Our landlord, my Uncle Louie had his own comfortable abode in our backyard, surrounded by, luscious peach trees, an overbearing fig, two guavas and dominating the back yard, was a massive Hass avocado tree. The grand avocado set him,mercifully, apart from us children, leaving both sides in a modicum of peace. Him, with his German marching songs and us, with our little homes made from Adirondack chairs and army blankets.Uncle Louie, was a confirmed bachelor, due to one major love affair that had ended abruptly. The whole sordid tale was never made clear. Uncle Louie also had an aversion for children. He lived only for his beloved dachshunds, Topsy and Hermeinchen ... the latter being his particular favorite and the one my mother happened to kill.
It was quite accidental of course, but the worse crime she could have ever committed. She was merely taking us children to the Townhouse, near the Lafayette Park on Wilshire Boulevard, for our weekly swimming lessons. While backing out of the driveway in her white "53 Chevi, she managed to roll over sweet plump Hermeinchen, who was sleeping under the back wheel of the car. My mother screamed with horror. Thankfully, my Uncle Louie wasn't home at the time. Panicked and pale, my mother somehow gathered up the dog and just plopped her in the back seat with Loni and me. We were terrified. It was horrendous watching our beloved little sausage, bleeding to death before our very eyes. She looked at us with her soft brown eyes full of pain, questioning . . . wondering why we couldn’t help her. We'd look at her sobbing and screaming uncontrollably as the little dog bled to death before our very eyes. Dear, dear, sweet, Hermeinchen! She was a patient adoring soul, that put up with us and being dressed in baby clothes and bundled up into our doll carriage for daily walks around the neighborhood. Traumatized, unable to comprehend, I felt lost, for I had yet to encounter death, save those of my pet insects.
It was a horrible affair, compounded by the ravings of my hysterical mother through the eternal drive to the vet. "He's going to kill me! What in the hell am I going to do? We'll be thrown out into the streets! Oh, my fucking life!" she wailed.
My uncle, upon hearing the dreadful news, was surprisingly understanding of the incident.This, of course, was just a smokescreen . . . for Uncle Louie was determined that my mother would pay for her heinous deed, every single day of her renting life. Until she passed in April, 2009, at ninety-three years of age, she still shuddered at the memory. "Poor damn animal, and your fucking uncle!"
No doubt, the incident gave my uncle leverage. In the years to follow, if any incident pissed him off, no matter how trivial ~ he would take his "For Sale" sign out of the garage and hammer it into our front lawn for everyone to see. This act created a domino effect that would ripple through our household. My mother would take immediately to the couch with an attack of ulcers. "That son of a bitch!" she'd moan. There, she would stay for days, groaning, and swigging back, bottles of chalky Maalox. This in turn prompted my father to drink, even more; staying longer at his favorite haunts, he'd drink and brag himself into oblivion. This, in turn, caused massive fights that caused us children to cry. Feeling petrified and out of control, we'd huddle together in bed, praying for the fighting to stop. And so, it went.
my first encounter with real death was a dead bird I found in a graveyard where I rode my bike as a kid, and then my sister's pet parakeet. I'm the one who found it dead. I hate it when that happens. I remember calling my parents, who were at a nieghbors house, crying..."Tweety died!" I don't know if that's politically correct or not, guys are supposed to be tough, I know...strange thing is, I found both dead birds within weeks of each other. First, the one in the graveyard...then my sister's parakeet.
Losing any animal that one loves is the big hurt. . . and even a bird in a graveyard. There is no getting around it. They are our little friends. Thanks for your comment Scott.
EASY TO BE HARD
Often, there was the question of how, when or where. What matters most is why...
They say there is but five degrees of separation between all of us.
This is my story and observations about growing up under the infamous Hollywood Sign, in the 50's 60' and 70's. This is also a story of my entering the fast lane, and finding that if I wanted to survive, I had to get off it, but... it wasn't that easy.
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