Until I was four years old, my family lived "out in the country". To be more exact, we lived in a rented farmhouse outside the town of Chetopa, Kansas. Since I was too young to go to school, the days were spent playing with the dogs, catching turtles and other reptiles, and skipping rocks on the pond. I remember little snippets of life on the farm, but not much. I'm sure I had a few friends, but I only recall playing with my sisters, and cousins who came to visit on occasion.
Let's just say that I don't remember having much of a social life before the "big event".
I vaguely remember walking through a brand new house that my parents were considering. I was fascinated by the vinyl runners that we were told to step on as we meandered through the "huge" five room house. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and one bath (indoors).
The next thing I remember was the announcement that we were moving "to town" where I would start school in the fall. An adventure for sure, and quite a different life than the one to which I was accustomed.
We moved to the town of Coffeyville in April of 1956, and one of the first kids I met was a boy named Sonny "Boy" Watson. His family lived across the alley from us, and like most kids on the block, he made his way over to our house shortly after we moved in. Sonny Boy was a big kid with a few extra pounds larded over a large frame. He also knew everything, or so it seemed to this naïve country boy. Yeah, you might say he had his bluff in on me from that first meeting. I could tell that he held a position of power with the other kids as well.
Sometime within the first week or so, Sonny Boy had me in tears and running home to mama. I don't remember if it was a physical altercation, or if he had just hurt my feelings. Regardless, I ran home to be consoled. All was good until the next day when it happened again, and the day after that as well.
Now, one would have to know my dad to understand exactly how, and why, he reacted as he did, but after about three or four days of seeing me run home to mama he had had his fill of it.
He stood up, looking down at me with fire in his eyes, and through gritted teeth said, "The next time you come home crying I'm going to give you something to cry about!" My dad didn't tolerate any sissified behavior, and he made it abundantly clear that I'd better learn to take care of myself when it came to handling that neighborhood bully. I guess that would be the end of that!
My social skills were still in the state of development, and I had yet to learn the fine art of diplomacy, so that left only one avenue available.....the manly art of self-defense. Trouble with that was that, other than some spirited wrestling matches with my cousins, I didn't know much about fighting either. All I knew was the fear of my dad's wrath outweighed my fear of Sonny Boy Watson.
Shortly thereafter, the opportunity presented itself; either go home and get whipped, or start flailing away. I was already crying anyway, so it didn't much matter if I got worst of it. I put everything I had into those punches, finding Sonny Boy's soft belly to be an adequate landing place, and soon we were both bawling and brawling until, much to my surprise, he just up and quit. It was over, and just like that, the bullying was history.
Sonny Boy and I never became best friends, but we learned to co-exist in the neighborhood. Maybe I earned a little respect, or maybe he hadn't expected the little skinny country boy to retaliate. Either way, I no longer ran home crying every time one of those city boys hurt my feelings, and that was a good thing. But, then again, what do I know?
