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David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Punishment 1950s & 60s

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Punishment 1950s & 60s: Punishment Prelude (A friend who grew up in the Comiskey Park area of Dubuque told this prelude to me) “Daddy, I love you,”...

Punishment 1950s & 60s

Punishment
Prelude
(A friend who grew up in the Comiskey Park area of Dubuque told this prelude to me)
“Daddy, I love you,” echoed from the lips of the three sisters who stood before their drunken father.
“Say it again, like you mean it this time.”
Louder and more frightened, the six, eight and ten-year old girls yelled, “Daddy I love you.”
The drunken parent stared at the tears that fell onto the dirt-stained carpet and he belched from the hops in his Potosi beer.
 “Now let’s do it all over again. Get your asses back into bed. I will be there in a minute.”
Moments later the sorry excuse for a father stood, staggered and swayed across the tiny living room. He stiff-armed the plastered wall to keep from smashing his head through the barrier. He was too drunk to sustain any semblance of a normal gait. It was his hand that punctured the cruddy wall separating the two rooms. That grimy wall was littered with fist and palm holes that appeared like a bomb had exploded. It was a normal occurrence for him to be drunk and the girls to be punished. It was three o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday.
Sweat ran from his hair, down his neck and stained the brownish undershirt that once was white. He used the heavy winter quilt to wipe the salty fluid from his neck and lurched into the little girls’ room. They lay supine and filled the single-sized mattress to both edges.
“Here, this ought to keep youse three quiet from now on,” he barked as he spread the quilt over the top of his daughters. “And in another hour, I want youse three to tell me youse love me again.”
There was no need to turn off the light in the barren bedroom. It was still daylight. The heat that summer day was in the mid- nineties. These children were being punished for yelling while playing jump rope on the front sidewalk.
Each was forced to wear cotton pajamas over their clothes and lie in the bed under the covers. Three blankets, including the newly added quilt, plus a sheet. They had been there for three hours. Well, almost. Each hour they were forced to go into the living room, stand in a row in front of their intoxicated father and tell him that they loved him.
The ritual continued until the father either passed out or was overcome with a sudden streak of humanity. It usually was the previous.
There was no humanity for the seven girls in the Decker family who lived on Washington Street near Comiskey Playground in Dubuque during the late 60’s. Both parents were mentally sick the father was an alcoholic. Both parents thought girls were inferior to boys and treated them as subservient to the five brothers.
This day the punishment was because of jumping rope and laughing.
In the 1950s and 60s in Dubuque, Iowa there were no social services that I remember to protect children from abuse. But why would any of us remember? Engrained in all of us kids was the understanding that one never told outsiders what happened at home. The thought never crossed our minds to tell our teachers, clergy or even our friends.
We were of the belief that boys did not cry, secrets were never shared and authority figures were always right. There was no questioning of any type of authority. No matter if it was a teacher, a priest or an adult in the neighborhood, all authorities were in the right.
If I was punished at school and my dad heard about it, I was punished at home. Corporal punishment was accepted. More than once, I was given the mandatory ten licks with the wooden paddle at Audubon Elementary School. Principal Schroeder held the oak paddle we called the “wind-whipper” because of the drilled holes in it to reduce wind resistance. She made us assume “the position.” We were required to bend and grab our ankles.
There was no permission required from parents to spank us at school. If my dad heard about it, he would have given me another ten with his belt. But he would never have been told by any of my siblings at the supper table. Tattling was taboo in my house. If any of us kids tattled on another, we would have been punished, not the original sibling.
Behind the rows of desks at Audubon in the back of the room was the coatroom. It was there, we marched single file and shed our bodies of winter coats, stocking caps, mittens and boots. It was also there where we were sent during class if we misbehaved.
The other form of punishment at Audubon was to stay in the classroom alone while other children played outside during recess. One of my little buddies in the fifth grade was in detention during recess. He snuck out of the room, filled his mouth full of water at the fountain and spit water through the opened window to the playground two stories below. A direct hit was made on the top of the head of Miss Coffee, our teacher, who was watching us play. You got it. His butt said, “Hello” to the wind-whipper. We all howled after school. He was our hero.
Expanding the entire width of the front of each classroom was a black board. The tray beneath the board cradled the erasers and chalk. Some kids were forced to stay after school and clean the erasers. They had to go outside and slap them together until all remnants of white powder vanished into the air.
One friend of mine went to school at Holy Trinity on Rhomberg Avenue. Often he was forced to stay after school and mop the hallways, clean the blackboards and sweep the church steps. I was a non-Catholic (as us protestants were referred to by the Church) and did not receive such punishment.
My Catholic friends told me about forms of punishments we “heathens” did not have to endure. One was the use of a counter brush for whippings. A counter brush is about twelve-inches long, has soft bristles about two-thirds the length of the brush and is flat on the backside. It was the backside of the oak brush that caused the damage.
Nuns would hold the child with one hand and with the arm raised high overhead would swing and slap the backs of the upper thighs where they met the butt cheeks of both boys and girls. Often welts were raised and it hurt to sit.
There was a Catholic tradition, not used in public schools, when boys fought with one another. The priest administered this. The boys were positioned on their knees facing one another about six-inches apart. The priest would place his hands on the back of the heads of the boys and smack their foreheads together. Nobody ever heard of head injuries like concussions back in those days. Nobody would have cared anyway.
Punishment also came at the hands of adult neighbors. If we were caught stealing apples, as an example, a neighbor had the unwritten permission to kick us in the butt, slap us or nearly jerk our arms from their sockets while he scolded us. One of my neighbors would shoot a salt and pepper rifle at us when he caught us stealing his apples. We never told our parents. They might have punished us a second time.
When I entered Jefferson Junior High School, new forms of punishment lay before us. A teacher might throw an eraser at us for not paying attention. He or she might command us to assume the position. This entailed standing about two feet away from the corner of the room. We then had to lean forward and balance our foreheads against the corner and hold our hands behind our backs. My old man used this a lot.
My math teacher made boys stand with their toes against the wall and arms overhead. This took concentration and was difficult to accomplish for some boys. That teacher was a product of WWII and smelled like alcohol even in the middle of the day. But then a lot of my teachers had that odor about them.
If a female teacher couldn’t handle the situation a student was sent to the guidance counselor or gym teacher/coach. The typical punishment was being sent the 8th period after school. We had to be quiet and complete our homework. I new every crack in the walls and dent in the floors of that 8th period classroom by the time I left Jefferson.
It was acceptable to be slammed against a locker, pushed, ridiculed or humiliated by teachers. We were often the targets of their sport. In gym class children were forced to run extra laps around the gym or field and perform push-ups. That type of punishment never bothered me. I actually enjoyed it. If our parents heard about us misbehaving, they often would add more punishment at home.
Home punishment depended on many factors. In the North End of Dubuque where I was raised, it often depended on how much alcohol the parents had to drink or if they had mean, hateful and mentally ill personalities.
Many of our fathers were products of WWII and many were alcoholics. All of them were strict. A child never questioned the old man and never questioned authority. At least, when they could have been heard. Our parents believed everything told to them by the media, the government, the medical community and any other figure of authority.
For me, President Nixon changed all that. The Watergate incident caused me to begin to question politicians. But in my formative years I went along as did everyone else and we followed the rules – most of the time.
In my house almost every body part was subject to attack. I wrote extensively about this in my book, “The Shade Tree Choir.”
From the age of eight until I left the house at age seventeen, I was kicked, punched and slapped. I once was slapped so hard in the face I fell to the floor, but not before hitting my ear on the corner of a coffee table. My ear bled that night and I have had a hearing loss since in that ear. I failed my draft physical because of my hearing loss.
I was forced to assume the “position” in the corner, I was whipped with both ends of a belt, I was forced to the floor with the old man’s knee in my back while he beat me with his fist and I was often sent to bed with being allowed to eat.
On one instance I was locked away in the dark stairwell that led from the cellar to the backyard above. I was in there from seven in the morning until eleven at night. Total darkness and sweltering heat was my environment. My visitors included cockroaches and spiders that crawled over me in the dark. I had no water to drink and no food to eat. When I could no longer control myself, I urinated on to the dirt floor.
Somewhere along the way I began to feel no pain from the punishments. Oh I would cry and scream for him to stop. But the actual pain was suppressed and I no longer felt it. The screams, I suspect, were calls for help from anyone to rescue me. Nobody ever came. In those days of my youth there was not a single child who shared what went on behind those closed doors. It was an unwritten rule. Neighbors around 617 Lincoln Avenue had to have heard my screams through the opened windows. But sometimes society is blind and deaf. And that was too bad for a little boy.
When I reported my abuse in “The Shade Tree Choir”, I received numerous reports from, now grown men, thanking me for telling my story. I was not alone. They were not alone. These types of punishments were more common than I realized. My book created a brotherhood of sorts and a comfort to know we were not alone.
Physical abuse can injure the soul of a child. It makes him feel unwanted and unloved. Emotional abuse, however, can injure every part of the psyche and can change a personality. I believe it was the emotional abuse that was more harmful to children.
My mother was mentally ill, an alcoholic and unable to offer any nurturing to us seven kids in my family. She waited with excitement for dad to come home from work so she could tattle on us kids. She then demanded he punish us right then and there.
Both of my parents often said I was a “no-good, dirty son-of-a-bitch” and that I’d never be worth a thing in life. She laughed when I stumbled, she threw away my drawings I made when I was little and never said, “I love you.”
When a child is repeatedly told such things he or she begins to believe them. This leads to low self-esteem, a lack of empathy for others and difficulty with interpersonal relationships later in life.
Trying to “buy” their affection as an adult, I purchased an expensive grandfather clock as a Christmas gift. Three weeks later I called from another state where I was living. I asked if the clock had arrived and if she liked it. Her response was, “Well, it doesn’t match our furniture.”
I did become a success. I did make it out of that house alive. I had friends who helped me along the way. I suspect those friends kept me from going to prison. Those friends and my coaches. My entire story can be read in my books “PALS: Parts One and Two.”
The punishments I received created a workaholic, a goal oriented, hard driving person who will not accept defeat of any kind. My entire adult life has been oriented to prove my parents wrong – that I am not a “no good dirty, son-of-a-bitch and will never amount to a dam.”
It also created a lifetime of anxiety and depression. I have learned many coping skills to be a high functioning member of society. I am in the company of such great people as Mark Twain, Winston Churchill, Dan Rather and many others.
Not all punishments were “bad” for us kids in the 1950s and 60s. We grew to follow rules, understood there were consequences if we broke those rules and we developed great work ethics. We were not allowed to miss school and during our careers we did not miss work. For many of us, our word is our bond, we don’t blame others for our stupidity and we tend to care what happens in society.

We tried out for baseball and not everyone made the team. We never received trophies, but the sense of winning was enough. We rode bicycles without helmets, drank water from garden hoses and carried groceries fro the elderly without having to be asked. We played outside all day long and obesity was a word we never knew. While many of us have paid the price for overly severe punishment, all of us have come from a much different place in long ago America.
My books are found on Amazon, Kindle and at my web site www.davidnelsonauthor.com

"The Shade Tree Choir" Give-A-Way Program

“No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of others.”Charles Dickens

“The Shade Tree Choir”Why was my dad doing this awful thing to me? What had I done to deserve such treatment?
I was eight years old.” 
I am here to thank all of my readers and supporters for your kindness. It’s because of each of you who purchased my books, wrote five star reviews and told others - that many people have been helped by your generosity.
Since my books were published I have given some proceeds to others. No, “WE” have given to others. Donations have been made to Jefferson Middle School library in Dubuque, Iowa. We have helped them purchase a series of Classical books. This is the school that I attended. It is in a poverty area where the children need all the help they can receive.
We helped abused children in Iowa through the BACA (Bikers Against Child Abuse) Program by giving them a donation based on my book sales. If you are not aware of this program be certain to research what they do to help abused children. They are incredible.
We are now donating copies of my books to shelters for abused children and women. If you know of such groups in your community, tell them about the program. They may contact me directly at tncowboypoet@gmail.com
I will be back in Iowa on multi-city book tour in November. If you know of libraries or groups that want a speaker and will allow me to promote my books, ask them to contact me.
I will also be donating my “Cowboy Show” to an elementary school in my hometown. I did this last year and the little ones loved it. I taught them how to write a real “Cowboy Poem.” This year’s theme is “Cowboys Don’t Bully.” You may learn more about that hat I wear at www.cowboycomedyshow.com
There have been two songs written about “The Shade Tree Choir.” One was by Steve Williams and Mick Yaeger out of Nashville. Mick was incredible singing it. Nick Walsh from Toronto wrote and sang another. He too is awesome. All of these folks were so moved by my book, they wanted to do something to help me – and in turn they are helping others. Here are the links. http://youtu.be/oQApYp1S9O0and http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70
Movie Producers and Agents are being sought to turn my book into a movie. If any of you know of people in the industry, feel free to tell them about my work. When it does become a movie I plan to donate some of my proceeds once again to others. Thus far, my book is slowly making the rounds and is into the hands of several connected people. We are looking for more to help us.
And once again, I say a sincere “Thank-You” to each of you for your help.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "The Shade Tree Choir" Give-A-Way Program

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "The Shade Tree Choir" Give-A-Way Program: “No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of others.” Charles Dickens “The Shade Tree Choir” Prologue “I st...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Golf: A Game for Cheaters

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Golf: A Game for Cheaters: Golf – A Game of Cheaters and Liars http://youtu.be/5nnjgbV9sks I was recently accused of cheating while playing golf with my...

Golf: A Game for Cheaters

Golf – A Game of Cheaters and Liars

http://youtu.be/5nnjgbV9sks

I was recently accused of cheating while playing golf with my nephew and brother. The source of this lie was my friend, Charlie T. who posted his accusation in the social community, Dubuque Iowa Roots on Face Book. Why, he had the audacity to infer that I used a pencil with a very large eraser on the end to change my score. My brother, Rick and nephew, Brian also accused me of cheating.
I am a liar. Yep, I’m a professional storyteller and the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. I’m billed as “The Biggest Liar in East Tennessee.” That’s part of my act – being a liar. The difference between a storyteller and a liar is that a storyteller gets paid. Being a great liar helps with any cheating during golf. If I cheated.
Before I set all wrongs right, I’m obliged to report on other cheaters in our social community. Clair and Randy admitted they cheat when playing with their brother, Herk. Apparently Clair’s wife allows him to cheat. And she still beats him. Cindy Lou didn’t cheat when we played together. I cheated and she still won. I’m so bad she didn’t need to cheat. Jeanie’s husband cheats. She told us. Sandra took lessons a long time ago. The instructor recommended she not take up the game. I want to play a round with her. I’ll just bet I wouldn’t have to cheat.
Now that all other cheaters have been exposed, I have to report exactly why I lost against my brother and nephew. It wasn’t just one game. It was three games.
In the mountains of western North Carolina there are many bears. Also in the mountains of western North Carolina there are many golf courses. If I played the game well, I’d be in the fairways and not off in the woods.
There I was trying to hit out of the woods when I sensed something wasn’t right. I turned around and there was a male bear ten feet away watching me. I have to say, I was frightened. I did what we all should do with instances like that. I tried to make myself look bigger, screamed and yelled and then waved anything I could find at the bear. The goal was to frighten ole Smoky.
I had no difficulty screaming and yelling. Trust me on that one. I stood on a stump and waved my pants that I had removed. I wasn’t about to  use my new University of Iowa Hawkeye shirt. My pants seemed logical during that time of stress. Other golfers reported later that they wondered what was happening seeing a pair of green and red checkered pants being swung around in the woods.
My antics worked. Ole Smoky charged right past me out of the woods and towards my golf cart. The problem was he snagged my pants and ripped ‘em right out of my hand.  That bear drove off with my cart lickety-split. And he was dragging my pants with him.  He crashed the cart trying to make a curve on a downhill turn. Last we saw he was lumbering up the hill over yonder.
People ran from everywhere. I guess it was my screaming. Thankfully no clubs were damaged. There I was wearing my red boxers designed with little sets of golf clubs. Hey folks, I need all the karma on the course I can get. I was busy putting my pants back on and other golfers were picking up tees, balls and a Miller Lite can of beer.
One fella found a pencil with a long eraser. I told him it wasn’t mine. They helped me right the cart and I was back to normal. My brother then said I had to take a penalty stoke. He showed no mercy. Do you see now why I’m inclined to cheat? I lost that round, but think I might have won if that bear hadn’t thrown off my concentration.
I was disqualified during the second round. I was caught wearing my special pants. The pocket has a hole in it. When I can’t find a lost ball, I drop a new ball into my pocket and down the leg it goes dropping where I choose. I get many good positions in fairways using that trick. The third round we played was even worse for me.
It was the last hole and we were tied. A simple chip to the green and one putt and I’d finally win a game. The sweat bee irritated me but didn’t sting - well, at first anyway. Then it dawned on me. Holy Crap! It was a yellow jacket and he wasn’t alone. I had stepped on a nest in the ground and stirred up the entire bunch.
I had no choice but to run. I was screaming like a girl, waving my hands and sprinting to the pond next to the green. I was getting stung all over. One managed to crawl up my pant leg, thru my secret hole in the pocket and stung me on the upper thigh. My brother and nephew stood on the green and watched. They said later they figured I was faking – that was until I jumped into the pond.
That’s right, folks. It’s no wonder I have to cheat. Things like that always seem to happen to me. If it’s not bears and bees it’s snapping turtles and copperhead snakes.
While in that pond waiting for the yellow jackets to calm down, I felt the most awful deep and powerful pain in my butt. Then I felt a sharp sting in my right wrist. Once again I screamed and ran. My brother and nephew leaned against their putters up on the green and watched. They didn’t move. I saw them both from the corner of my eye shaking their heads.
I was jumping, I was twisting and I was rolling on the ground. Hooked to my butt was a snapping turtle. When I rolled for the third time he let loose. But something was whipping off my arm. It was a copperhead. I ripped him loose and threw him towards the pond. Then I had to pull his fangs out of my arm with my teeth. I chipped my incisor, but finally rid myself of the fangs.
There I was with a bloody butt and a swollen and throbbing wrist. It was all I could do to remove the moss and scum from my new shirt and cap. My cap had a saying on it. It read, ”When I die, bury me next to the old bag.” It had a picture of a golf bag. I thought it was funny. My wife didn’t agree.
I yelled to my brother and asked for some type of relief- based on my condition. Again there was more wagging of heads to indicate a “no.” I tried to hit. I topped the ball and lost the game.
Do you see now why I have to cheat?

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Chicken Dies Laying Egg

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Chicken Dies Laying Egg: Nelson Writes Tribute to Chickens  The huge egg in this photo was laid by a chicken that died afterwards. I started thinking about...

Chicken Dies Laying Egg

Nelson Writes Tribute to Chickens 

The huge egg in this photo was laid by a chicken that died afterwards. I started thinking about this whole egg eating process and wondered where it all began.
Explorers (c)The other day while sippin' on my third or fourth whiskey, I got to thinkin'About explorers and how everything they did was risky.
Ya' got Columbus, Lewis and Clark and Shepherd up in space,But what about those unknown folks who changed this here place?
We don't know these unsung heroes by nary a single name,Like the guy who saw the first egg laid. Now I think that's a shame.
I can picture him watching chickens peck around the lot, and then saying,"I bet we could crack that white thing open that comes out of a chicken's butt. And it'd be pretty good served it hot."

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Unique Way Some Folks Speak

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Unique Way Some Folks Speak: "Dubuque Roots Members Contribute to Story" On Face Book there is a community called "Dubuque Iowa Roots." I am t...