Harley returned mentally to the days when he was an eccentric reporter working for Walter on a weekly newspaper back in KCK. Didn't understand where his inquiries were going at the time, but understood as his play started to develop.
About My Childhood
Harley,
Sorry I haven't been as communicative recently. Have been dealing with several personal and physical issues. Nothing life threatening, but ongoing pains in the ass trying to deal with the many convoluted bureaucracies. Everyone passes you on to someone else and trying to get a legit answer is like trying to get a nun to give you a hand or snorkel job.
Have attached the email I believe you were looking for. I believe it is the one about going home to Sammy's and 6th Street. If that isn't the one, let me know and I will check out the other things I have sent.
Am a little stunned that you aren't aware of my coming into this world. Seems like everyone else on the "Hill" knew all about my linage. Didn't find out the truth until I was 32 who was my real father and the little I know about my mother. Like so many unanswered questions, suddenly got answered when I found out the truth everyone had hidden from me all those years. Also understood why I was treated so differently, not only by my family, but also within the community, school and church. Was one of the best kept secrets and even my wife, Lynn, knew about it but never said anything about it to me. Is strange to grow up thinking someone is your father, whom you may see from time to time, but will not acknowledge you or simply say hello. Was even stranger that no one would ever tell me why he had such a negative attitude towards me, but not my brother or sisters. Never understood why many of the old women on the "Hill" or other kids' mothers often treated me like I was some kind of plague.
My mother was the youngest daughter in the Horvat family on 3rd Street. From the limited information I have been able to pry out of others over the years, I only know that she was very attractive, defiant, rebellious and only marched to her own drum. I have only seen 3 pictures of her in my entire life. I will tell you another story later concerning her and myself. As you are most likely aware of, the Croatians and the Serbs never got along, either in Europe or in the USA. Both communities realistically hated one another. My mother defied all the religious and community rules and married a Serbian individual named Bronco Dodig, whose family lived near 5th & Splitlog. His community didn't approve, but weren't as negative as the Croatian community. She was totally ostracized from the Croatian community and church. Her action not only affected her, but also created ostracism throughout the community for her family and later her children. In total, she gave birth to six children, 4 older girls and 2 younger sons. As they might say, not all was happy on the home front. Bronco was an ex-prize fighter and alcoholic who worked for the Gas Company, who often used his wife and kids as training equipment. He had the luxury of being taken care of by his family down the street on Splitlog. My uncle, who eventually raised me, would try to protect and defend her, when others in the family, community or church would do nothing. Bronco and his family did fear him and provided safety and shelter for their own until the numerous situations blew over.
As I said, I had 4 older sisters. Two of them were drawn to the Horvat family and two of them were drawn to the Dodig family. Is funny, but even after many years, that alliance held in tact. I came into this world on April 4, 1945. Unlike most, I wasn't born in a hospital, but rather at home in a dark bedroom at 515 N. 5th Street, delivered into this world by Dr. Carey. I didn't have an official birth certificate until I was 10 and needed one to play 3&2 baseball. My existence was documented by office medical records, baptismal certificate, county school records and affidavits from parish priests and nuns. 32 years later, I would learn that "Bronco", listed on the birth certificate was really not my father.
Can tell people in all honesty, that I have very early recollections of times in my life that most Professionals will not admit to being possible. Even my sisters, being several years older, never could deny that the events and individual involvements, as I described, did not occur. I can describe to a tee that apartment at 515, the layout of it, the wallpapers, the various creaking in the wood floors, the bare light bulbs, front and rear entries and conversations of the women across the street shopping at Uzelac's grocery store. Still ingrained in my mind is hearing Bronco banging on the door, struggling up the stairs and then my crib being shoved out into the hallway followed by argument and abuse. I was not allowed to be anywhere near him when he did come home.
Again, 32 years later, I would learn that my rebellious and defiant mother had an affair with a Croatian individual, home one leave from the war. For me personally, I am thankful that he was a Croatian, for that is why I have some sensitivity. Have discovered who he was, but would never do anything to cause him problems or cause his family indignation. Actually, in the years I was growing up, he was kind and good to me and I respected him, not really knowing who he was, just felt good when I was in his home, and how they say, how compatible I was with his kids. Don't know if he is still alive, but thank him for bringing me into this world as a true Croatian. When I was in KC one time, someone mentioned that I was part Serbian. To my pride and delight, I was able to look at the individual and others around the table and say, "you all know that I am pure Croatian. Hope that no one keeps those lies going on forever".
As I said, I did not understand many things in life growing up, like when my grandmother and I walked up the hill on Barnett to the local grocer and disparaging things were said to her, not being able to participate with certain other children in the community or being sent over to the orphanage when other students were planning Mothers/Fathers Day activities or other family events. Uncles, aunts and other relatives would always say we would have a future conversation when I asked about my mother or Bronco. Look back now and wonder who was really out of control? It was okay for me to accomplish, so they could hog the accolades, but I didn't deserve somehow to be told and know the truth.
Mentioned earlier about me seeing only 3 photos of my mother. My grandmother beat me every day for some unknown reason. My cousins were intolerable towards me. Many in the community really never let me through the gate to their homes, unless I did something athletic or scholastic that they could suck the blood out of it. There were a few kind souls out there, thankfully, but even the truth never escaped their lips. This brutalism stopped, to a large degree, on a significant event in my life. It didn't stop totally, but abated to a large degree, for perhaps the fear of God was instilled in many. Remember Bubalina in Zorba the Greek? One day in the late afternoon, I was sitting on the wall behind the coal sheds in the alley behind our house on 3rd Street. I was about 4-5 years old at the time. I noticed a lady coming down the alley, who eventually sat down on the wall next to me and began talking to me. In Croatian, she asked questions about my life and situation. Didn't realize my grandmother was calling me to find my whereabouts. The lady in Croation told me that "my little orphan, everything will be okay". Then she walked up the alley to the top of the hill, paused and looked back at me and then continued on until out of sight. I eventually responded to my grandmother's calling and, as usual got another beating for not being responsive to her calling me.
My mother died before I was two giving birth to my brother or as I often thought, giving into taking no more beatings and abuse in life. Even at that age, I remember that cold and snowing January night when they came to take her to the hospital. There was also two policemen in a black car who warmly bundled my sisters and I and took us to St. John's orphanage, as there was no one else willing to take care of us. My mother would die later that evening with no one from either family present. My newborn brother was taken in by the Dodig family, but they refused any of the other children. After a few weeks the Horvat family got their act together. Fortunately, my sister Maggie went to live with Uncle Iggy and Teta Barbara, who wanted to legally adopt her, but for some strange reason the State denied. Another sister went to a politically involved uncle who already had two kids, but for image reasons took her in and through Catholic Charities shipped her off to boarding school to relieve his obligations. My sister Kathy got out of the orphanage through guardianship of my wallflower aunt who lived with my grandmother. I remember my sister Kathy leaving the orphanage, with me in diapers, crying in my crib, saying "you'll be okay, someone will adopt you", as she left for her future. I was alone, but am thankful there were some sincere and caring religious nuns. I know I cried a lot and they did everything to appease me. My uncle had been working in Indiana and when he came home and discovered, his sister's death, the unwillingness of both sides of the families to take me in, got very belligerent and took me home to live with him at my grandmother's. She hated the idea of me being forced on her. She, I think thought had suffered enough indignation because of her daughter and didn't need to suffer more because of her "bastard" grandson. It also began a lifetime riff between my uncle and his brothers and sisters. They tolerated my presence from time to time, but it was only that he had the deep pockets in the family and all were deeply in debt to him.
Back to the lady in the alley. When my uncle came home that evening, my grandmother started complaining about me and how she couldn't find me and I didn't respond to all of her callings. She also told him I had made up this lie about talking to this strange lady in the alley. I remember him taking me in the bedroom and telling me that I had to start behaving more. He began questioning me about the lady and I can recall him getting very nervous and turning very pale. He asked me to describe her and what she was wearing. He then took me out into the dining area and opened one of the top drawers in a dresser there. There was now way for a child my size to access that drawer. From underneath some linens he pulled out a picture of a women and asked me if it was her. I said it was and the dress was the same one I had described to him. Found out later that the lady in the picture was my mother in the casket she was buried in. I never went to her funeral or wake, as I was too young and still in the orphanage. He left for a while and returned with Father Stimac from up at St. John's. He asked me hundreds of questions and I hardly understood a lot of what he was asking, as I hadn't entered kindergarten yet. Felt like I was on trial, but didn't know what for. Remember my grandmother kept telling him how evil and out of control I was. He left, but would return a little later.
Upon his return, he had two altar boys with him. They had the crucifix, candles, incense, anointment oils and holy water. I was stripped naked and placed on a white sheet on the dining room table. Then this ritual began. The prayers, anointing with holy water and oils and the incense. My aunt, uncle, grandmother and sister were all holding candles and praying with rosaries. What was even more alarming, was that when I looked out of the window, there were a lot of the old ladies from the neighborhood also holding lit candles and praying with rosaries. Didn't understand what was going on or what I had done wrong. Just remember how happy I was when it was all over. The best part of it all was that things were pretty quiet around the house for a few weeks and my grandmother didn't beat me for looking the wrong way.
No one ever discussed that event with me again, not even Father Stimac. Walter would kid me about being the only person ever exorcised on the "Hill". He would laugh and say that they never got all of the devil out of me. Was strange how after that many of the neighbors went into their homes when they saw me coming and how I was no longer was allowed to participate with some of the kids. All through grade school, the nuns and priests treated me differently and I didn't have any close friends, except for a few of the troublemakers and we weren't really that close. Hung out mostly with the older kids in the neighborhood and most evenings with my uncle who bowled almost every night in some league. Seldom got home before midnight, for everyone went to a bar after bowling and I got very adept a putting two chairs together to take a nap until it was finally time to go home.
Going off to boarding school at Maur Hill was like a godsend to me. No one really knew of my past and I never felt like I was just some ones unwanted "obligation". I finally developed some real friendships and learned I wasn't the evil devil who had ruined all those people's lives.
When I look back, I think a lot of my craziness on 6th Street was about getting back at many for what I felt they had wrongly done to me. I did things I knew would embarrass my family and offend some of those self-serving assholes on the "Hill". I also set out and did accomplish more in my life than most thought I was capable of, and most importantly without any of their help. Some kids fortunately get to go to summer camp while growing up. I unfortunately got shipped out to "military survival boot camp" and for a lot longer than two weeks in the summer. Was a very angry person for a long time, but have mellowed and am thankful to those good and inspirational souls I have met on my journey through life. Maybe there is something to the statement "the truth shall set you free".
Maybe this will help explain why I often refer to Sammy's and the Verbanics as being the only "homes" I have ever had. Know that the situation also greatly affected my sisters throughout their lives. Have only been somewhat close to my sister Maggie, Giz and Bill, until he died. As kids we never spent much time together and it seemed like everyone concentrated on forgetting the past. Tried to have somewhat of a relationship with my brother, but he kept using me and then stabbing me in the back. He turned out to be a spitting image of his father, Bronco. Probably, a big reason why none of my marriages ever worked out. Just never believed I ever knew what a real family was about, how to have an open and trusting relationship and didn't want to bring any children into this world, not knowing what would be the best for them and what it took to be a real father. Is strange to think how much life can inflict on someone, but that the survival instinct overcomes the negative and somehow provides those good and memorable moments.
Keep me updated on your play and I am trying to get back to KC somewhere down the near road.
Ralph.