In previous True Stories I have often brought up the destructive properties of alcohol that effected my life. I was reared in an orphanage because of the fact that so many of my aunts and uncles were alcoholics. I would have loved to live with almost any of my aunts and/or uncles when the State decided to take all of my mother’s children from her. She had no way to provide for us financially. Our mother was a wonderful mother and the family was doing fine until my father got tuberculosis and died. I was 3 years old when he died. We lost our home in Greenwood, Indiana and had to go live with my grandmother and grandfather. My grandfather was also an alcoholic and he often beat me and my brother for just being kids. Eventually, he threw my mother and her five kids out. Since my mother didn’t have insurance when my father died, his death put her in an impossible financial bind.
I don’t blame the State. They had no choice. There wasn’t any Section-8 housing programs. Aid-To-Dependent-Children was not available either. I hated alcohol from a very early age. I will turn 76 in just 15 days and liquor has never touched my lips. I have never smoked a cigarette either. When I was in the US Marine Corps I almost got in trouble with gambling but I was able to nip that in the bud! I don’t gamble!
I remember my one time when my mother lived in an old tenement building in Downtown Indianapolis when my Aunt Net came to visit us. Her red-headed daughter (we called Cracker) came with her. She was really drunk when she came and kept drinking during the entire visit. I had just turned five and it was a hot June day. The adults sent us outside to play. We lived on a very busy downtown street and Cracker lived in the suburbs. She decided to jump on the back bumpers of cars and trucks and jump off. I know it sounds stupid and dangerous but they didn’t call her Cracker because she had good sense, right? It wasn’t long before she fell of a bumper and got hit by a car. My eldest sister, Liz, rushed over to her and pulled her out of traffic. The car didn’t even stop. She was bleeding and hurt really bad. I remember that her head had a knot on it as big as a lemon. I threw up and I ran inside to tell my mother and Aunt Net that Cracker was hurt really bad. Aunt Net was throwing up her guts in a big galvanized bucket and she passed out before I finished telling her about Cracker. I don’t know what happened after that because I became nauseated and literately passed out. When I woke up, I was scared to death that Cracker had died. Nobody was in the apartment. My mother came back in an hour or so, settled me down, told me Cracker was in the hospital and although she was in bad shape she would survive. Cracker was in the hospital, I found out years later, for more than two months, recovering. Her mother never stopped drinking. Her mother died of liver failure at the age of 35. Now, you can see why I swore off alcohol at an early age. As a matter of fact, none of my mother’s children became drinkers for the same reason.
I ran away with my older brother on the day the State sent the Police to put us all in orphanages. I was 5 and he was 9. We lived on the downtown streets of Indy for two and a half years before we got caught. When we were put into the orphanage it was a real shock. That period of my life is for another story, though. I will write that True Story later. My three sisters were older than us so when I turned 13 or so they were grown women and they came to visit us on Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving. Liz and Alice lived far away but Darlene lived in Indy. She got married very young and came to visit once a month. I looked forward to that visit more than you could ever believe. She took me for ice cream, to the park and once or twice we went to a movie. On my birthday one year, Darlene talked Mrs. Davis, the orphanage director, into letting my brother, Bill, and me stay over the weekend at her house. We were both really excited because this had never happened before. The Friday that she picked us up was so special! She took us to eat a Wheelers. It was a really nice restaurant and they even had a birthday cake for me. It was the first birthday cake I ever had. From there, we went to the movie and saw ‘The Last Time I saw Paris.” One thing about being reared in an orphanage is that you never get any special attention and my sister, Darlene, filled a big hole in my heart by doing things like these each month.
We had never met her husband, Chan, until that Friday evening. At first he seemed to be funny and almost too easy going. He left about half an hour after we got to Darlene’s house. We played cards and sang some old songs until bedtime. Just about the time I got in bed I heard Chan come home and the shouting, yelling, and the noise of things breaking started, Chan was drunk as a skunk. He was one of those “mean drunks,” I suppose. I have seen my aunts and uncles drunk before but they were “happy drunks” and even though they got really, really drunk and passed out, none of them were mean or vicious like my grandfather was. Most of my aunts and uncles were musicians that sang in bands. They pretty much spent their lives in smoky old bars.
I was really scared because I had never seen this kind of adult against adult behavior. Was he going to come after me? My brother, Bill, tried to calm me down and told me not to leave the bedroom. He found a chair and jammed it under the doorknob so Chan couldn’t get in and we sat on the bed. I felt safer until l heard my sister cry out in pain. Then I got angry! In fact, she was screaming, “Please don’t hit me again!” Without thinking, I pulled the chair away from the door and went into the living room. Chan had my sister lying on the couch and was hitting her with his fist as hard as he could, calling her a whore and a bitch. I ran over and jumped on his back yelling, “Leave my sister alone!” But he threw me off like a rag doll. He continued to hit her, yell at her and she was crying out in pain. I had to stop him and he was much bigger and stronger than me. I became even more angry. I decided, in my mind, I was going to kill him and I grabbed a Coca-Cola bottle and brought it down on his head as hard as I possible could. I hit him again and again but he was so drunk he didn’t go down. I grabbed a kitchen knife and went after him but my brother grabbed me around my arms and pulled me back. I broke away and, in the process, my brother was cut on the hand pretty badly. Chan’s head was bleeding, my brother was bleeding and my poor sister’s mouth was bleeding. Chan began to stumble from his head injury so I hit him one more time with the bottle as hard as I could and finally he dropped like a ton of bricks. I was crying, shaking, and my heart was beating a mile a minute. My sister was bleeding but she hugged me and settled me down a bit. She dialed for an ambulance, threw our clothes in a grocery bag and told us we couldn’t be there when the Police came. I was sure Chan was dead but my sister was alive so I didn’t care about Chan at the time.
My brother, Bill, was an amazing person in a couple of ways. He had an uncanny ability to fix mechanical things. When he grew up he would take old, broken down, dilapidated lawn mowers apart, put them back together and make them run. He made good money fixing things. He also had the ability, like a homing pigeon, to find his way around. When we were “street kids” and had to run from the Police, he always knew where to go and he could find his way back no matter where we ended up.
After the incident with Chan, we knew we were in trouble and had to run. Bill grabbed my hand and drug me out the door crying my eyes out because I didn’t want to leave my sister. It was about midnight, dark and raining cats-and-dogs when we left. Bill found an unlocked wreck of a car next to an old warehouse and we spent the night there, nursing Bill’s wounded, bleeding hand. The next day, he found the way back to the orphanage even though it was miles away and he had no point of reference to go by. The nurse took him to the hospital to stitch up his hand. We explained what had happened to Mrs. Davis and all she said was, “It’s Saturday, Roy, go clean up the dining room!” No one at the orphanage ever said anything to me or Bill about that night again.
I never could understand why my wonderful loving sister would marry an alcoholic after seeing what we went through as children, but she did. Chan survived after a long hospital stay and a month in a coma. He promised not to drink anymore and Darlene took him back because, by this time, she was pregnant with her eldest of three daughters, Linda. Although I am sure he never hit my sister again, his promise not to drink again lasted all of a month. I hate to admit it but my sister was an enabler. She pretty much raised her kids by herself because Chan spent his evenings in the local bars and saloons.
I don’t think my Sister could stand to be be around Chan but he worked at the Chevrolet factory and made good money to pay the bills with. He gave her just enough money to feed and clothe the girls and drank the rest up. I hated the man.
Here is the sad part! Darlene had a miserable life and was always depressed and lonely. I don’t remember hearing her laugh after that Friday nightmare. My sister died at the age of 40 because she was diabetic and didn’t follow her doctor’s orders. I went to the funeral and Chan was crying and saying how much he was going to miss Darlene. I knew he had no idea what he put her through but I kept my cool. It wasn’t a month later that he moved in with, and later married, his high school sweetheart. She told him if he ever touched alcohol again she would divorce him and he quit drinking for the rest of his life. My sister’s life could have been so much better if she had told him that before her kids were ever born. I guess it’s a case of learning too late, huh? I say to everyone that alcohol can destroy your life. I have always thought that if my Uncle Bud had went to Alcoholics Anonymous and beat the alcoholism, I would have had a wonderful childhood.
He was a good person, a Mason of the highest order, a wonderful singer and the best guitar picker I have ever heard. He taught me my first three chords on the guitar. He was a contractor and owned his own business. He was the inspiration for my desire to “See the world, get an education and be somebody!” My definition of “being somebody” was to own my own business like my Uncle Bud! I can’t get back my childhood but maybe by writing this I can save just one child the pain I endured. Maybe I could get some mother or father to go to Alcoholics Anonymous before they ruin their children’s lives. If so, maybe my life on Earth would have been just a little bit more worthwhile. Remember, what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger! Yes…
I Am Sooo Blessed!
Roy Lee Barrett
Click to go the next True Story, “Be Careful What you Say”
Roy Lee Unchained 