THOUGHT PROVOKING LESSONS OF LIFE:

As an old Clay County country boy from Doctors Inlet, Florida, I’ve learned a lesson or two about the vagaries of life. I’ve experienced and seen many good things in my 67 years, as well as some things which did not go quite so well. Let’s just say I, like many of you who read this book, have had some very thought provoking lessons of life. As a youngster in Clay County, which is just south of Jacksonville, Florida, I saw and experienced some good and bad like most. Though things were not great when I was just a child, I really didn’t know much better at the time. But, I did realize by the early 1950s, we were quite poor. As the situation was, I wouldn’t have even known that if I had not been required to attend Doctors Inlet Elementary School, which I might add, I hated! Despite that, it didn’t take me long to realize that most of my classmates’ parents had new cars or trucks, electric lights, refrigerators, washing machines, indoor plumbing, some even had telephones, televisions, and a lot of other things which we didn’t. One of the best things I can remember is when my father mail ordered a green manual hand pump from Montgomery Ward, and when the postman brought it, Daddy lifted it onto his shoulder and walked to our old shack about a half mile back into the woods, and then attached the pump to sections of water pipe, which he sunk into the ground for over 25 feet. Afterward, the pump had to be primed before the elixir of life could be sucked out of the unseen water aquifer beneath, which became our primary water supply. Usually, when people hear such an account of poverty, they typically talk about how love helped them make it through those tough times. For some reason, people tend to think of the Walton’s of television fame, but in our day, that kind of thinking didn’t really apply. It was not that we didn’t love each other, but by the time I was eight (1952) my fiery, petite, and beautiful mother who had raven hair and sparkling hazel eyes had been institutionalized. Her part Cherokee blood must have had a great influence on her physical beauty, because at just over five feet tall and 98 pounds, she turned the heads of just about every male in Clay County. With the accepted and general knowledge we have today, postpartum depression may have been a contributor to her sometimes strange and erratic behavior, which country folks, or doctors for that matter, knew little to nothing about in the early 1950s. It was 1950 when my younger brother, Talmadge, was born.Before she was forcefully taken away by two Deputy Sheriffs of Clay County, with difficulty I might add, we were very close, and that was one of the reasons I didn’t like having to leave her when I had to go to school. I was used to my father being away from the house, because he had to work at the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida to support us. Sure, I knew my father, two brothers (at that time), and sister loved me, but poverty has a way of beating you down, obscuring things which really mattered. After my mother was taken away in 1952, I only saw her for short periods of time, briefly, during the summer of 1954 and the summer of 1955. While she was in Chattahoochee, Florida, an asylum for the insane, where apparently, she contracted tuberculosis (TB) from which she died on November 18, 1955, at age 41, when I was 11. Her last few days on Mother Earth were spent, alone, no family and friends by her side in a TB sanatorium in Tampa, Florida. The last time I saw her alive was there at the sanatorium sitting in a wheelchair on the second floor balcony breezeway. We exchanged hand waves, because I was not allowed to go up and see her, because it was feared that I might become infected. At that young age, I really didn’t care if I became ill or not. I just wanted to be with my mother again.Her funeral at Peoria Cemetery, a few days later, in Doctors Inlet, Florida left me emotionally damaged and scarred beyond words. Some of our relatives and well-meaning neighbors forced me to view her in that casket, by practically dragging me up to it. The last thing I did for her that day was to place a pearly-white cross on top of the casket, before it was lowered into the ground. The cross was something I had won at Jacksonville Beach in the summer of 1954 with my last quarter. I picked the cross as my prize and saved it so that I could give it to her when she came home, but she never made it back. That day I could hardly see through the volume of tears which poured from my eyes, flowing down my face like a little waterfall. That particular pain has never left me to this day. Right then and there I promised myself no one would ever make me do anything again which I did not want to do. That was an unforgettable lesson of life. When friends and relatives tell you that you will get over the death of someone special in your life, they are dead wrong! You never get over it, you just get passed it. We come to this Earth for only a short while, so we should make the most of our brief visit and hopefully do as much of God’s work as we can. In March of 1961, at the age of 16, I saw my 49 year old father, a good, decent, bright, and insightful man, for the last time. He was a security guard whoworked the graveyard shift at the local Gypsum Plant, which was a major sheetrock manufacturing facility on the north side of Jacksonville. Three days later, his body was found floating in the brackish water of the St. Johns River by some fishermen about a mile down the St. Johns from the Plant. When they tried to fish him out of the water by his gun belt, it broke and the .38 Smith & Wesson side arm he carried was never recovered. The coroner’s report stated that it was “probable accidental drowning.” When the funeral services were held, he was buried in Peoria Cemetery, along side of my mother three days after his body was found. I didn’t even go inside the chapel. Besides, the casket was closed, because of the condition of his body after three days of being in the water. By then, crabs and fish had ravaged his remains. I can assure you that no one even tried to force me into the funeral service, because as far as I was concerned, I was on my own, and I became a man. Admittedly, a little early, but I made sure I was left alone. Before you might be tempted to conclude that I am complaining or whining, which is understandable, I am not, because I’ve had a good life, achieved a great deal, and have been successful in many ways, at least, in my eyes. Still, I encountered some heavy-duty bumps along the rough, winding, hilly, and sometimes treacherous road of life. There is an old adage which states that if it were not for the hills and valleys, we would never make it to the tops of the mountains. Down in those valleys we learn lessons of life which eventually allow us to learn additional lessons of life when we reach the top of those mountains, as we watch life’s experiences unfold. Interestingly, it was not until I was 56 that I finally met the love of my life, a beautiful Italian-American woman, Dr. Grace Marie Mandicott. Since we both met late in life, we have been trying to make up for all we missed when we were younger and unknown to each other. It is my sincere desire that from this book of short stories you will glean seminal bits and pieces of thought provoking information and knowledge which will help invigorate your thought processes and bring you even greater joy, hope, courage, and encouragement, making your life better and brighter.