Truthful Tall Tales

By Ken Lehnig

High Strangeness in an Ordinary Life.
Every story has a beginning. This is the beginning of this story, a truthful tall tale of an improbable life, a life in so many ways still quite ordinary. To that point, this is not an autobiography, but a light cast on parts of a life colored by high strangeness.
The following is not meant to be an autobiography. These true stories, however, are in sequence. It is my story told by my alter ego, Kent. I found it personally less upsetting to write a non-fiction book as fictional storytelling. Although I still experienced anxiety, nightmares, and short periods of unexplained illness during the writing of this account. The events herein happened; however, I did take some liberty in the dialogue. Although I remember the event, the place, the time, and the gist of each conversation, the exact words allude me. I never reported any of these events to any authority, but took them as a personal journey, navigating the bumpy and unwanted trip down the rabbit hole on my own.
At the time of writing this book, I am 73 years old and am no closer to having any understanding, nor have I found any meaning, profound, mundane, or delusional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Lehnig
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005751470

Ken Lehnig

Ken Lehnig lives in San Diego and is a long-time singer/songwriter, producer musician, poet, author and podcast host for Creatives with Ken Lehnig on Spotify, Breaker, and Goggle Podcasts. Ken's music is on Spotify and most music sites."I have always been interested in the dark at the edge of the light. The reality of the light and dark reality is both in the lit physical world as well as the more dimly lit world of our psyche's. What inhabits that place? What do we do when all that we know is not enough to explain what appears before us?I suppose the relationship between the dark and the light was solidified when I acquired a life-threatening auto-immune disease that introduced me to unbearable pain and put me in a wheelchair for 4 years. Most of the short stories and poems in my books were written during that time. I have looked long and well into the dark, clear that it was to me my destination and have recovered and remain to be a Creative."

Book preview

Preface

Every story has a beginning. This is the beginning of this story, a truthful tall tale of an improbable life, a life in so many ways still quite ordinary. To that point, this is not an autobiography, but a light cast on parts of a life colored by high strangeness.

The following is not meant to be an autobiography. These true stories, however, are in sequence. It is my story told by my alter ego, Kent. I found it personally less upsetting to write a non-fiction book as fictional storytelling. Although I still experienced anxiety, nightmares, and short periods of unexplained illness during the writing of this account. The events herein happened; however, I did take some liberty in the dialogue. Although I remember the event, the place, the time, and the gist of each conversation, the exact words allude me. I never reported any of these events to any authority, but took them as a personal journey, navigating the bumpy and unwanted trip down the rabbit hole on my own.

At the time of writing this book, I am 73 years old and am no closer to having any understanding, nor have I found any meaning, profound, mundane, or delusional.

And so…

Beginning

Beginning in Kankakee Illinois 1946-47

I supposed it makes sense that my life would start the way it did as a family secret. I was born to a beautiful too-young girl who had been willingly compromised by a movie-star-handsome young sailor on leave. The date had turned into a deeply exciting and romantic encounter that had enough energy, emotion, and love to carry on quite well for another sixty-six years.

I was not born after the orderly execution of events; an engagement; a marriage, and a honeymoon. I was inconvenient. But in the following year or so, with Illinois-style bribes and favors called in, the papers, and the order of events were wrestled into their proper order. I was given legitimacy, an established date of birth, a last name, and a proper place in the world. In truth, even with the remarkable effort of my connected Aunt and concerned Grandmother, my proper place in the world would never quite materialize.

My first impossible memory, presented as a reoccurring and lucid dream, was sitting on my mother’s lap in a car. It was winter and Dad was having a hard time with the wheel. The temperature had dropped below freezing, in the night, and black ice covered all the roads. Finding traction was difficult. A truck had made the turn in the other lane and had begun to slide out of control. It was headed right for us, on the wrong side of the road, hitting us with a jarring, metal crunching force. Our car was sent careening toward the sidewalk. The wheels hit a bumper and the car became airborne, rolling over twice, and coming to rest upside down against a bakery door. I was tossed about like a beach ball and eventually landed, on the roof, above the back seat. It was very still and quiet.

Blood was running down my face, from a head laceration. For some reason, I wasn’t crying. The door opened and a figure made of blinding golden light stood next to the car. I knew that the being was female. It reached into the upside-down car and lifted me out. I felt comforted and suffered no pain, although I was clearly hurt. I looked over at the crumpled truck, I knew the driver had perished. I tried to cry but was unable. Heartbroken, I could see his grieving wife and children in my mind. My own mother and father were unconscious and hurt.

Firemen soon showed up and got my mother and father out. Mom became conscious on the gurney and called for me, becoming almost hysterical. Dad was still unconscious, but I knew he would be well.

One of the firemen went back to check the car. He climbed in the back seat and pulled out my limp body.

I looked up into the featureless face of my benefactor. I think she smiled. She floated over to the fireman who had my dead body wrapped in a blanket. She took my aware self and reached over inserting me into my blanket-covered body. Terrible pain and fear rushed up to meet me like light blue tendrils. My body responded with a primordial scream. The startled fireman almost dropped me. A Doctor quickly took over, giving me a once over. He barked an order to get us all into the ambulance and to the hospital. The golden lady of light had vanished.

Winter

In A Winter Desert

One of my earliest memories was living in Imperial Beach California, catching horn toads in the sand dunes next to the sea. Then we were piled into the car and headed to Albuquerque New Mexico. To me I wondered why my Dad was being sent to a desert, far from an ocean. I remember asking from the back seat, Is there a big lake where we are going? He laughed in response and Mom made a comment about how ugly the landscape was. I assumed that there must be a lake.

We moved into an already furnished, small, two-bedroom duplex. A darkness fell over Mom at the accommodations. Dad did his best explaining to her that we would only be here for six months and it was better than camping. He continued the same litany about why this assignment was so important, a career builder. Mom always questioned why she had to participate. She insisted that she wasn’t in the navy. My father would always remind her that she had married a navy man and that as dependents she and we kids were technically all in the service.

Both our parents would leave in the morning and come back home about four. Women in blue jeans and blue shirts would come over and babysat us. We were told they were called yeoman even if they were girls. What Mom and dad were doing during the day was never discussed. Ben and I thought that whatever it was they were doing it together. Small things didn’t escape us. Mom acted calm but had a weird edge to her voice when she talked to us. Ben would annoy her just for being near her. She didn’t do anything but would turn and walk away when he was talking to her. It was Ben who noticed that both our parents began to use the same words and phrases. It was like they both memorized them from a book. Ben wrote a few down; For the good of everyone, would you…, The world would be a better place if you…, Are those your words or are they what your mind is saying…, You’re listening to yourself and not to what I’m saying…, Coming from Dad wasn’t so bad, we didn’t really listen to him, but coming from Mom it was disturbing.

And then there was the thing in the house. It wasn’t a ghost. It never showed itself, other than a fleeting shadow on the wall. Its presence was depressing and sad. It had the biggest effect on Mom. She would be happy one moment and in tears the next. Ben didn’t mind it, he said it was part of the land and had a quiet resentment for the house and us being here. When he told me, he snapped his head around and corrected himself. It said it doesn’t mind you, me and Cynthia.

Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas. The tree was little. Santa dropped off a few presents to us. Apparently, the desert is the end of his run. Mom was sad and in tears most of the day. Ben said it was because she was going to have a baby. How he knew that I didn’t know. Dad was drinking hot toddies all day he told us, in a slurred voice, Santa was on a budget and next year and we had to travel light. He said when we are in a real house next Christmas it will be better. It was my last Christmas as a kid.

One month before we left for Kentucky, in February, it snowed. It wasn’t much, about two inches. It was enough to make us excited. The three of us got dressed as soon as we saw the snow and ran outside. Breakfast would wait. We hurried to build a snow man before the snow melted. It wasn’t much, maybe two feet tall and ugly. Ben stood back and stared at it. I asked him what he was doing. He suddenly jumped on the snowman and tore it apart. When it was crushed, he stood up, dusted the snow off and went inside. Cynthia started crying and ran inside as well. I just sat down feeling sad. California was dry, like it is here, but there was the ocean and the sand dunes and Mom and Dad acted better. We were happy there. This place was weird.

That night in the dark Ben whispered, ‘Kent, are you awake? I wasn’t, but now was listening. That snowman looked like the thing in our house. It didn’t like us making an image of it. So, I destroyed it. It’s happier now.’ I believed him and went back to sleep."

Clarksville

Off to Clarksville Kentucky 1955

My perception, being young, was that this place was nice. It was green everywhere. I liked that. The trip from New Mexico was long, trying, and tiring on everyone, especially for Mom with a new baby. We camped, which my little brother Ben and I loved until Mom would loudly demand a motel. A hot shower being the utility that made her weighted suggestion a necessity. Dad’s counterargument, weakly asserted, was that the campsites had showers, his reasoning falling on Mom’s deaf ears. Then Dad would report his concern for their budget. Dad was very tight with his money.

He would relate, as he did often, his childhood and the poverty he endured. The tale went like this; My father was wealthy, owning a dairy farm. My parents had ten children, half raised with money and privilege, the others poor. Those humble and dire circumstances were facilitated by the crash of the stock market and the great depression. The dairy farm was stolen from his father by the corrupt legal machinations of the Governor, looking for credibility and federal money, and a fraudulent document declaring Grandpa’s herd infected with anthrax.

Mom would listen respectfully then immediately, upon the narrative’s completion, dismiss his go-to position on money management. He had no real argument, other than that over-used cautionary tale. Other than, perhaps, rightfully, distrusting the government and banks. She would argue that they had money, and that camping with a baby and three small children was nuts and surely dangerous. Her argument would go to bears, wolves and eagles and their taste for human babies. I could see that Dad was aching to educate her on the eating habits of wild animals. Watching his shoulders droop let me know that he, wisely, would not pontificate, as he was wanting to do.

After a view minutes of silence, she posited that having to manage us and take care of baby brother, Johnny, was well above her strength, or normal call of wifely duties. He, stupidly, positioned that he would not do woman’s work. She asked sarcastically, "So your contribution is three minutes of grunting and the result is my total responsibility from then on. I had heard the grunting and bedsprings squeaking, but not what it meant. I couldn’t help but stand in her corner. Whatever this conversation meant it certainly wasn’t fair for Dad to work for three minutes and Mom to work every day from then on.

Her finishing blow was always this, If you claim to love me and care about your children me asking for a real bed, an occasional hot shower and baths for the kids should not be so much to ask. Never mind that I don’t like your natural aroma either some soap and a little hot water would improve your luck as well.

I didn’t know why that was a good argument, but it was always one that spurred Dad into action.

The end `result was always a bed, baths for us kids, a shower for mom, and a separate shower for Dad.

The trip finally ended.

Daddy pulled up to a white house. He said we would live here a while. Our new house was being built. Mom smiled and said that we got here a little early.

The Navy screwed up again kids. It’s what we have to put up with, being a Navy family.

I could hear the tone in her voice and knew she was angry at Daddy. She was pretty much angry all the time. I looked at the house again. It was old and dirty. I thought of a stray dog.

Yep, Kids. Another dump for us to clean up.

Cut it out! Dad wasn’t having her complaints. You know damn well they got a late start building, because of a bad winter. The Navy went way beyond and found this place for us. You’ll have brand new appliances. The painters will be here tomorrow- outside and in. You have already picked colors… carpets coming the next day. The movers are coming Friday. It doesn’t look like much, but it will be fine.

Mom relaxed. "You’re right. It does look horrible now. I’m sure it will be fine. How long before the other house is built?

"I’m sorry. It could be a year. That’s why the Navy is taking care of this.

Mom was not impressed.

Ben, Cynthia, and I climbed out of the back of our Studebaker. Mom, holding a sleeping Johnny, and Dad went in first. I held Cynthia’s hand and I followed Ben up the steps. We stopped and stood still on the porch. Mom was screaming at Dad.

"Oh my God. Do you fucking think for one minute that we are going to sleep in this rat-infested hovel?

Mom finger-called me in without skipping a beat. She handed a crying baby Johnny to me.

Dad knew that when the F word came out of Mom that it wouldn’t be good. It was a mouse. Just a mouse.

I walked out on the porch where Ben and Cynthia stood together. I rustled them to me to sit on the porch steps. We sat still and quiet, even Johnny, while Mom and Dad continued their loud discussion.

Can’t you smell that stink. That is the smell of more than one rat. There could be hundreds. And look at these walls. The wallpaper is peeling off. She walked over to the living room wall. See these little specks? That is cockroach shit. This whole room has to be re-wallpapered. It needs to be fumigated. The wildlife has to be killed, all before it’s painted. She stormed out of the house, passed us, and got in the car, slamming the car door and folding her arms.

Dad came out looking defeated. He sat down on the step and rubbed his hands together. I moved over, with Bobby in my lap, next to him.

Mom’s pissed.

Dad looked at me and smiled. Yes, she is.

What are we going to do?

We are going to go to a motel. I’m taking you all out to dinner. Then I’m going to give Housing a call and have an inspector come out and look at this shit hole of a house.

So, Mom’s right?

Yes, she is. She is mostly always right. Don’t tell her I said that…it’s our secret. Okay. Swear?

I did. The truth is I already knew it was true. Even though I was a kid - I knew things.

Almost

Almost Settled

The inspector did eventually come. The Navy agreed to pay the three-week stay in the Travel Way Motel. The room was a suite with two rooms, but with two adults and four kids, it was still a crowded stay.

The Navy agreed with Mom’s assessment and moved quickly to make the house habitable. The house was repaired, de-bugged, de-critter-ed, papered, painted, carpeted and moved into. In the end Mom was pleased, which meant Dad was pleased. Which meant we kids were pleased. Except for Ben.

Now, I understood what Mom wanted to be done, but I felt something else. The house felt weird to me. It was like an itch in my head and I had no idea what to do to soothe it. Something bad had happened in this house.

After the house was put back together Mom started drinking during the day. I could always see it coming. She would wake up later than usual. She would call the next-door neighbor and feign illness, asking if she would take care of Bobby. She would get the baby’s needs together and send me over carrying Bobby and his bag of baby stuff. When I would come back and ask her anything, she would cover her face and tell me to, Leave me alone, sweetie. I have a bad headache. Go make the kids some toast. You can do that for Mommy, can’t you? I could and I did. I would help Cynthia and Ben get dressed and we would go outside to play. Mom would then go under the sink and pull out the secreted bottle of vodka. A perfect accompaniment for the orange juice she just poured. I would peek inside and watch the self-destructive scene with confusion and sadness.

The whole time we were playing I was worried about Mom and Ben.

There was a reason. What I didn’t mention is the old man that showed up when Mom felt like this. I never saw him straight on. I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He would stand in a doorway or just at the edge of the reflection in a mirror. He was unshaven and wore one of those sleeveless tee-shirts and dirty tan pants. He didn’t have much hair and what he had stuck straight up. I suppose the stray hairs were supposed to be combed down across his bald head. He looked like he was angry. I thought he was mad at Mom for some reason. I knew somehow that he was dead, having little knowledge of ghosts. I assumed he belonged there. I was confused that Mom never seemed to notice him. I had no idea what to do about him. What I did know was that Mom would get sloppy drunk, start ranting every complaint she could bring to her Vodka-soaked mind. The litany of what was wrong with her life would go on about an hour. I would take the kids down the street to be out of earshot. The rant would deteriorate while her anger increased. I could imagine the old man smiling. Mom would then go out on the porch and start screaming at the top of her lungs for us kids to come inside.

There would be three actions when it got to this point. The first would be the police would show up and promise to find her children and then have her lay down to sleep of the booze. The police would call my Dad. He would come home, talk the police out of any civil action, and call our kind neighbor to watch us. That handled, he would go back to work. The second possible outcome was Mom getting tired of yelling, giving up and going back to bed to sleep off her orange juice. The third was her yelling for so long that we would reluctantly head home. This option had consequences. As the three of us walked by, she would suddenly turn and