Chapter 3: Beaucatcher Mountain

What could be better than having an armed policeman as the caretaker? The mansion had servants’ quarters upstairs and a lower level with a large living room, sunroom, multiple bedrooms, and a huge kitchen. It featured a spacious covered porch wrapping halfway around the house, along with a drive-through carport and a circular drive at the front. As a young boy living with my father, mother, and younger brother on top of Baucatcher Mountain was a rare experience. We lived in a mansion on top of a mountain all by ourselves. However, at one point, I must have been unhappy with my father. His idea of fatherhood was to follow in his father’s footsteps: stern, strict, and domineering. This type of behavior did not sit well with me, even as a young boy. I have a vague memory of an attempt to run away from home. One evening, as the light of day faded, I began packing my small suitcase when my brother came into the room and asked what I was doing. I told him that I had decided to run away from home as soon as I finished packing. Seeming helpful, he suggested I wait until after dinner so I could leave on a full stomach, while he hid my suitcase in the closet. At our dinner of green beans and cornbread, my brother casually mentioned that I was going to run away from home and that my packed suitcase was hidden in the closet. My upset mother unpacked my suitcase and must have had a talk with my father about his stern treatment of me, since I never felt like running away again. I never totally trusted my brother again after that betrayal. The family would sit in the living room in the evenings, listening to radio programs like Gunsmoke and Superman. Being smart was never my claim to fame. I recall my early days of listening to  “Superman”.  My image of “Superman” was that of a chef wearing a chef’s tall white hat. The mistake came from my limited vocabulary at the time, which evidently did not include the word super but did include the word soup. So I came up with “Souperman”! And what would a soup man wear, not a cape around his shoulders, but an apron around his waist. The ideas of being faster than a speeding bullet and jumping over tall buildings did not seem to conflict with my image. 

 

My father didn’t believe in an allowance; he didn’t get one growing up. He believed that allowances only contributed to lazy children. My brother and I would pull our wagon along the roadside picking up soda bottles until we had enough to cash in for soda and a candy bar. My first real business venture was selling all-occasion greeting cards door-to-door as a young boy. My father would drop me off in a neighborhood and come back a few hours later to pick me up. I would take orders, fill out an order form, and send it to the card company. I could tell my father was impressed that I was willing to work for money at such a young age. My father was always looking for ways to make extra money. One of his money-making ideas was raising through-bred boxers. As a young boy, I thought we owned two great pet boxers named Judy and Sally. Looking back, I realize that they were not pets to father but income-producing livestock. The newspaper would run photos of the puppies with the whole family or of me as a human-interest story. This was the way my father got customers without paying for advertising.

 

Another brother joined the family when I was nine years old. His crib was in a small room off the master bedroom. In the mornings, he was always the first to wake up, and while jumping up and down in his crib, he would yell out “Nad, Nad.” I would get up, letting my parents stay in bed, as I picked him up and took him to his kitchen high stool. He had learned to say “Nad” for Ned before saying Mommy or Daddy! As I prepared breakfast of oatmeal for myself and my brothers, I would also add coal to the potbelly stove if it had hot embers; otherwise, I would start a new fire. Years later, I was playing hide and go seek with my little brother when I came across a yellow jacket’s nest underground next to the garage door entrance. Without thinking, I jabbed a stick into the hole where the bees were gathered. This, of course, caused an angry swarm of bees to retaliate. I ran for cover only to stop as I heard the screams of my little brother, who had been hiding in the garage and was now standing at the opening, surrounded by the swarm of angry bees stinging him from every direction.  Not old enough to know to run, he just stood there in terrified shock screeming from the stings.  As instinct dictates for any older brother, I ran to his rescue, picking him up and running toward the house, which was a good 100 yards from the detached garage. My mother heard the screams and, looking out the window, she yelled: “Ned, stop hitting your little brother!”  I continue to run with one arm holding him and the other trying to knock off the bees tangled in his hair. I yelled back, “ Get the first aid kit, he has a lot of bee stings.” On the porch, we administered medicine to his stings and to the ones I got as well. My concerned mother called the doctor, who recommended that she keep a close watch on the child and report if there were any symptoms such as trouble breathing, vomiting, or extreme drowsiness.  Fourtunally he did not have a toxic reaction to the multiple stings. My mother commended me on my quick response to this emergency.  I was unable to confess that I was the one who caused the emergency.

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When school started, I would walk down the dirt road to Vance Elementary School; no buses came up the mountain. 

 

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When I started junior high, I would ride my bicycle across the mountain's level top and then walk down to David Miller Junior High for the seventh and eighth grades