STRUGGLES OF A COUNTRY BOY
by
Herb Blanchard
Struggles of a Country Boy
by Herb Blanchard
Copyright 2011 Herb Blanchard
Cover photo & others from the author’s collection
An Okinawan Affair
Shuri Gate
My Life Before & Without Boomers & Yuppies
BOOK DESCRIPTION
This is the fictionalized story of the author's growing up years during the 1950s. It is the story of a troubled boy, a dysfunctional family and how the boy learned to cope with the adversities life threw at him.
The 1950s was the time when it was generally thought the ideal way to raise a boy was to live in the country, give him a dog, a .22 rifle and let him roam the open fields and woods and for Brad Burgess this was indeed the case. Although he was a troubled youth Brad was a unique person and his way of dealing with the adversities in his life were often dangerous for a young boy but showed great courage and a strong will for survival in a world he did not completely understand. Brad's major problems were precipitated by his mother. It becomes obvious to the reader that she had major mental problems. Her rages were short lived but extremely dangerous for a boy who could easily trigger one or be in the way when life took a twist his mother would be unable to deal with. Her dissatisfaction with life was not particularly different from other people's but the way she dealt with it was.
Brad was sexually abused by his ten year older half brother before he entered the first grade and again later when he was 7 and 8 years old. We see the effect of this abuse on his relationship with people, particularly women, though no connection is ever made between the abuse and these relationships in that era of time.
Brad learned to protect himself in a family environment which at times appeared to be uncaring and against his best interests as a young man. While at the same time he discovered the good in his away-from-family environment, in the people he got to know and those who got to know him for the caring human being he developed into.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my paternal grandmother, Clara Burgess Blanchard.
The only sane person in the family.
ONE
The image of the black cast iron skillet raised like a prehistoric club over her head, and the wild primitive look in his mother's eyes would stay with Brad Burgess forever.
The sharp crack of breaking glass slashed the stillness of the Burgess kitchen drowning out the dull thud of the wooden chair striking the French door.
It was carelessness, but the thirteen year old boy hadn't placed the chair in front of the French door with all of its little pieces of fragile glass.
Brad was skinny and small for his age, but wiry and fast from many hours of roaming in the woods, and he had developed a strong instinct for self preservation which made him react instantaneously.
It was just a split second after he had humped the chair up onto its back legs, felt it slam into the door and heard the sound of shattering glass that his hazel eyes took in the hunk of swinging iron. Terrified, Brad bolted off the chair. A fraction of a second and he was in a crouching gallop going around the towering, enraged female figure who stood between him and escape. Brad swung himself through the doorway into the narrow hall skidding on a throw rug in his haste to escape. He caught himself on the ugly black varnished maple buffet with the cracked marble top. His balance regained, he sprinted down the dimly lit hall towards the back of the house.
He slowed just enough to jerk open the door into the pump room. Two quick steps skirting the water pump and pressure tank and he was across the room.
His right foot came up to kick the scarred door blocking his way. He struck the door with all his strength.
The door snapped open with a shower of wood splinters from its tired frame. The brass striker plate spun by his ear like a piece of hot shrapnel.
The door crashed against the wall and bounced back.
Brad caught the rebounding door with a small, dirty hand slamming it back towards the wall in one flowing motion.
It's open! Brad thought when he saw through his tears of fright that the outside door was open. Less than fifty feet away was the safety of the trees.
Is she chasing me? I don't dare look back, passed through Brad's mind as he vaulted onto the broken granite rocks which formed the stone wall which ran around the side and back perimeters of the house.
The shock of landing on the slabs of granite hurt the balls of his feet through the worn, paper thin soles of his cheap sneakers.
Brad felt secure the instant he entered the woods. This was his domain, his sanctuary. Here, he could escape from the raised voices, arguments and physical threats which were part of his everyday life. He slowed slightly before trotting deeper into the trees where he was sure no one could see him from the backyard.
His heart was still pounding when Brad wiped the tears from his cheeks and bent forward, with his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
A slow change came over Brad as he caught his breath. He raised his head, stood a little straighter and looked around his little piece of the New Hampshire forest. He listened to the familiar sounds of the woods, adjusted his ball cap low on his forehead before looking back towards the red trimmed, white bungalow. Satisfied that no one was pursuing him, he turned back towards the house.
His mother's rages never lasted long. In minutes, sometimes only seconds, and they were over. But it was the lack of any expression of remorse that hurt. Even a quiet "I'm sorry, Brad," would have dulled his pain. It was not like he wanted to be held or hugged. That didn't happen in his family. A ritual peck on the cheek at bedtime was all of the physical contact in the Burgess household.
"The hell with her!" Brad spoke loudly to the trees while he wiped the last traces of his tears away.
It only took him a couple of minutes to slip through the door from the porch and into the house. He got his .22 rifle from his bedroom before quietly going back towards the front of the house. Instead of going directly outside Brad took a half step into the kitchen and in the doorway looking slowly from the pieces of glass scattered in an arc around the French door and the offending chair to his mother’s rigid back as she stood motionless in front of the kitchen stove. He continued to stand in the doorway and scuffed a nervous toe against the threshold. He shifted the little rifle from one hand to the other when he wiped his clammy hands on the upper leg of his thin dungarees.
He stared at the rigid back and felt the lump of emotion in his throat. That awful sense of being alone was returning to overwhelm him again. He shook his head sadly. Hot tears welled in his eyes as he slipped quietly back out the door.
"Let's go, Rusty." He spoke in a subdued voice to the brown and white mongrel bitch who had been lying in ambush behind the stonewall.
The two friends started up the driveway towards the neighbor's place. It was the only other house within a mile. While Brad lived right on the state road, the French's house was a quarter of a mile up a sandy lane from the narrow highway. Brad followed the driveway past the barn and with the big New England farm house on his right, went down the gentle slope to the creek bottom where the French family had their acre of vegetable garden.
"Maybe the woodchuck is out, Rusty. Stay close now."
He tried to snap his fingers to call her to him. As usual he blew it. All he got was a muffled sound like two pieces of cloth rubbing together. And as usual, the dog ignored him. She took off at an aggressive trot for the farmhouse's wide country porch. Brad didn't pay any more attention to his two year old mutt; she was rubbing noses with the French's collie-cross, who was he
r mother.
Rusty followed Brad everywhere. She was loyal to a fault, but had absolutely no discipline. She did just what she wanted to do. Anyway, it didn't matter, his mind was on the possibility of shooting the fat woodchuck who had taken up residence in the French's huge garden. Brad wanted to get the laugh on Doctor French's two grandsons, Robbie and Ernie, by doing it. Brad didn't really like them and was sure the feeling was mutual, particularly Ernest who was the oldest. Smart-assed bastard, Brad thought, distracted from his mission for a second by envy and resentment. Carefully, Brad kept the newly painted garden shed between himself and the rows of vegetables. He set each foot down deliberately, quietly stalking closer towards the garden and its elusive resident.
When he reached the corner of the freshly painted white garden shed he turned towards the big white farm house which stood only fifty or so feet away.
Brad felt a quick flash of heat rush across his face as his thoughts went back to an afternoon last summer.
It was right after lunch on a hot, late June day, the second week of school vacation. He walked up to the French's looking for Robbie and Ernie to go swimming.
When Brad reached the big barn he decided to look for the boys out by the farm pond first. He started across the front lawn walking towards the cool looking water when he saw Rita French, Robbie's and Ernie's mother stretched out on a white blanket by the edge of the man-made lake. The thirty-something mother was clad in short-shorts and a skimpy halter top. So taken by the female figure before him all Brad could verbalize was, "H-h-i, Ri--ta."
"The boys aren't here, Brad. They went to Nashua with their father." Rita flashed even white teeth which were in sharp contrast to her overall mahogany colored tan.
"They won't be home until supper time. Come here, Brad. Do me a favor, will you?"
Rita raised up and took a red tipped hand from under her dimpled chin, patted a spot on the soft, cotton blanket next to her bare right shoulder.
Brad hesitated when he reached the edge of the white cloth and looked down at the skimpily clad 'mother figure' below him. He felt the heat of his blush race up the back of his neck and into his ears. The boy felt a cold sweat breakout on his head when he realized Rita was watching him stare at her barely covered breasts.
"Here, Brad," she had a soft understanding smile when she patted the blanket again, "I need you . . . ," she was still smiling softly and ignoring Brad's discomfort which was increasing each time she moved to make room for him on the tiny blanket, "to look at my back and be sure I'm not getting too much sun. Look close for small white blisters, Brad. I don't want to peel and ruin my tan."
Brad was dying, his heart was racing and he could hardly breath. His thoughts were confused and racing in all directions at once. He was in a situation way beyond his years.
"Here Brad, put some of this on my back. It's a special formula that I read about in GOOD HOUSEKEEPING. It won't let your skin dry out. Are there any blisters?" Rita was holding a small glass bottle in her left hand, close to her breasts.
Brad watched the shimmering mixture with fascination. He was sure it was made of exotic oils and perfumes. The bronze liquid rippled against the inside of the clear glass bottle with each tiny motion of Rita's tiny, soft hand. Brad reached over her shoulder and hesitantly took hold of the small bottle.
"I don't see an-ny. Y--ur back is all oily, Rita."
She took the bottle from his hand. "Never mind then. If there are no blisters and there's still oil on me, I don't need you to rub more on me." She turned around and lay back down on the blanket.
"Good-by, Brad, I'll tell the boys you were here."
He bounced up onto his feet and hurried away.
"I hope she isn't mad because she caught me looking at her boobs." Brad spoke quietly to himself with feelings of wonder and guilt as he trotted across the wide, green lawn in his rush to get away from this seductive creature. "Damn! I hope she doesn't tell my mother. If she does I'll really be in trouble."
He turned back to be sure Rita was still on her blanket and not hurrying into the house to call his mother. He saw the inert form on the blanket much as he had left her.
Brad blinked his eyes, wiped away a trace of spider web from his face. He thought of all the agony he had suffered since that day. Every time the phone rang had become a traumatic moment for him. He was sure it was Rita calling Carrie to tell her the awful thing her son had done. Whenever he had the faintest inkling his mother and Rita might be talking to each other the pit of his stomach would knot up in fear. It had happened over three months ago and he was still living with the guilt of wanting to see and touch Rita's bare breasts.
He turned back towards the garden. "Bitch," he said aloud and started across the vegetable patch kicking at the rows of dried up string bean bushes as he went. The woodchuck was forgotten for the moment.
"Come on, Rusty!" Brad hollered at his dog.
He heard the mongrel racing after him when he entered the trees and stepped onto an old logging road which was so overgrown with brush that few people knew of its existence. It led to a newer road which would take him to the south end of the sugar maple orchard. Close to the orchard was the slab-sided cabin which he used as a hideout.
The trees and brush had encroached into the center of the road, but he could move swiftly and quietly through the smaller weeds and grasses growing in the wheel ruts. Coming around a bend in the road he could see where the trees gave way to a large sun-lit meadow. On a small knoll to his right, East, stood a huge sugar maple, his landmark to the cabin. Brad was sure the ancient giant was five or six hundred years old. To the north of the massive old tree was the slab-sided cabin. In its front wall were two windows whose panes of glass had twisted and distorted with time. They made the sun dance and race about the walls whenever a faint breeze would move them in their loose fitting frames. The front and only door was split, Dutch style. It was made of thick pieces of rough white pine which were gray and cracked with age.
Just before he stepped into the clearing Brad saw the cabin's door was ajar, not much, only several inches. When he was here on Wednesday or Thursday evening, he couldn't remember which, the door had been open then also. But he had closed and latched it after checking inside for a stray porcupine that he might collect the bounty on.
Brad looked around and listened for any strange sounds and also for Rusty who was nowhere in hearing or sight.
I wonder where that mutt is now?
Brad slipped through the brush around to the west side of the clearing. It was a maneuver he had used before to scare the French kids when they had hid from him in the cabin.
Creeping quietly to the front corner of the one room cabin, Brad stopped before stepping around the corner towards the front door. He felt the hair raise on the back of his neck. The palms of his hands became slick and wet. His heart raced.
The soft footfalls on the cabin's worn pine board floor penetrated the thick slab walls only as pressure and faint squeaks of the boards. The footfalls were quickly followed by the solid thump of a heavy body dropping to the floor.
Though scared, Brad clung to the corner of the building with his left hand. His right hand held the .22 out around the corner pointing towards the front door. Behind his little rifle, one slow step at a time, Brad steadily crept around the corner of the cabin. One uneasy step at a time he made his way towards the open door.
THUMP! Thump! THUMMP!
Brad's heart did a skip and threatened to quit.
The familiar jingle of the dog's chain collar and license tags erupted from inside the cabin when she chased another flea up her side and across her ribs.
"You fucking jerk! Where did you come from? You scared the shit out of me! Someday I'm going to shoot you just to get even." Brad hollered false threats at his dog when he stepped up onto the slab of gray granite that served as the cabin's front step.
With her eyes laughing and a sm
ile on her glossy black lips, the brown and white mutt charged out the door around Brad's legs. She was in close pursuit of another nonexistent rabbit.
All of the furnishings, except for a couple of built-in shelves hanging on the walls, had been removed from the cabin years before. Brad and the French boys had dragged an old bed frame to the cabin the summer before and it was there if someone was brave enough to sleep over.
Not completely satisfied the cabin was empty, Brad looked around carefully. There was no place to hide at the west end where the huge rough rock fireplace took up the whole end wall. He looked across the rock hearth, worn and polished by use, to the bed of cold ashes pushed up into the back right corner of the firebox. It was the remains of the last fire he had built in the late spring, when it was still raining. Wet and cold he had stopped at the cabin to get warm and to dry out after coming off of the mountain. But mostly he had just been killing time. It had been too early to go to a house full of relatives, none of whom he really liked or cared about.
Brad looked over the rest of the room to satisfy himself it was empty before flopping down in the doorway to catch the last bit of afternoon sun.
If I go back just when dad gets there from work she won't say anything to me about the window.
TWO
It was a hard day for Brad. The thought of going back to his house had nagged at his mind most of the day. When he had left for school that morning his mother had been in her bed in the throes of a migraine and was constantly moaning.
She reminded Brad of his sister Greta's cat. It had been hit by a car and for two days laid in a rag-lined cardboard box moaning and growling softly until it finally succumbed to its injuries.
The smell of his mother's bedroom was the combination of a sweaty, sour body and that awful Rexall Balm she used for her headaches. To Brad the balm's overpowering smell of eucalyptus and camphor was ten times more potent than the odor of Vicks Vaporub's that was liberally smeared on him whenever he caught a cold.
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