I’m certain there are some boys and girls who have lived a perfect four-square life, but I can only tell you about my life, which has had ups and downs. When I say ups and downs I really mean it. I have not been perfect, as you will soon find out. You might wonder how Pop, a missionary living so far away as India, could become the inspirational figure of my life based on a one-week period at Camp Greenwood. You might even have doubts that I, a 12-year old boy at the time, could be that affected, but I was and still am. I’m not sure why we took to each other. For him it might have been the satisfaction of seeing boys better themselves. As for me, maybe I thought about his mentoring wisdom because I lacked a male image – my own dad, who was often drunk. Or maybe it was my thoughts about foreign places and the mysteries of India where I swore secretly to go some day, or it might have been my success with the puzzle ring, or, more likely, I was just a dreamy eyed kid. In those days I often lay awake wondering about Pop, India, and his message. The puzzle ring I’d won became a metaphor not only for a well-rounded, four-square life, but also for the concept of rising to manhood and experiencing a free and full life modeled after Jesus. That, I’m sure, was exactly what Pop wanted us boys to remember. When I turned thirteen in the fall of 1943, a chilled Pittsburgh wind filled the air blowing brown and red leaves all over our yard. It was the day the mailman brought a letter from Pop postmarked New Jersey. I knew he was spending the remainder of his furlough with his wife Kathryn and son John, then a student at Swarthmore College, who would remain behind to continue his studies when Pop returned to India. His letter explained:
“Our two-and-a half years in America will end next spring. We will be returning to India by boat and be back on the job by August of 1944. In the meantime I’ll continue to give my lectures about the four-square life. I call them, ‘We Visit the World’ and ‘The Meaning of the Ring.’”
I told my mother about Pop’s letter and their return trip to India. She set the hot iron on its flat end then took a long drag on her Lucky Strike. Looking at me through sad eyes, she said, “That’ll be a very dangerous voyage, son. Nazi submarines are sinking our ships every day as they cross the Atlantic. Henri and his wife could be killed.” Her words caused chills to vibrate up and down my adolescent spine. Until then, World War II, the war that America and its allies were fighting against Germany, Italy, and Japan all over the world, was just a game I played with my friends in the basement of our house. I was in the seventh grade when Pop and Kitty sailed east from Philadelphia in March of 1944. Their trip, as my mother prophesized, would be in very dangerous waters. As security measure Henri and his wife were not allowed to know even the date of their departure until just before sailing. For the first time, for me, World War II became a reality: A person I actually knew and cared about, my secret pal, was in danger.
*****
I’d like to tell you that my rebellious, stupid stage stopped immediately after I won the puzzle ring, but it didn’t. It got worse. Maybe a similar thing has happened in your life. My dad often came home drunk. He spent his pay buying drinks for his pals at the local Overbrook tavern. After he and mom separated, she seemed to be mad all the time, screaming and shouting, especially at me. I still believe the reason I lost my dad to alcohol was because of World War II, though he never served. This story really begins in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, on a Saturday morning in the spring of 1943 the same year I met Pop Ferger. Some weeks before, when my dad started drinking again, my mother kicked him out of the house. She told me he had a girlfriend. After that she shouted at me constantly – I seemed always to be under her feet, doing everything wrong. When dad returned that morning, his breath smelled of alcohol and his words slurred from a voice that sounded like he was drunk. At the front door he pleaded forgiveness. His eyes shed a few tears. My mother slammed the door in his face and locked it. He then tried to muscle his way back in by racing around the house to the back door. Mom and I took the short cut through the dining room and got there first in time to lock the screen door and tell him to leave. He threatened to break the door. When he put his fist through the screen, that’s when I ran for my gun. In my bedroom, I found my rifle, loaded it with BB’s, and returned to stand beside my mother. Pointing it at the drunken man I loved, I said, “Leave her alone.” She shouted at me, “Put that gun away – are you stupid? He’s your father.” Mom struggled with him and pushed his hand away and locked the door. Dad went away and never came back. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. I would miss him.
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