(NOTE) This blog was hacked recently and one of the things left behind after the hack was most of the punctuation was altered. The punctuation is now some sort of hieroglyphics. I am going through the chapters and manually changing each one. Most of the older Chapters are finished, and I’m now working on the early Chapters. So, if you happen onto some I haven’t finished as yet, I apologize, but I should be done soon. Thanks for your patience.)
Lost and Found
By Ron Rink
I hated the attic. It smelled — some kind of rotten smell like something had died. Most of the time I never noticed the smell, but that afternoon it was bad.
The guys at the Sugar Bowl, the confectionary store where my gang hung out, were going to get some grass, and I wanted some for myself. I’d been setting pins at the bowling alley and doing odd jobs at the racetrack, but I didn’t have enough money to pay for the marijuana. I had some, probably more than most kids who were eleven years old, but still not enough. Luckily, the boss at the bowling alley paid us in cash and I was able to keep some out of the money I had to give to my parents. They didn’t know about my work at the racetrack, so I was able to keep all that money. The only other way I could put together enough money for grass was to steal it.
That’s why I was in this terrible attic.
The gang I belonged to always wore black jackets with “SFD” on the back with a skull and crossbones emblem over the letters. We wore peg pants, and kept our shirt and jacket collars turned up in back. Everyone knew we were the toughest gang on the east side of Detroit. We were known as the “State Fair Dukes”, because the Sugar Bowl store is on the street called State Fair, plus our neighborhood was close to the State Fairgrounds. The girls that hung out with us were “The Duchesses”.
I wore my hair a lot longer than my parents wanted. All of the Dukes wore their hair long with a ducktail cut in the back. I was bigger than most kids my age, and getting the hang of looking tough came easy. One of my friends was teaching me how to be a good street fighter. I was learning to walk tough — not a swagger exactly — more of a way of swinging my shoulders and hips that let people know I could take care of myself. If I smiled at all, it was only a quick here-and-gone twitch of the lips. The whole image was part of “being bad, man!”
I couldn’t wear gang clothes at home. So, every day when I left for school, I’d wear what my parents allowed me to wear, which was usually a pair of overalls and a shirt or sweater. Then I’d go to a friend’s house on the way to school and change clothes. I kept a couple pairs of peg pants, a couple shirts and one of our gang jackets at his house. I also had an extra pair of shoes called “stompers”. They were heavy leather shoes with wide toes. The idea was that if you got somebody down on the ground during a fight, these shoes would do a good job of kicking because of the wide toe. I put cleats on the heels so I’d have that neat “click-click” when I walked. It was cool. I even had a pocket-watch chain to wear with the peg pants.
Since there was no way I could ever come up with the money I needed for the marijuana on my own, I was hoping my parents would have some money stashed away somewhere in the house. I’d searched through all their drawers and stuff downstairs but I didn’t find any. The only other place to look was in the attic.
The sweat was pouring off me it was so hot. I raised the shade and opened the window but I still felt like I was suffocating. I didn’t like it up there at all. It was a devil’s den.
My father first brought me up to the attic when I was around six or seven years old. My memory of that first time is as vivid today as it was on that day. I can still feel the fear in the pit of my stomach when I think about it. I hadn’t done anything bad that day. He just came home in a terrible, crazy mood and started yelling at my mother and me.
He was shouting things like, “I work all day and have to come home to this sloppy, messy house!”
Or, “What were you doing that kept you so busy dinner isn’t started yet?”
Or, “Why don’t you get that boy to help you instead of letting him just play around all day?”
My father was a little over six feet tall and had light, thin reddish hair, sort of a carrot color. Sometimes other men called him “Slim”. His arms were long and you could see freckles on his skin through his arm hair. His hands were large. When I was little, I would look at his hands on the steering wheel of the car and think how enormous they were as they grasped the wheel with that same reddish hair and freckles on the backs of his hands and arms.
I don’t know if calling my father anti-social would be completely accurate, but he was certainly one of the quietest, inwardly focused people you’d ever meet. There weren’t any “How was your day?” conversations in my house. About all I’d ever seen him do at home was read the newspaper or his Bible — take naps — eat dinner — or do bookwork in the basement. Occasionally he and my mother would have friends over to play cards, but even then, he didn’t make small talk — he just focused on the game. After the friends left, he’d usually complain to my mother, “I wish those people would quit jabbering so much and concentrate more on the game.”
That first awful day I tried to sneak off into my room, but he grabbed me by the arm, stared at me with venom in his eyes and snarled, “You just stay put here, boy! Don’t you go trying to sneak off somewhere while I’m talking to you!”
Then he picked up his Bible from the side table in the living room, grabbed me with his huge hand by the back of my neck and hissed, “You and me, we’re going to pay a visit up in the attic that’ll get you to understand what I’m talking about!”
He tucked the Bible under his arm and with one hand on the back of my neck and the other on the seat of my pants, he pushed me up the stairs in front of him. I tripped on the steps because he was pushing me so fast. He picked me up like I weighed only a couple of pounds and yelled, “Get on your feet, boy! What’s the matter with you falling down like that? Get on up there!”
He started shoving me around the attic space. I stumbled backwards after each shove, but he’d come after me and shove me again, jabbing at my shoulders and chest with his hand, yelling, “What’s the matter with you? Why were you sneaking off into your room when I was talking to you?”
I was so scared I wet my pants. I started to cry and pleaded with him to stop. He slapped me hard in the face.
My memory is blank about the rest of that time. I don’t need to remember it though — there were plenty of other times to keep my memory fresh, even after all these years.
I didn’t know where to start looking — there were so many boxes. Everything was dark, dusty and smelled moldy—it reminded me of the awful Limburger cheese my father liked. One thing I did know about my parents — they’d be more likely to stash money in the house than in a bank. My father was always saying, “I don’t trust banks — what’s to stop those bank people from picking up my money and walking off with it?”
Even with the window shade up, I could barely see. I doubted either of them would be good at hiding anything. They never had to learn to be sneaky. The only thing my mother ever found that I’d hidden was a box of rubbers. I’d tucked them under some clothes in my dresser and planned to hide them better later on, but she found them before I got around to it.
“Roland,” she said in an authoritative voice shaking the small blue box in front of my face, “what in the world are these things doing in your dresser drawer?”
I didn’t know how to respond, but I think I said something weak like, “Geez, Mom, I don’t know where those came from.” I’d never even used a rubber — but I’d sure dreamt about doing it often enough. One of the older guys in the gang had given them to me — “Just in case you ever need one,” he’d said with a smirk. My mother fussed and fumed and sputtered! She didn’t know what to say. Her face got all red and splotchy and she mumbled something about putting them into the trash and burning them. I often wondered if she really knew what they were.
I spotted a box marked “Old Papers” that wasn’t taped shut. It was a National Biscuit Company box marked Premium Crackers. My father had worked for them since he was in his teens. It’s the only job he ever had other than a paper route when he was a kid. He started out as a truck driver for them and eventually became a salesman.
I dug through the box but there was nothing in it that I was looking for — it contained just a bunch of boring old papers.
Even though I didn’t fear him as much in those days as I did when I was younger, I knew that if my father caught me snooping around in those boxes he’d give me another terrible beating. He’d been dragging me up in the attic for so many years that I’d learned not to show him the pain and fear. I’d just stare at him without crying, no matter how hard he’d hit me. I hoped that if he didn’t think he was hurting me, he’d just stop. I often wondered what he would do if I fought back, especially since I was a good street fighter.
Under the Old Papers box was a box marked Valuable Records. Inside were records about their house and church.
My parents were raised in the Dutch Reformed Church. This church had some of the strangest rules, especially if you were a young person. One of them was that you couldn’t do any work on Sundays—something they followed to the letter. My mother prepared the Sunday meal, usually a roast with potatoes and vegetables, on Saturday night. She’d put the whole dinner in a roaster and turn it on before we went to church. It would be done cooking when we got home. Even the dishes weren’t washed until Monday—they sat and soaked overnight. Most people got their Sunday paper on Sunday morning. My parents had the boy deliver theirs on Saturday night. My father bought his gas for the car on Saturday so he wouldn’t be the cause for the gas station guy to work on Sunday. I couldn’t figure those things out. The paperboy still had to deliver the rest of his papers on Sunday, and the gas station guy still had to be there on Sunday, regardless.
I found a green metal box underneath some of the house papers in the Valuable Records box, but it was locked. My boss at the bowling alley had one just like it where he kept his cash. He always brought it out when he got the money to pay us kids. Had I found my pot-of-gold?
Why else would they have a box up there with a lock on it? I knew there was a bunch of keys hanging on a hook near the back door. I had to hustle though. My mother had gone to a neighbor’s house to do some sewing. She was due back and I didn’t want to think about the consequences if I got caught.
Out of about fourteen or fifteen keys hanging on that hook, there were a few that looked a lot like the one for my boss’s cash box. The first three that I tried didn’t work but the fourth one turned the lock easily and I opened the lid.
There wasn’t any money that I could see — just a photo and an envelope. The photo was a plain black and white shot of some little kid in a wicker laundry basket — cute kid — I guessed it was a little boy — just a baby — not even a year old. The basket was behind an old frame house or garage. The building didn’t look painted and the wood was weathered. The laundry basket was one of those oval wicker types sitting up on a wooden stand. The baby was holding himself up by the top of the basket and grinning from ear to ear.
The envelope had some folded papers in it, but no money that I could see. The papers looked official…
Children’s Aid Society—Page 1
Name: Roland Gene Flynn—Case No. 32742
How strange that seemed. The first and middle name were mine but the last name was different. My last name wasn’t Flynn. There was some definite confusion in my young mind.
PERSONAL HISTORY — MATERNAL
Description: The mother is 5’ 4 ½“ tall and weighs 114#. She is a nicely built girl and appears healthy. The mother is an attractive girl with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a nice complexion. Her teeth are crooked and in poor condition.
If the papers were about me, it made no sense. My mother didn’t have blue eyes or crooked teeth, and she sure didn’t come close to 114 pounds — she was way over that. She was short, somewhat wide and not too tall.
Who was Roland Gene Flynn? Was it possible that my father was mixed up with someone else and maybe my mother wasn’t really my mother? For a religious nut like him — going on and on about sinning all the time, that wasn’t believable. Moreover, his last name wasn’t Flynn. I didn’t know of anybody in our family that had the name “Flynn”.
Birth: The mother was born on 6/6/14 in Pennsylvania.
I knew that couldn’t have been about my mother. My mother wasn’t born in Pennsylvania; she was born in Holland, Michigan. I’d been to Holland enough times to know. I’d seen pictures of her when she was young with her sisters and brothers. I’d met them all; they were all born in Holland, Michigan. I think her birthday was in September, not in June. I knew she was born before 1914. Anyone born in 1914 would be about 31 in 1945 — my mother was in her 50s. Her hair was short and gray and the wrinkles had started to crease her face.
Who was this “mother” born on 6/6/14 in Pennsylvania?
Health: She was a normal, full-term baby. During childhood she had only whooping cough and three-day measles. She reached puberty at the age of 12 and her periods have been regular and painless. She claims she had no illnesses such as tuberculosis, cancer, syphilis, epilepsy, insanity, and venereal disease, and no miscarriages or stillbirths.
Mental: The mother was given a mental examination on 3/5/35 and her intelligence quotient was 120.
3/5/35—was just over a year after I was born. My birthday is in January and I was born in 1934. The part about the crooked teeth was interesting. In those years I didn’t have any teeth that looked like they belonged to the same mouth. Kids were always teasing me about my teeth. “Hey, Rollo, waddya put between those two front teeth, huh?” Or sometimes, “Hey beaver, when you gonna chew down a tree for your new house?”
I had whooping cough when I was younger, and I had pneumonia twice.
The idea that I was reading about my “real” mother had begun sinking in. I was frightened and confused — even feeling sick to my stomach. I had completely forgotten about finding money.
Employment: The mother states that she worked four months in the filing department of a department store. While employed in Florida in the winter of 1931 she worked packing oranges. On returning to the North she secured a job at a bakery and worked there for two years. At the present time she is working in a restaurant.
The mother I’d lived with never had a real job, not even when she was younger. She played the organ at some church when she was young, but she never said anything about other jobs. Being a church organist was her life.
Home Environment: The mother states that her home life has never been pleasant as her own father drank a great deal which, of course, made it disagreeable at home. Her mother and father were separated when she was 8 years old and she does not know where her father is. Her mother remarried and the mother of this child is now living with her mother and stepfather. The mother advises that both her mother and stepfather are unstable as they make a decision one day and change it the next, therefore making an unsettled condition at home.
“…and the mother of this child” — that clinched it — “this child” was me. I realized my mother must have adopted me. But where did my father fit into all this? Was he my real father?
Religion: The mother claims she is a Protestant, although not affiliated with any church and rarely attends.
Recreation: The mother has always enjoyed swimming, dancing, ice-skating and roller-skating, as well as an occasional movie.
That cleared up any question about who “the mother” was. The “mother” I’d lived with was definitely affiliated with a church.
Recreational activities, like dancing, roller skating and going to movies were thought of as sinful in the Dutch Reformed religion. She would never have danced or roller-skated. “The mother” was my real mother.
Marital History: The mother was married on 2/14/35 to a man other than the father of this child.
Police record: Admits to none.
Institutional history: None.
… “to a man other than the father of this child”. I felt anger greater than I had ever felt. My hands and body were trembling; my mouth was dry as sand. The fear of being in the attic alone had disappeared. It had been replaced by a frightening understanding that the parents who seemed to hate me were not my real parents, though I was still confused about my real father. Who was the man with the fists and the Bible — and who is the man who is “the father of this child”?
Paternity — Mother’s Story: The mother named a man who is married and separated from his wife as the father of her child. She met him in the fall of 1931 at which time he lived in the lower flat below her and her mother and stepfather. The mother and her boyfriend and this man and his wife, would often double date. Gradually, as their friendship grew, they would exchange partners. The mother stated that several months later they had sexual relations, and from then on it would occur two or three times a week. The father has been employed at a paint company for a number of years. The mother stated that at the time he was living with his wife, but had left her several times and was planning to divorce her and marry the mother of this child.
The realization that the “father” who treated me so cruelly wasn’t my real father caused the anger to bloom like a bomb inside me. I wanted to stop reading but I couldn’t put the paper down. My body was shaking so hard it could have broken into a million shattered pieces. I wasn’t crying, but the tears rolled out of my eyes like raindrops on a windowpane. I could barely read the words.
Legal Action: A bastardy warrant was taken out on 8/31/1933. Examination was held on 9/9/1933 and the father of this child held for a circuit court hearing on 6/1/1934. The father of this child pled guilty and was ordered to pay $2.50 a week, the order to date from 7/1/1934.
One of the guys in the gang, Jimmy Cross, was always talking about how he was adopted. He told me his adopted parents kept telling him that they chose him — they had found him. As for me — if being adopted was being found, I wanted to be lost again.
I wondered if being adopted meant you were a bastard. If I had ever called Jimmy a bastard, I’d have had a serious fight on my hands. If anyone had called me a bastard, the son-of-a-bitch would’ve been on the ground and getting stomped before he knew what hit him.
Children: Roland Gene was born on 1/28/1934 at the Women’s Hospital in Detroit. He was a full term baby and the delivery was normal. At the time of this history he was a bottle-fed child and in the best of health. Before confinement, the mother talked to her mother about the possibility of bringing the baby home from the hospital. After confinement, she tried this plan and found that it was not satisfactory as the child made both her mother and stepfather nervous. Therefore, it was necessary to return the child to Valley Farm until a boarding home was found for him through the Children’s Aid Society.
There was no longer any doubt in my mind — I was adopted and these people who I thought were my mother and father were not my real parents. All I had at that point, beside the terrible gnawing anger, was question after question. Where did they find me? Why did they want to adopt a child? Why hadn’t they told me? Why did they keep it a secret? Why did they act as though they hated me? As my mind worked through all that information, I began to savor my anger and newfound hate towards them.
Impression of Mother: The mother appears to be a refined type of girl and one who would not be considered promiscuous. She has a nice personality and is an intelligent talker.
Paternal Family History: The father is 5’7” tall and weighs 155 pounds. He has dark hair, dark eyes and a dark, clear complexion. He has a square jaw and a forceful but pleasing personality.
Birth: The father was born 2/26/1907 in Pennsylvania.
Health: The father has always been in good health. He states that he does not remember ever having been seriously ill. He had childhood diseases such as measles and mumps but has never undergone an operation. He has suffered no accidents or injuries.
Mentality: The father was given a mental test and had an I.Q. of 115.
Education: The father completed the third year of high school at the age of 16. He said he would like to have gone on to school and college but his father died at this time and it was necessary for him to go to work.
Employment: The father has been employed for the last seven years with a paint company. Four years prior to that time he was in the Marines.
Home Environment: The father’s family maintained a comfortable and happy home up until the time he was 16 years of age. At this time, his father died and it was necessary for him to become self-supporting. The father described his home life as happy and the atmosphere as congenial. He always lived in a city home but had ample opportunities for recreation and social activities in the home.
Religion: The father is Protestant and attends a Lutheran Church.
Recreation: The father is particularly fond of swimming and baseball and enjoys reading.
Habits: The father smokes and drinks moderately. He does not use drugs.
Extra-marital Sex History: The father admitted that while in the Marines he had some sex experience. Since his affair with the mother there has been no history of extra-marital sex relations.
Marital History: The father married while in the Marines and has been married for 9 years. He has two boys, age 8 and 10. He insists that his married life was happy until he started running around and he believes he and his wife will be able to reestablish their domestic life on a satisfactory basis now that this present difficulty has been taken care of. The father speaks highly of his wife yet was ready to leave her for Roland’s mother.
Police Record: The father denies any arrests except on the bastardy charge involved in this case.
Impression of Alleged Father: The father was neatly and carefully dressed when he appeared in the office for the interview. He was cooperative, friendly, serious, and appeared to be eager to help make a suitable plan for Roland. He was much interested in the little boy and asked many questions about him.
I’d finally reached the last page.
The last thing I did was to put the photo and the papers back in the green cash box, lock it and put everything back the way I found it. I went downstairs and put the key back on the hook. Then I went to my room and sat on my bed in a daze. After a moment or two, I knelt down and pulled out the box where all the Boy’s Life magazines were stacked. Buried in between the magazines was my Composition Book where I often wrote my private thoughts. It fell open to something I had written when I was eight-years old:
“I hate him,” it said. “I’m going to run away.”
I then flipped to the page after my last entry and wrote, “I hate them. I’m running away — for good this time.”
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