Steely: Never Kowtow to "Can't"

INTRODUCTION

ANSWERING my grandchildren's questions about the good old days brought to mind past experiences, that to a large extent, had molded my character. The fusion of the many forgotten alcoholic ordeals that molded my moral fiber were now a permanent part of me, whether I liked it or not. Many memories, though not all, are painful and do ruthlessly expose my parents’ blind and gradual descent into society's "borrow pits. Borrow pits" – deep borrow ditches totally void of morals and faith.

I was born in 1941, seven months before the beginning of World War II, in Morrowville, Kansas. Morrowville, located in the northeastern corner of Kansas, in Washington County, just south of Lincoln, Nebraska, was one of the typical small farming communities that formed the country's farming belt at that time. It was founded in the spring of 1884 with the prospect of the Burlington and Missouri Railroad coming. If the local farmers were in town for the weekend, the population could soar as high as 300. In 1917, James and Mary Lindsley, my great grandparents, moved to town and opened the Lindsley Grocery Store. Their children and grandchildren struggled, along with the entire town through the stock market crash of 1929 and the lean war years. The Lindsley family was an intricate part of the town's growth and their roots were deeply sown in Washington County's fertile soil.

It was a typical small town supported by the farming community spread along Mill Creek. The fertile soil, sandwiched between stately oak trees along the creek, was capable of supporting a family. Most of the land was still being worked by the first or second generation of the original settlers. The businesses in town were all small, but nonetheless afforded local support with stocked mercantile for the farmers’ various essential needs. The two local churches, The First Christian and Methodist, provided the moral guidance, work ethic, and support that weaved the Christian community's values together, producing a quiet, comfortable, and safe environment. Although the differing church doctrines provided at times rambunctious discussions, which would sometimes overheat, they served the community well.

A small local pool hall did offer some relaxation and socialization for men. Kansas was in the 1940s a dry state, which prohibited legal distribution and consumption of distilled alcohol. Thus, the pool hall was mostly a place to enjoy a beer and discuss the recent news of the day. For those interested in distilled alcohol, it was legally available in neighboring Nebraska less than fifteen miles north of Morrowville.

I was four years old during the summer of 1945 and the United States’ economy was stifled due to the strain of World War II, the wartime rationing, and the residue of the Great Depression. Most families were struggling under heavy financial burdens and their efforts to survive seemed unendingly hopeless. The few exceptions were those too young to understand the tragedies of war and the economic stress, or those who were so poor that simple day to day survival completely occupied their minds. The younger ones, like myself, who had never been exposed to life outside the quiet Kansas farm community, were totally naïve about their parents’ efforts to just barely make it through each day.

During that time my parents’ desires to live in worldly ways blinded them, like a heavy fog, to the long-term consequences of their immediate choices. Their cravings led to the gradual collapse of their Christian values. STEELY: Never Kowtow to "Can’t", was inspired by the fallout of their blunders.

CHAPTER ONE

PRE-SCHOOL MORROWVILLE, KANSAS

YOU’LL GET USED TO IT! was the assurance my dad and neighbors used to support my mom's determination to hone the knack of smoking and drinking. Smoking is okay! No one will know! It's acceptable and even fashionable elsewhere. The reassurances continued relentlessly in our small living room. A small taste of whiskey will be good for you and help you unwind. Mom continued gagging and coughing, subserviently working her way right through the protective Christian guardrails of the looming borrow pit. The slow but sure incineration of my parents’ lives resulted in large part from her decision to follow such unsound advice. She was stubborn, in an unequivocal manner, and continued pursuing the promised ecstasy of such activities. The relentless effort made no sense.

As a result of such a choice, my parents’ descent into the borrow pits of society lurched forward. Though poor, they were on the road crowned with Christian values fertile for raising a family. Over time they were unable to maintain their equilibrium on the Christian path, and ultimately stumbled completely off the road and into the borrow pits. Thereafter the fruitlessness of the borrow pit stalked them with tenacity, permitting little enjoyment outside the daze of alcohol. So goes my first, never to be forgotten, unsettling memory of the forty-acre family farm located along Mill Creek on the outskirts of Morrowville, Kansas.

My wonderful and loving homemaker mother, Beulah Mildred Lindsley, a dedicated hardworking father, Wayne Edwin Lindsley, a lovable but mostly aggravating sister, Georgia Ann Lindsley, and my great friend Joker, all provided a well-rounded and secure small farm fortress. It was an ideal place for me, Wallace Wayne Lindsley, to commence my life's journey. I was called Wally usually, unless there had been a transgression of some sort then I would promptly become Wallace Wayne.

My parents, raised during the Great Depression, had somehow managed to complete high school and both obtained high school diplomas. Diplomas were seen as an overwhelming accomplishment in those days. They were both hard workers, but neither ever took satisfaction in the results of their efforts. Work for them was just a required drudgery essential to sustain life. Perhaps growing up during the depression had rendered their will to advance their living standards hopeless. They probably never had witnessed any long-term personal rewards for their hard-working efforts, as few rewards existed for anyone during that time. Bleakness besieged their lives.

THE ENTIRE FAMILY, except Joker, was active in the First Christian Church. Mom sang hymns as she played the piano and organ during services. My dad was dedicated to being an elder and deacon of the church which had been co-founded by his grandfather, James Lindsley, some fifty years earlier. We all attended Sunday church services together, sitting quietly while listening to all the boring adult sermons and singing all the hymns loudly, mostly, from memory. Sunday school was much more enjoyable as the be quiet rule was not as strictly enforced. Interestingly it was very important to sing as loud as possible in church, much louder than the Methodists meeting just a block away. The singing volume somehow demonstrated that The First Christian Church was the most popular church; the assumption being the church with the largest attendance was obviously the correct denomination. Our entire family always had rolls in the Christmas and Easter holiday productions. What a grand spectacle they were. We were involved!

I had the impression that everyone was enjoying the life of contentment and serenity. It would surely last forever. Accountability to the community, which consisted mostly of our extended family, was normal but never discussed. Besides, it was simply accepted as customary to have a relationship with Jesus Christ and to follow His teachings. Community contentment was the result and most lives were, though difficult, enjoyable. That lifestyle over time, however, would gradually fade away for my family. In due course, my mother and father unknowingly took my sister and me with them as they began succumbing to many worldly ways. No one noticed as God's umbrella sprang many leaks as He allowed consequences to unfold; thus, we all rode together off the smooth Christian road into life's weed-ridden and bumpy borrow pits.

BEFORE MY mom and dad's morals gradually drifted into murkiness, my life was abundantly full of traditional family values. I had everything: a mom, dad, sister, Joker, and a fishing pole. What more could a guy ask for? Was there anyone who could possibly disrupt such a grand and perfect life? Actually, there was one, an eight-year-old that seemed to have a burden of some sort to make my life miserable. That eight-year-old was my sister Georgia Ann, but she was just called Georgia, unless Mom, Dad, or I really wanted to get her attention.

I had concluded from her constant monitoring that my mom had instructed her to make sure I didn’t have any fun. She was almost five years older, so her assigned roll most likely consisted of making sure I stayed out of trouble. That kind of responsibility was considered by her to be total tyrannical power, which quickly appeared to warp her into thinking she was my boss. She was always directing my private activities, or lurking around like a dark cloud so she could report all my doings—or mostly un-doings—to Mom. She was more or less a dutiful snitch. Surprisingly, with all that talent she never became a play-by-play sports announcer. So … my primary objective each day was to find a place into which that stoolie-broadcasting eight-year-old would or could not trespass.

ON ONE PARTICULARLY hot summer day, an unusual hiding place abruptly became a convenient option. It would be a safe place—for sure! It was a small one-room house too restrictive and dirty for that eight-year-old to ever think about entering. Boy, it was a great idea and it worked out just as I envisioned, leaving that eight-year-old befuddled at my ability to disappear so quickly. Many times, it became my safe haven. The safe house even came with a great well-behaved and quiet roommate, Joker, a German shorthair pointer. He was white with brown spots and Dad's favorite hunting dog; but more importantly, he was my best friend and did not mind sharing his small one-room house with me.

The self-rule and freedom that surrounded me when in the doghouse was perfect. The self-designated warden's shadowing stopped when I was out of sight and I took full advantage of her puzzlement. As long as she didn’t see me entering or exiting that safe haven, or was not actively tracking me, I could enjoy all the excitement available on the farm. It was indeed a perfect plan.

ABRUPTLY, ONE perfect, sunny, cloudless, summer afternoon, tranquility turned into bellowing thunder. According to a previously established, fully defined, and clearly explained directive, I was to take a nap every afternoon. I was currently following and enjoying the explicit instructions exactly as explained with Joker by my side. Suddenly, Joker sensing an intruder, nudged me awake. I curiously looked out the small door expecting to see the usual dirt and small rocks of the driveway. Low and behold there stood disaster, hooked onto a pair of long legs attached to a gleeful face belonging to, you guessed right, that eight-year-old. "Boy, are you in trouble this time, Wallace Wayne," she said, as she joyfully anticipated the violence that was about to descend upon me. The small snug quarters of the doghouse, filled with my friend and me, started to shrink. The walls closed in very rapidly, and soon the comfort had completely dissipated.

As it turned out, my young, caring mom had been looking for me for quite some time at the local creek, the surrounding nearby cornfields, practically all over the farm. She was rightfully fearful I had gotten into some serious trouble. Relieved and happy to see me safe and in one piece, however, did not stand in the way of the whipping which the eight-year-old was anticipating and subsequently really enjoyed watching. "I never said you could take a nap in the doghouse, Wallace Wayne! Never, never, never do it again," was added— to fill in for some other words I wasn’t supposed to use, I assumed. I tried to explain that a nap is a nap, but it seemed to fall on her suddenly unresponsive