My parents were good Baptists.  Strong Baptists but not the Bible-toting Bible-thumping kind of 1940, the year they were married.  It was four years before I was born under the sign of Leo on July 26, 1944, in the small town of Ironton, Missouri.  I wasn’t christened; that’s not a part of Baptist beliefs.  Nor was I baptized to insure my safety into Heaven when I died.  But I was given love by my parents, Violet and Gordon Thompson.  I often asked my mother why she and Dad waited so long to have me and she would always say, “We wanted to really know each other first.”  When I would ask why they never had any other children, she would say they wanted to give me all their love; I think it went deeper than that.

            The day I was born gasping for air with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, Mom still had not decided on a name for me.  Her brothers, Edward and George, were in Europe fighting the Germans and they had made my mother promise that if she had a boy to name him after them in case they never came back.  She was so happy the pain of childbirth was finally over that without thinking, she named me George Edward Thompson.  The summer storm that had started an hour or so before I was born and broken right after my birth calmed Mom and she was back in her room with the only nurse on duty at the time and Mom would have rather been alone in the room.  Her comfort and joy was down the hall in an incubator being fed pure oxygen to live while the nurse busily patted pillows into place.  I was a “blue” baby with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck very tightly and I think the nurse stayed in Mom’s room just to give her a comforting presence more than anything else.

            My father was stationed with the Army in Florida driving the commanding officer of the Army post around in an open jeep and he couldn’t make it home for my arrival.  Everyone else gathered for the event.  At least, they gathered at home while Mom went through the last throes of labor pains before taking a taxi to the hospital.  Her mother and father’s owning a restaurant was more important than seeing an offspring to the hospital for the blessed event.  Mom had gained a lot of weight during her pregnancy and with the fall, her doctor did not want to take any chances on something going wrong with my delivery.  Mom slept better the night I was born than she had the last three months she carried me having been confined to bed with very little company except when someone came across the street from the restaurant with her meals.  She became a prisoner in her own house because of her confinement and couldn’t do a lot of the necessary things any expectant mother usually does.  And, she did not know what falling off a two-step stool that one day might have done to me while still in her belly.  In those days, once a woman started to show she was pregnant, she was “hidden away” and suffered even more humiliation by being alone.

            It was almost one year later just before I turned one when Dad came home from Camp Blanding.  The war was over and he returned to a loving wife and a son he didn’t know, a son who kept pointing at this man, not knowing who he was or what he was doing in our lives.  But Dad showed me how much he loved me and really cared for me when he took me along to the grocery store to show me off.  He carried me around, held me on his lap and I think—if what I was told is true—sang to me when I was put to bed at night. One night while I was still a toddler, Dad was holding me on his lap bouncing me up and down; I slipped and my foot ignited several wooden matches through Dad’s pants and left him with a nasty burn.  He quit smoking shortly after that.

            I was bald when I turned one except for some light peach fuzz growing out of my head.  I do not recall Mom ever expressing any fears or concerns that I did not have any hair.  My first three years in Ironton are only memories told to me by Mom as I grew.  Those were good years and Dad often took me fishing after I was three and would make me sit on the bank while he waded off into the stream with his father, Will.  One time when I had a cold, I watched from shore and the mosquitoes bit me so badly I couldn’t sit still and waded into the water only to end up in bed for three days with nasty bites the size of dimes around both ankles.  Most of the times I spent with my father are quite hazy and remembering came only with coaching from my mother.  I saw my father less and less as his studies took up more time until there was nothing left during my early years except an occasional glance at my father when he was coming or going.  I had no idea at the time what his “studies” were or where those studies would take him in his career as Mom and I followed along on the various moves we made over the early parts of my life.

            I never put it into words but I think I was a bit resentful that was not around more.  Other boys and girls saw their fathers every day and had good times with them; evenings were my forté because I knew my parents would never leave me with a babysitter.  If we went somewhere I was always along on those occasions and usually amused myself with the sound of a television or radio while the adults sat at kitchen tables, drank coffee and talked.  That’s how I learned a certain respect for adults, the “sir,” and “ma’am” part of my life.  Everyone thought I was cute and cuddly even though I was three and still had no hair on my head.

            The old house in which we lived was located in Liberty, Missouri, and also occupied by the owner, an old maid who loved children so long as they were someone else’s and seen, not heard.  I roamed the three rooms of our apartment on my own yet did not claim it as any place special.  It was home, nothing else.  The house sat on a hill overlooking the small town from a pedestal of land that always looked barren in winter and green-lawned with a thick carpet of three leaf clover during the summer.

            I had my first haircut while living in that house on a day Mom would have gladly forgotten when Dad and I returned from the barbershop, my head shorn of all my blond curls that had taken months to grow; I was almost four by that time.  Mom cried even more fiercely when Dad sheepishly told her he had fallen asleep in the next chair instead of watching what the barber was doing to my head.  I also had my first bee sting at that house when I leaped bare footed into the deep clover of the yard and stayed in bed under the loving care from Mom while my big right toe throbbed under a gauze bandage and my temperature rose and fell.  One day, I jumped on the couch in the living room and landed hard enough that I hit my head on the wooden arm and had to have four stitches in my forehead.  Although the stitches hurt at first, I was proud of my “wound” and wanted to show everyone.  Later, the stitches were removed after lots of itching and I had myself a “battle scar” to carry the rest of my life.

There was a girl who lived down the street and I disliked her so much that I bit into her arm one day and brought blood because my mother seemed to be paying more attention to her than me.  I felt a certain supremacy when I got Mom’s attention again, but punishment came anyway as a verbal reprimand.  I hated that girl, a puny little runt who demanded attention all the time and constantly received that attention whether it was warranted or not.  There was also the time I was really honest when I gave my opinion on matter being discussed by the adults.  A young couple Dad and Mom knew had just had a baby and we were invited over for a visit and a “look see” at the new little girl.  After the viewing, the proud father of the little girl asked me what I thought and I said, “She still looks like a monkey to me.”  I didn’t get a whipping for saying that although I did receive a tongue lashing once we returned home.  Fortunately, I was wise enough not to mention in front of the couple that I had heard Mom and Dad say the very same thing on our way over to visit the couple and their new daughter.

            Kindergarten was an exciting time for me; I met new kids and learned a newer kind of discipline other than the teachings of Mom and Dad.  Several incidents, however, still stick out in my mind from those early days of schooling.  The teacher liked to give her students projects and I chose to use flowers in some fashion or other.  With the help of Mom, I created my masterpiece:  a lady in full dress with both arms and an oval head.  I used a flower or two from a hollyhock bush, the dress being an upside down bloom of purplish red with the stem for her body.  A blade of grass tied gently around the stem formed her arms and her head was a hollyhock bud with the stem cut out and placed upside down on the stem of the “flower” dress.  I was so proud of my masterpiece and the teacher complimented me on its originality.  However, some of the kids were cruel and while I was at recess the day I made my presentation, someone made his way back inside before the rest of us and tore my masterpiece apart and left the pieces on my desk.  There were tears in my eyes that could not be pushed away by my consoling teacher, nor did Mom’s words of love and kindness get rid of the pain I felt about others who could cause such anguish and get away with it.  Since I was still chubby for my age, those sorts of actions against me and being confronted daily on the playground with the kids’ taunts of Fatty, Fatty and Georgie Pordgie really hurt and stuck in my mind.  To this day, I still have a tough time when someone decides to playfully say those words to me.

            After moving from Liberty, we settled in a large home on North River Road in Independence, Missouri, again in a small apartment this time located in the basement of the house.  Birthday number four came and went while Dad finished his degree program  at college and started pastoring a small church; I was left to my whims (books, comics, playing cards—Old Maid and Authors since all other forms of card were considered evil) and complete attention from Mom.  I many times wondered what was wrong with cards and dancing and when I could bolster up enough courage to ask Dad about things like cards and dancing, he would always tell me that cards and dancing—in and of themselves--were not bad but they had become tools of the Devil because of what they could lead to.  Cards usually led people to gamble and close dancing would lead many to have sex.  Logical answers for me at the time and I accepted them for what they were worth.

            Dad continued as the pastor of that church in the country and I was the center of attention again.  I learned “The Night Before Christmas” and recited it without prompting from anyone.  I loved the attention while on the stage at the front of the small church and would have stood there longer going into a rendition of “Jesus Loves Me” if people hadn’t started fidgeting in the pews.  It was Christmas Eve and the day had been a long one at church and everyone wanted to be home opening their presents; furthermore, no one asked me to sing the song.  Mom even wrote a poem that was a takeoff of The Night Before Christmas and called it “Christmas at the Wright’s”^©.

It's the night before Christmas

And oh, what a mess!

Where are the Christmas seals?

No one can guess.

Someone is hammering,

There goes the phone.

The electrician's fixing

The fuses we've blown.

The Joneses arrive with their presents for us,

So we must find something for them without fuss.

The person who's trimming the tree gets advice:

We open the presents and take off the price.

The family keeps yelling, "The scissors are gone."

We've run out of ribbon; it soon will be dawn.

The stockings we hung by the chimney with care

Are smoking and one is beginning to flare.

I've now cut my finger, the ink is upset;

We find that the Christmas cards aren't mailed out yet.

The dog is still barking; Oh, where is the house

Where nothing is stirring "not even a mouse"? © 1955, 2006

As I said, the church Dad pastored was located out in the country in what was then nothing but farmland for many miles.  Getting there in our old Chevy was a feat in itself.  It seemed we drove for miles and miles before the steeple of the church came into sight and there were very few cars in the parking lot when we arrived on Sunday morning.  I think Dad was always disappointed that the few cars already there meant a small congregation for morning service.  But, he was always elated because many church members lived on farms and had chores to perform before getting dressed for church and although they tried to be on time, there were many instances when the chores got in the way and they were late.

            Dad was always treated with respect and called “Pastor” or Reverend and sometimes even “brother.”  The men in the church would tack on his last name, but the women usually just referred to him by title only.  That never seemed to bother Dad and Mom never made any mention that anyone needed to pay him more respect than they already did.

            After Dad parked the car, we would follow the sidewalk to the front door and enter in a single file, knowing we were in a place of holiness and respecting the silence that met us as we stepped inside.  Dad would even lower his voice or sometimes whisper when he told me to take off my coat and hang it on the rack in the small hallway at the front of the building.  I had already removed my cap on entering the front door out of respect for God and His holy building.  That just seemed the natural thing to do because I don’t remember ever being told that I must remove my cap to respect God.  Dad would greet people as they came in then go to his study to prepare for his morning sermon while Mom and I went downstairs to our appointed rooms for Sunday school.

            Once Sunday school was over, everyone in the basement would clamber up the steps to the auditorium, talking all the way as if they had missed so much during the week and needed to catch up on all the latest news since last Sunday.  There was always extra conversation if this particular Sunday afternoon had been set aside for lunch at the church followed by an early afternoon church service or the ordination of new deacons.  Some of the women would stay behind in the kitchen to start laying out the food for the day’s lunch while the rest of us piled into the sanctuary.  I could always smell the food wafting up through the heating vents just as church service started and had a terrible time concentrating on singing when all I could think about was the fried chicken being warmed in the kitchen below.  I remember doing that kind of “light” praying we all do, you know, Lord-let-this-be-over-soon, so we could go eat.  Those Sundays, it seemed Dad’s invitation hymn always took longer than any other song during the service and I couldn’t wait for him to finish so I could almost run downstairs for the meal.

            Prayer ended and Amen, I was down the stairs as quickly as I could, but still had to wait for Dad to arrive so the food could be blessed before those of us already in line could dig in to what lay before us.  It took forever, because he needed to make those last minute announcements about the morning’s offering and introduce the new people who had just joined the church.  I itched to get at the food and Dad always caught my eye with a stern look if he saw me start to reach across the table for something before he was finished talking.  He finally blessed the food and I filled my plate.  Some of Mrs. Tate’s chicken and dumplings, a bit of ham provided by the Gilligers, potato salad from Linda Bates, Mrs. Grant’s baked beans and all the other tasty goodies on the table.  Those days, I really did not care what other people thought of me:  I was fat, but always made sure I had a second plate of food just in case our evening meal was a little less than what was on those church tables.  Then once filled to the gills, I would be miserable the rest of the afternoon and promise myself never to eat like that again, a promise I could never keep.