From Rags... to Free Room and Board: The Little Boy in the Basement

By Dale G. Hooper

Parents and families, teachers and community leaders have a serious responsibility for the children God has placed in their care. Some children do OK without the influence of adults, but most dont. Instead, many of them are scarred without parental guidance and adult supervision. As a result theyre rootless, struggling through a maze heading for a life of crime. Often they are friend-less and loners, rootless and hopeless, feeling dumb and worthless, with low self-esteem a sure road to crime.
From Rags. . .to Free Room and Board is the story about a young boy, abandoned by his biological father before birth, sexually abused by a pedophile in his teens, committed crimes along the way, an alcoholic early on as he wandered through a wilderness maze. Finally, he committed a horrendous murder triggered by an attempted homosexual attack, and is presently serving an indeterminate life sentence. Sad! In his story one can feel prison life from the inside. At the age of 64, he has spent half his life in the California Prison System. Though one sees the path put him there, why is he still there after getting a parole that was withdrawn, and has had 17 denials by the Parole Boards since?
The reader can see inside the judicial system regarding this, as well as: Can one ever pay for taking a life? Is his being locked up indefinitely the only way? Can anyone know if he can make it outside? Has his human rights been violated? Is rehabilitation possible? Have parole hearings verified whether Donn has been rehabilitated? Is he past due for release? Here are insights to these and many other questions.
It is urgent that parents and teachers, churches and youth leaders, be concerned with a host of struggling youth in lifes maze. Officials must re-examine incarceration and rehabilitation in light of vastly overcrowded prisons and huge escalating costs of keeping prisoners locked up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468598810

Dale G. Hooper

Dale G. Hooper, the sixth of eleven siblings, grew up on a small, rocky farm in the mountains of western North Carolina. Longing to explore the wider world, he pursued an education, following that dream through graduate school. Along the way, he felt the hand of the Lord moving him to serve with Cross Culture Missionaries. In response to that call, he lived and worked as a missionary in Kenya for twenty-seven years.

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From Rags to… Free Room and Board

The Little Boy In the Basement

Donnell E. Jameison

a Memoir in First Person as told to

Dale G. Hooper

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© 2012 by Dale G. Hooper. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/17/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9882-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9881-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908262

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CONTENTS

About the Author

Forward

Preface

From Rags to…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

. . . To Free Room And Board

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Endnotes

About the Author

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Across many years, Dale has done considerable writing of articles, news stories and other pieces. Three years ago he published his autobiography, The Way It Was… As I Recall It Now. Then he got a new challenge—to tell Donn’s life story. This is a nephew, who at 64 has spent half his life in prison. This story needed to be told, and perhaps he and Donn could do it. So they committed to write up his entire life. Under the circumstances, they knew it would be difficult—Donn’s not having access to a computer, nor prompt mail service, and they couldn’t visit from time to time. Phones were of no use. They had to depend on the mail service. So indeed it was difficult, but they have written From Rags… to Free Room and Board.

As family members, Donn and Dale had only occasional contacts across the years, by letters and rare visits. They always lived apart, usually by great distances, either across the country or across the world. But they stayed in touch. The project would require his writing responses to Dale’s questions. From the beginning, Donn was certain there wasn’t much in his memory bank, and getting hold of it would be questionable. However, they committed to going forward. A plus was, though Donn barely finished high school, he has great command of English, as well as good writing skills. Also, he learned computer skills before computers were widely used. All this may stand him in good stead job hunting outside.

Neither he nor Dale wanted an exposé, but both were determined to write his complete story—warts ‘n all. Donn said: I’m sure I don’t remember much, and a lot of what I can recall will be painful and embarrassing. More than that, to again live his sordid and dysfunctional life, would be hard as they uncovered long-buried unpleasant issues. It’s all here.

Forward

Many months ago, someone raised a matter with me in this way: I want to suggest something for you to ponder. But I said, "My ‘ponderer’ is busted. But what did you have in mind? She said, I’ve noticed that Donnie has good skills in writing and use of English. And he probably has a story. I wonder if you would see if he might write it, or agree to work with you write his story. He’s got a story. Well, I told her I’d think about it some, and ponder" if it were something we could do, and get back to her on it. Later, I found out this had already been suggested before by others and discussed. But I doubted he and I could do it, especially over such long distance with his being incarcerated and no access to a computer. Just how could we stay in touch with each other and share info.

By the next morning I’d got my ‘ponderer’ working and decided that was a good idea. I had seen a lot of his writing over the years and very impressed with his writing skills. And, I thought, he really had a story to tell. So, I quickly prepared an outline how he and I could try together to do his story. I wanted him to see guidelines and various facets of his total life we’d need to cover, and agree with me to move forward. In a few days, I wrote him about it: how we together could consult by the exchange of letters, and set out areas of his life we’d want to cover. He didn’t think he had a story nor would anybody be very interested in it if he did, but I insisted he did. Also, I asked if he would help me get started, since both he and I at this point probably had time to work on it. However, we could stop at anytime he wanted to.

From that beginning, the timing seemed to be right to move forward on The Project, for at that time I had plans to travel West and might be able to visit him again. I sent him a detailed outline of how we might want cover times and events and people as we wrote his life story, and I wanted Donn to buy into the project. He replied with a rather long letter, in effect saying, Let’s move forward. I doubt I have a story to tell, and I won’t be able to recall a lot. Besides, many things I do remember will likely be painful and embarrassing. My plans to be in California were finalized, and I looked forward to visit with him again in Soledad Prison, when we could sit face to face and talk it through.

In that visit he and I agreed that we would devote time and energy—especially emotional energy—on the project. Both of us made a commitment to see where this would take us, and that at any point we could stop if either wanted to. Under these circumstances, we knew it would not be easy, since he was incarcerated under very strict rules, and we live a long way apart. But we agreed we would share through snail-mail and stay in touch with each other regularly. We were ready to start the journey, without either of us knowing just what really lay ahead of us. So, The Project was born, and that became our working title for a time, with both of us making a total commitment to it. However, I already had in mind what might become the real title, which we could finalize later. Also, we agreed that any area that I might inquire about that was too painful or might be too embarrassing for him, he could tell me and it would not be written into the story. Definitely this was not intended and would not be an exposè.

The story has been written pretty much as Donn tells it, not only in our recent exchange of letters, but also correspondence with me and others across many years. Occasionally, there will be explanatory lines by me, Dale, the co-author. This will be like editorial notes and special inserts that will be helpful to bridge various parts, as well as material from many some records and documents. These parts will be marked in a special way, or usually will be set apart with [ ], and written in a different type font to distinguish it from the other material that is his.

Other family members have had a hand in the writing process of The Project, specifically Uncles J B and Lyndon, who have had contact with Donn across the years both in exchange of letters and in visits. Thanks to both of them for their invited consultation and advice, and on-going assistance in reviewing, editing, and investigation for publishing. Others—Aunt Vicky and Kay, responded to inquiry about his earlier years that they might recall. Thanks to all of them for their response, but the final product was the work of the two of us—Donn and me—and we take the blame for unintended errors. I am especially responsible.

Toward the conclusion of telling his story, we will focus on some of the legal aspects that he has been involved in: Parole Hearings; the granting of a parole after about more than 12 years incarceration, and having it rescinded; court action initiated by judges and attorneys; possible violation of his personal human rights; and problems in California’s prison system. He has already spent more than half of his 63 years in prison. Surely, the time is long overdue for his release. This is Donn’s story as told to me pretty much in his own words.

Dale G. Hooper

Dallas, Texas

Preface

The Little Boy in the Basement sets the stage of Donn’s story. Abandoned by his father before he was born, he and his mother got situated in the basement of our family home. Our already over-large family of eleven children in a relatively small house was already using up all the available space. In fact, the youngest of the boys had only a small bed space on a narrow closed-in back porch. To be sure by the time of Donnie’s birth several of the older of the children had left home, but that still didn’t leave any extra bedroom space. He and his Mom had nowhere else to go, and of course our folks took them in. So to… a corner of the basement.

This wasn’t in any sense of the word an auspicious beginning for Donn. His father gone and his Mom had no means of support. But this improved only a very little when she remarried two or three years later to a low wage earner. After that for him things improved only a little as they moved into cheap rentals and struggled to meet ends meet. This always was a struggle since his Mom had limited skills for jobs, and the step-father moved from first one low-paying job to another. Neither his Mom nor his step-dad had the know-how or the resources to give Donn and his younger step-sister the parenting that the children desperately needed or deserved as they grew up. That’s one of the reasons to write his story.

This put Donn on the upward move from the basement and his rags up-bringing to a very long residence in the big house where room and board were provided. Here is that very fascinating story as told to me in the exchange of correspondence with him over the past two years. He struggled to recall and pull to the surface so many unpleasant memories. Much of it is sad and painful for him to tell, and for anyone to read, but a story that should be told and read. This is especially true for those with responsibility for parenting, as well as struggling youth who need to put down roots and have a foundation. Donn has been remarkably open and free as he responded to my questions as we explored his life. He never asked to bypass anything I asked and so we have his story from the beginning to the present.

Dale G. Hooper

Dallas, Texas

From Rags to…

The Little Boy in the Basement

Part 1

Chapter 1

Not So Good Beginning

The Father I never knew

Basement at PaHoop’s

Step-father stepped in

Mom and Troy’s drinking

Moving about

In reading the suggested outline which Dale sent for doing this story, I could see there are some parts of the story that are going to be very difficult to cover because they are either embarrassing, shameful or hurtful. And he suggested perhaps I wouldn’t want to do the story because of that. But I don’t think it is possible to tell the story without revealing the dark side, for I see most of my life as having been on the dark side. Even now after all these years, I sometime find it hard to understand how I could manage to have so thoroughly destroyed my life. At the same time I can stand back and look at my life and see where one event might have led to another. Things didn’t get off to a good start from the time I was born.

In fact there have been discussions as to my birth date. The date of one’s birth shouldn’t be in dispute. Mine has been for years. Some of the family insist I was born on March 6, 1947 and not 1948. One said, I stand firm [from Louise’s record] that you were born March 6, 1947, not 1948. But my primary school records have it 1948, as does even later official documents. I’m certain that is right. I don’t know how the mix up came about, but it persisted across the years, and added to the confusion as to who I am. And, I was named Donnell E. Jameison. Even my name, a little different, at times in school records, was spelled Donald. Also, the i and e in my last name are reversed to add to the confusion.

About my Dad… there is almost no information about him. He abandoned my Mom before I was born, for what reason I was never able to find out. For many years much later I really wanted to find out about him, and I tried to learn more. But unfortunately, the two people who might have been able to give me more information, PaHoop and Grammy [who were my Mom’s parents] had died by that time. J B and Lyndon, with whom I had been in contact across the years, were too young when I was born, and later were too involved in their own lives to find out anything.

No one ever told me how he came into Mom’s life or how he left. He just was. There must have been some good reason (to him) to leave suddenly. I mean, someone just doesn’t wake up one morning and decide to go to Knoxville, Tennessee for good just because. And, I really can’t say if he and Mom got married because she was pregnant, or if they got married and then pregnant. And I don’t know how far along she was when he left, and if he left because of that. But I learned that he did leave before I was born. To my knowledge my Dad never knew me at all, for he never came back. There are questions I’ve had a long time and would like to get some answers. But I doubt I ever will.

I know his name was Harold Andrew Jamieson. That is not a misspelling. Later I looked up my birth certificate and that is the way his name is spelled. I guess someone transposed the e and i and spelled my name differently on my birth certificate. Yet another hitch in my start in life. He and Mom had married a few months before and suddenly he disappeared leaving us with PaHoop and Grammy. But they didn’t need more mouths to feed and bedding space for us. So, my Mom didn’t have a home of her own, and certainly no money just to cover the hospital costs. There are indications in the records that I was born in Mission Hospital in Asheville, North Carolina. I guess PaHoop must have had to pay the bill.

[DALE: Already there were too many in that household with a meager income. In all there were the parents and eleven children. However, four had moved on to schooling and jobs. That still left nine totally there. Was it at all likely that Harold felt pressure to move on when he arrived with his pregnant wife. It was tough times for this family and he couldn’t contribute much to the expenses. So maybe he did the only thing he knew to do, was to move on and quick. When Donnie arrived on the scene they were a destitute family, and little hope of improvement in the foreseeable future. Occasional jobs, no home, nothing. That was heavy pressure in itself.]

Later on my search for my Dad brought the information that he was an electrician from Knoxville, Tennessee, across the mountains about 100 miles away. In some way I found out where he had worked over in the small town in East Tennessee and wrote to that company. They sent me the very limited data they had on him which included his Social Security number. That was a good start. So I wrote the Social Security Administration, and they replied to me that they couldn’t give me any further information, that I could send a letter to them and they would then forwarded. I did that but never heard anything in reply. So I don’t know if it was forwarded or not, and if it was whether he received it.¹

Why he left, and if he even cared anything at all about me, I don’t know. So I was at a roadblock. I don’t know what else happened, but life intervened and I moved on. Since then, over the years, I have been able to collect various sources that help one to locate people. In fact I learned one source that you can check and they will tell you if the person has died. But this was years ago (when I was checking) and was under the illusion I’d find him some way some day. After all these years it is very likely that he has died. The questions still remain: Did he leave because of me? Did he care at all about his son? Did he ever want to know?

I have absolutely no idea how he and Mom met. From the little information I was able to glean, all the Hoopers liked him and thought well of him. He was a tall, fair skin, blue eyed man, congenial and easy going. They were married in Asheville, I think (but, for me, this part is totally unconfirmed) and that likely is where they met. I never attempted to locate a marriage license. I’ve no idea what Mom was doing, whether she was working or not. I know she hadn’t finished high school—probably dropped out in the ninth grade. So she didn’t have lots of job skills for the market place. I think that probably Grammy liked Harold, but I don’t have any idea how PaHoop felt about him. And I don’t recall any negative comments from any of the family about him, but I bet there were plenty later on after he suddenly left.

I have a clear memory that as a small boy, we stayed over at PaHoop and Grammy’s. We had a bed—she and I together—down in the basement. And not a bedroom, but it was a place to sleep. I recall Grammy tucking me in bed at night when I asked her—maybe several times—about my Dad. She told me when I was older she’d explain it to me. However, she died without telling me anything that I recall. In fact, my Mom never told me much at all. So I think, that along with other information, I may have obtained someway or other (or imagined), I most likely grew up feeling that I was unwanted, and of no consequence. That stayed with me, and was a tough thing to grow up with.

It’s hard for me to imagine having a child and not caring enough to try to find him or her. Or, not wanting to find out about him, or care enough to try to make contact some way or other. I think I had the feeling of it being my fault, and I placed the blame on myself. That’s the way a child would think. I didn’t think of it being a fault in his character, or the very severe economic circumstances they were in, or that the problem was his. I think there was always an emptiness there because I couldn’t understand what happened, and felt that I was at least partially at fault. As a small boy I probably thought I was altogether at fault.

Mom never really talked to me much about him, and when she did the story would likely change from one time to the next. And it never was in any depth… just enough to get this worrisome child out of the way. I don’t recall ever asking PaHoop about him, and I have, as I said, this vague memory that Grammy told me it would be explained to me when I was older. We moved away and later Grammy died and we never had that conversation. Those years are pretty fuzzy in my memory, and what I come up with is what I must have heard from the folks around. It’s hard to separate fact from fiction.

SOMETIME DURING THOSE YEARS Mom met Troy [Chambers] when I was perhaps five or six years old, and they got married. I don’t think I know how or where the met nor anything about a wedding. In my memories it is almost like Troy was always there, but not really present. I think I felt that I was just a part of the package, never really a son. It was only until much, much later in therapy and I was able to examine it, that I came to believe that Troy certainly not equipped to take responsibility of being a father to a stepson. And I was always, in my mind, a stepson, just my mother’s boy. Not his son. There were no father-son activities that I can recall, which seemed to be common with other kids. This was not the beginning of a very promising phase of my life.

From somewhere I have heard that she had gotten pregnant with Harriett, and that is the reason they got married. But I can’t say if there is any truth in that, but it’s quite likely. I know that I don’t recall ever seeing much love shown between them, but more than anything, I just remember hearing the arguments and yelling. There were times that I felt sorry for Troy because it seemed he could do nothing to measure up to her expectations and demands. (But what did a kid like me know?) But it seemed that any possibilities she felt she may have had for the future began to dissolve after she married Troy. Instead, it started being a desperate grab for everything she could get and however she could get it. I suspect that if she’d had any real hopes or confidence for her future, she and Troy may have separated and gone their own ways.

I have a sliver of a memory that they got married, but I think it was before Harriett was born. I remember Mom being pregnant with her. We must have moved out of the basement for we were living with Troy’s Mom, Grand Mom Price, and her husband, Uncle John. I recall that he always wore those bib overalls. And he used to sit in his rocking chair chewing his tobacco and spittin’ into a can he kept close to his chair. Junior’s son, Dennis who was my age, also was living there. Sometime later, Uncle John died and Grand Mom Price and Dennis came to live with us. At the time we were out of the basement living on King Street, there in Asheville. Of course, don’t recall when Grand Mom died, but it was some few years later.

As I said earlier, how Troy and Mom met I don’t know, although I’m sure it must have been discussed in some way in over-heard conversation. I think they met and married five or six years after my Dad left us. Troy had one brother, Charlie, who was around occasionally. His family and ours were together for a short time before we left North Carolina for the West. And I recall hearing that Troy was diabetic, although I don’t know if that was true. I know he didn’t take insulin shots on a regular basis, perhaps because they couldn’t afford it or forgot to. Troy was uneducated, and that made for his always working at menial, low paying jobs.

There are a few pleasant glimpses of Troy. He had that glass eye which had replaced his good one which he lost as a result of some childhood disease—maybe scarlet fever (though I don’t know if that would cause him to lose an eye). He’d take out his glass eye and tease Dennis (his nephew) and me with it. And I recall his being behind the wheel of the old car driving here and there. I remember his sometimes sitting around playing the guitar with his friends. That didn’t cost anything.

There was never any father/son times doing anything at all together. I guess you could say I was a non-person to Troy. Likely I didn’t make it easy for him since I possibly saw him taking the place of my real Dad, whom I never knew. But I probably developed an attitude later. I doubt it was there from the beginning since I was only four or five years old when he entered the picture. This was the perception that lasted over the years after Mom started getting into drinking and drugs even heavier. I thought Troy should do something about it to try to help her. But there probably nothing he could do.

I’ve no idea where we lived after we left the basement at Westwood, but next I recall living with Troy’s mother and step-father for a brief period. They also had their grandson, Dennis, staying with them. He was about the only special friend my age I had that I have memories of. Vaguely I recall that the reason he was there was supposedly because his father was overseas or something. Later, after Troy’s mother’s husband died, she and Dennis were living with us on 89 King Street for a while. I don’t ever remember knowing Dennis’ mother or father—another mixed up situation. All the other places we lived are just a blurry succession of places in my memory. And the same can be said about friends my age. I didn’t have friends, but I don’t know if it was because of me or because of our moving around a lot.

Family income was very minimal. Troy had low paying jobs here and there. He hadn’t finished high school; so jobs were limited. I think that due to the arguments between Mom and him that I overheard, I perceived him as a weak man because he always seemed to back down. (They must have argued a lot because of bad home life and family conditions.) During those times I think she worked as a waitress at different places, and other low paying jobs. I think she tended to fabricate parts of her history since she couldn’t measure up to others in the family… or so she thought. So she could make-believe some parts of it. The fact is, I find it depressing that I know so little about Mom and her past. (I wonder if what I think I know, I just make up.)

Years later, after moving to California (in Maryville/Yuba City area), I know Troy went to work for low pay for some Janitorial Maintenance outfit on near-by Beale Air Force Base. (That was the beginning of an even more confusing phase of life for me.) I think Mom may have worked as an unlicensed nurse. I think recall she had some sort of training in the nursing field. She may have worked as a nurse’s aide. I recall hearing at some point that once Troy went to pick her up from work. As she walked to the car she was hit in the back by a stray .22 bullet. It was only a flesh wound and not too serious. Anyway, life was an un-ending struggle to be sure. Perhaps our situation can fairly accurately be described in a way that I heard someone say: We didn’t live in the slums, but we were going to move there as soon as we could afford it. We seemed to fit that kind of people.

It seems that PaHoop was in and out of my life for brief periods of times during my child-hood. Like he would pick me up on weekends to take me to buy school clothes (Mom and Troy couldn’t do that). And then I might spend the rest of the weekend over at Westwood Place cutting grass with the old push mower and trimming the hedge out front. That was kinda special for it meant special attention just for me. I clearly recall that while over there I slept in a room at the top of the stairs. Oh yeah, I recall one of the boys (J B or Lyndon) sneaking out the window of the bedroom in the basement so PaHoop wouldn’t know and go out with friends.

Occasionally, I might spend a weekend, or maybe just an overnight, with them. I vividly remember there were no kids in the neighborhood to play with (when I got through with the work I’d been given to do). In those early years Lyndon and J B would babysit me on occasion, and we were kind of friends. I was playing horsey with one of them in the living room and I fell off. I guess it knocked the breath out of me making me cry. Anyway as a bribe he got on his bike and went to the drugstore to buy us ice cream. Lyndon recalls that on a Sunday afternoon I put a car in gear while it sat in the driveway. It rolled a few feet and hit the house next door without damage, but it shook me up some. He recalls nothing else of any note.

USUALLY MOM AND I shared a double bed down there in the basement. Vividly I remember our talking one night. I can see us now. Or, maybe it was just her talking to me. I don’t know what it was about but it left an imprint. Also, I recall Gammy often tucking me in at night, and she’d get on to me because I would curl up in a fetal position instead of lying straight. I remember I enjoyed going to visit over at Westwood. For that little while I was accepted by someone. There was a problem as I look back at it now. I developed a white trash mentality to some degree during those years. I think this got planted in me at a very early age.

Visiting Westwood periodically was contrasted with the way we lived. The Hoopers didn’t point it out to me, but I think I saw comparisons being around the Hoopers. They all seemed to be highly driven people. There was the Big Church, Calvary Baptist up the street, and those who attended had to be dressed properly, or so I thought. And the house they lived in had nice furnishings. None of this was to be found where we lived. Without anybody saying it, it was clear that we were different—that we were trash from a very poor neighborhood.

Mom didn’t seem to fit into the family very well.² She was proud of her brothers and sisters and all their successes. Maybe she was a little jealous—or a whole lot so. They always felt she was the black sheep of the family (her words), and I grew up believing that also. She used to talk and brag about some of them, and she had a special place or love for some. But she felt that others looked down on her and were perhaps embarrassed of her. As I grew up I don’t recall many giving me reasons to think otherwise.

As I’ve said, they were dependent on PaHoop buying my school clothes, shoes and supplies. Perhaps it was his way of showing love for me, but it may have been what he would have done for any stray kid. I think that while I looked up to him, I was also somewhat scared of him (and I suspect his sons were also). And, he even paid for my dental care—such as I got. He had a dentist he used to take me to occasionally—Dr Carroll or Dr Dudley—I don’t recall which.

So with all that, as I said, I think I had the feeling that we were looked down on. This may have been partially due to input from Mom because this is what she thought—that we were of a different social standing. I can’t say that we were seen that way, for I don’t know the truth, but that is the feeling I had growing up.

The reason I remember the dentist is because he was one of those old fashioned who didn’t believe in such things as Novocain for some things as simple as fillings. I remember to this day cringing in the chair while he drilled on me. It was torture for a kid which forever put a fear into me for going to a dentist. Needless to say, I hated going to him, and didn’t like PaHoop very much for making me go.

I haven’t figured out exactly how old I was, but still pretty young I’m sure, when I lost all my teeth. Looking at the school records which I got many years later there’s a notation by a teacher dated March 2, 1959, stating: Teeth—gum line cavities. That’s not much to go on about my teeth problem but it does give the date that made me eleven years old and I had teeth. So if we left North Carolina when I was say 13 or so, the problem was taken care of in a drastic way before that. And that was pretty early to lose all your teeth. And it was pretty traumatic for a young boy, especially to go to school without teeth, and then with dentures. The kids focused in on that and teased me unmercifully.

Evidently I had pretty poor dental hygiene when we were living a while on King Street in Asheville. Someone just decided that the best thing to do was to have all my teeth removed—all of them—as a small boy. This was accomplished in two sessions. I well remember after the first session the dentist came out to the house to give me a shot of some kind to the reaction after pulling the first half. This caused a fever and made my whole face extremely swollen. After that dentures had to be fitted.

That whole process affected