually have about 10 or 12 inches of snow here at my place right now. Makes me think of my “real home”, Vermont. Wish I could still cross-country ski or snowshoe. I’d be out there in a minute.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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It seemed as though after I turned ten years old, the beatings became worse and more frequent. I don’t know if it was because he wasn’t getting the satisfaction he needed, or whatever it was made him do this just wasn’t working as well for him. I did know they were certainly getting more violent. Something was definitely making him angrier.

Perhaps it was the fact I would no longer cry when he hit me. Or maybe it was the fact I was getting bigger, stronger and harder to hurt. I taught myself to lock my eyes with his and give him cold, hard stares while he was hitting me. I wouldn’t allow myself to let out a sound during these sessions. Also, thanks to the steady teaching from Billy, I was getting more proficient at moving away from his punches so he couldn’t connect with as great a force as before. I wanted to fight him but something kept me from taking the chance.

As much as I wanted to get away from this existence forever, I only managed to run away once during my tenth year. I tried to avoid all the mistakes I had made during the past two years, but the police caught me again after only four days—and not because of any of my past reasons. This time I was caught completely off guard.

It was my fourth day without getting caught. I had finished a good day at the track where I made almost five dollars. I left Hazel Park at about three-thirty in the afternoon and, since Billy told me I could, rode my bike over to Billy’s house and parked it in his garage. Then I got on a bus and headed towards Hamtramck. I got off the bus at Holbrook and Mt. Elliott and started walking along Holbrook towards a diner I had been in once before. There were mostly apartment buildings and stores along both sides of the street. As I walked I could see the sign for the diner up ahead —Marty’s Diner—Eats—Good Food.

I was particularly grungy that day. It was my fourth day out and I hadn’t managed to find a way to get cleaned up at all. I guess when you’re ten years old you don’t even notice you might smell pretty bad to the people around you. I had enough money on me to buy some soup and a hot sandwich so I walked into the diner and sat down at one of the stools by the counter and looked at the menu posted on the wall. I knew what I wanted to order, but checked out the list anyway—Salisbury steak w/Onions—Liver and Onions—Red Hot Kielbasa w/Mashed Potatoes—Hot Turkey Sandwich w/Mashed Potatoes, etc.

The same guy who was in there the last time I came in was standing over by the window to the kitchen. He was about six feet tall with a large, bald head and a huge belly. His face was so red he looked like he was blushing. The red face contrasted with his thick dark brown and bushy mustache. His apron was filthy and covered with the greasy smears where he had wiped his hands on his mountainous belly.

He walked over to where I was sitting, stopped, looked at me kind of funny, and said, “What’ll it be, sonny?”

“I want a tomato soup, a hot turkey sandwich and a glass of milk.”

The guy added a few more grease stains as he wiped his hands on his apron. He leaned over the counter, looked me up and down and in a husky voice with what I assumed was a polish accent, asked, “You live around here?”

“Nope,” I answered. “I live over on the east side.”

“You got enough money to pay for the food?”

“Sure, see?”

I knew what I had ordered would cost a dollar-thirty-five, so I pulled out two one-dollar bills, set them on the counter and said, “I might want to get a piece of pie for dessert.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I can’t let you eat it in here, kid. You smell really bad and I don’t want my other customers to get up and leave because of the way you stink. So, why don’t you wait outside? I’ll make your food and put it in some containers so you can take it with you. Oh, and don’t come back in here any more unless you’re cleaned up better, you hear?”

I looked up at him and tried to think of something to say back to him, but no words found their way into my brain. I knew he was right, so I went outside and sat on the steps by the front door.

A few minutes later the guy came out and handed me a paper bag with the containers of food inside along with my change. I felt awkward about how dirty I was. I didn’t want to get the guy angry with me, so I walked a short way down the street, sat on some steps in front of an apartment building, opened the containers and started to eat. I could still see the front of the diner from where I was sitting.

After a few minutes I saw a cop car pull up in front of the diner. Two cops got out of the car and went inside. I didn’t think too much about it and just kept eating.

After a couple more minutes, the cops came back out and one of them got into the cruiser, and the other one started walking down the sidewalk in my direction. The cruiser slowly started to move towards me. I was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I wanted to run, but the cop who was walking was too close to me.

The first thing I noticed was how big this cop was—he must have been five or six inches taller than six feet because he would have towered over my father. Not only was he tall, he was big – not fat – just big. He walked up to me, put his foot on the steps next to me, leaned his elbow on his knee and in a friendly voice asked, “Hey kid, how’s the food?”

“It’s good,” I said and went on eating.

I could hear the leather of his belt and boots creak as he leaned on the step. Even the smell of the leather was noticeable. I didn’t look up at him at all but kept my eyes down and focused on my food. I could see the holster and gun out of the corner of my eye.

By now the cruiser had pulled up at the curb in front of me. The other cop was getting out of the car and coming to join his partner. Although he wasn’t quite as big as his partner, he still looked plenty big to me. He moved up to the steps and put his foot on one of the steps on the other side of me. His leather creaked and smelled the same as the other cop.

I was fast realizing I was about to get caught again, but I couldn’t figure out how these guys knew. They weren’t Detroit cops; they were Hamtramck cops. I wondered if this meant all the cops exchanged information with each other about runaway kids.

“What’s your name, kid?” the cop on my right asked.

“Roland,” I answered.

“Well, Roland, where do you live?” the other cop asked.

“Over by the State Fair Grounds,” I said as I kept my eyes down and just stared at my food.

Then the first cop asked, “What’re you doing in this part of town?”

“Just getting something to eat.”

The cops continued to ask questions until the one on my left said, “The owner of the diner called us because he said there was a real dirty, smelly kid ordering something to eat. He thought maybe you might be lost or something, so he gave us a call. Are you lost, Roland?”

I just kept my eyes down and said, “Nope.”

I already knew what was coming but I wasn’t ready to make it easy for them. I was surprised I wasn’t frightened. Instead, I found I was angry with myself for getting caught again so soon. I was angry because it was already late in the summer, so I probably wouldn’t get another chance to take off before the weather started to turn cold. I was angry because I realized I didn’t know how to keep from getting caught. I was angry because I knew I would have to endure the beatings at least until next spring or summer.

“Well, Roland,” the big cop said, “I think you better come with us while we figure out what a stinky kid from the east side is doing over here.” He had a smirk on his face as he winked at his partner.

The cops put me in the cruiser and took me to the police station. They made some phone calls and soon the Detroit cops came to get me. I was back home before dark that night.

I added, “Try to stay cleaner” to my mental list of things to do to keep from getting caught.
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My other blogs:

http://www.theleaderinside.com
http://www.buddhistbelief.com
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Here we go with the next Chapter of Lost and Found.

I did do some fun stuff over my birthday — went to my favorite restaurant here in Centerville, Flavors. I just love going there. The owners, Rich and Elaine, are phenomenal people. The atmosphere is great — not at all typical for restaurants. It’s kind of like sitting down with a big family. Patrons talk with each other — the owners come out and gab with everyone — and the food — well, suffice it to say the name of place is perfect — everything is loaded with “flavor”. Also went to a Mystery Theater performance with two of our friends — it was fun — the acting was mediocre — but it was a fun evening. Finally, did have a great evening with our next door neighbors, Adam and Nicole. Wonderful people, fantastic neighbors and a great meal. Plus, Adam and I share the same birth date — not the same year, though.

Okay, I’ll shut up so you can get to reading.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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My street-fighting training sessions with Billy continued all through the winter. I knew I was getting stronger and more confident all the time, plus I was growing to the point where I was nearly as big as Billy. We spent many hours talking about running away from home and how to do it without getting caught every time. Those conversations usually started whenever I would show up at the bowling alley with bruises or swelling on my face and arms.

“One of the reasons I keep getting caught,” I was explaining to Billy, “is because I have to get from wherever I’m hanging out during the day to wherever I’m going to sleep at night. Every time I got caught it was because the cops knew about me and they spotted me riding my bike after dark. I was also riding on main streets. So, I think I need to stay on the side streets where they won’t be driving around so much.”

“Yeah,” Billy said, “There’s a couple of guys with the Dukes who are runaways and they stay as invisible as they can all the time.”

I thought about that for a minute and said, “When the weather’s warmer I ride the bus to Highland Park or Hamtramck and sneak into garages and sleep in people’s cars. But the cops still manage to find me sooner or later and make me go home again.”

Billy nodded and said, “I think the main reason you’re getting caught is because you’re still pretty young and the cops can spot younger kids easier than someone who’s older. If people see a kid your age wandering around and they don’t know who it is, they’re gonna call the cops on you.”

Billy stopped to light a cigarette and went on, “Another thing to think about is if the cops get tired of you running away all the time, they might put you into reform school instead of just making you go home. I know a couple of guys who’ve been in there and they didn’t like it at all!”

I had never thought about the possibility of having to go to reform school. I didn’t know much about it but I didn’t think I would care to be in there.

Billy was quiet for a little longer, took another drag off his smoke, ground it out and then added, “And you know, you don’t think about what you have to do to stay out of sight. When you don’t show up for dinner, your old man and old lady are gonna call the cops right away, especially now that you already did this a few times. So you gotta make yourself invisible right away.”

I knew Billy was right but I was still struggling with how I could make it happen.

“So, how do I make myself invisible?” I asked. “I still have to get from one place to the next. I don’t have any one place where I can stay.”

Billy got the same look on his face he got when he was going to teach me something. I don’t think he knew it, but he reminded me of what a teacher in school looked like when they were really into whatever they were talking about. His face sort of changed from his tough, street-fighter look, into, what I would imagine was what an older brother would look like.

He said, “Before you ever step out in any street, you gotta check to make sure there ain’t no cops around. If you see a cop car, you gotta get outta sight right away. It’s sort of like you have to pretend you just robbed a store or something, and you don’t want to get caught.”

I nodded as I thought about what it would feel like to rob a store.

Billy went on to say, “You gotta learn to stay in the alleys and behind the stores. Use the vacant lots to get from one street to another and find guys who’ll hide you in their basements or garages.”

We stayed quiet for several minutes and Billy lit another cigarette.

I said, “Yeah, and I gotta figure out how I’m gonna make it when the weather gets cold. So far, all I’ve done is take off in the summer.”

Billy was nodding his head and scratching his neck. He looked at me through the smoke coming from his cigarette and said, “Don’t forget, when the weather gets cold you’re gonna have to learn how to steal food and clothes, too. Those guys living on the streets have to be smart not to get caught. But, you ain’t like most little kids anymore. You’re learning how to fight good and you’re smart enough.”

I knew Billy was right about everything he said. I also knew I wasn’t ready to try to run away during the winter. I still had a lot to learn. I had to keep learning how to be a good fighter so I could defend myself on the streets if I needed to. I had to learn how to keep from starving. If I was going to run away for good, I had to learn how to keep from freezing in the colder months. I realized I would have to learn how to steal food and money, especially in the winter. Running away in the summer worked for me because I could work at the track to have enough money for food, and find places to sleep. The Victory Gardens were also there for the picking. But the track closed down during the winter. If I was on the streets, I couldn’t work at the bowling alley. I needed to find other ways to get money. I needed to get some friends I could count on to help me when I needed it.

It was this kind of thinking that started me on the path to becoming a member of the State Fair Dukes street gang.
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