Dear Readers,

Bare with me as I iron out some wrinkles in these early drafts of "These Are the People ... "


"You know what that is, right?"

"What? This? Aunt Iris made it for me."

"No, not the sandwich, but what's inside?"

"It's salami, I think?"

"You ever see salami look like that?" he asked, lifting off the slice of bread from atop my

sandwich. "It's tongue!"

"What?!" I spewed out, food particles dripping from my mouth.


I was only six years old or so, my brother Ron seven, when my parents divorced. I have a few


remembrances of each of our two homes in Wilmette, Illinois, our blocks and a few of our


neighbors, one of whom included a 'mean old lady' at the end of the block. All the kids were


scared of her, but I do not think that anyone ever met her, a case of more rumor I guess than


substance.


My father was not at home much-at least I don't recall he was, but working hard as a young


dentist to build his practice from which to support his family. I realize this now for the first time.




As a matter of fact, I have no memories of my dad at home in those years, but I do when, after


my folks had divorced and we moved to St. Louis, he used to drive down three or four times per


year and spend the weekend with my brother and me. He would arrive Saturday morning, pick


us up at my mom's apartment, and off we drove usually to the Holiday Inn by the airport, just


the three of us.


We had three special activities that were pretty much constants when we three were together:


We wrestled in the hotel room making quite the mess; on Saturday night, weather permitting,


we'd frequent the drive-in movies and feast on very sour pickles in brine, popcorn and soda pop.


Our third regular activity was bowling! The bowling alley was a huge one that included a fair


number of pocket billiard tables as well. My dad kept us pretty busy. We had quite a lot to


accomplish in less than two days. He would even give my brother and me driving lessons in the


parking lot of the bowling alley on Sunday morning before it opened for the day.


Something about Sundays really colored my mood. Unlike carefree Saturdays,


Sunday was the day when Dad would be going home. I remember dreading the return back to





my mom's house-not that it had anything to do with Mom-it was simply that I did not want him





to leave. I never did find out what it was that had come between them, but it is unlikely they





could have grown apart because they had not been married that long.



"Come over here boys for a few seconds," my mom said. We stopped what we were doing and



came to sit by mom. "We're moving to St. Louis to live with Grandma.



"Hey! I'll tell Dad!"



"No. Daddy is not coming with us."



"Oh ... why not?"



"Well ... " my mother explained something but I do not have the faintist recollection.






I have said it before that we have moments in our lives the recollection of which defies





forgetfulness. I do not remember why it was that my mom was so angry with me, but indeed





she was one day. For reasons unknown, I think it was something about which she had not




thought very carefully in deciding to punish me by refusing to acknowledge as anyone




she knew.





"Mom ..." I said, walking into the kitchen.





"What? Who are you?" she asked, pouring herself some coffee but not feeling too threatened





by a child, even one she did not "know."





"Mom?" I recall repeating myself, tears beginning to stream down my face, and it went on like




this for a day or so. I recall it vividly to this day. Mind you, my mother is a wonderful woman





and I love her dearly, but on this point i think she was a bit misguided. I cried a lot, upsetting as





it was for my mom to tell me to my face that she did not know me. I was utterly confused by





what she was doing. After all ...





"I could and did recognize her! Why all of a sudden was I was a stranger to her?" Well, as the





expression has it, it left a bruise, actually a permanent injury. No, my mom did not hit me or has





she ever, but from that day I trace the origins of my speech impediment. I started to



stutterer.


As a kid I found myself in the most embarrassing when in countless instances whether in





school or out my speech failed me. Stutterers have it rough for not only does it happen they


suffer the indignity of involuntarily sputtering out a syllable for varying lengths of time, but in



their frantic efforts to enunciate the word they wildly contort their faces. Other kids think it


rather amusing. It isn't!




I was for a while in speech therapy as a young boy. For how long, I really do not know. There


have been stretches of time when I was stutter-free, but would recur only on occasion. When it




did, look out! It was always one of the really bad instances when, after it was all over, I felt like



crawling into a hole and never coming out again.