Just Get Over It: A way to get beyond your past and achieve your future

By Robert L Lawson

A young boy in Southern California meets life head-on during the fifties and sixties. Robert Lawson was the second child out of six siblings. A beautiful mother and inventive dad lead their children on a wild journey. You'll meet animals, contraptions, wild imaginations and more until life comes to a stand still, and all hope seems to vanish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert L Lawson
• Release date: Dec 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578819334

Book preview

A young boy and his five siblings get caught in the harsh teeth of the 1950s welfare system in California. Robert climbs from tragedy to tragedy only to triumph. A unique story of one boy who manages to beat the odds by getting over it.

Thanks, Marty

Copyright ©2018 by Robert L. Lawson Jr.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Robert Lawson [e-mail]

First IngramSpark paperback edition December 2020.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases or to arrange personal appearances by the author, contact Robert Lawson by email.

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ISBN-13  978-0-578-81932-7

Prologue

A few years back, my wife, Laurie, and I were sitting in a remote bar called Grande Bob’s Barbecue in Playa Grande, Costa Rica. It was New Year’s Eve and we were wondering if we may have chosen the wrong place to celebrate. It was our first time in this part of the world and all I wanted to do was find a place to watch the Rose Bowl.

The big draw to Grande Bob’s was the 20-foot TV satellite dish planted at the front of the property. This super large dish allowed Bob, the owner, to get USA channels and all the sports. Bob acquired the dish from a former drug lord who had recently been busted in the little nearby town of Brasilito. The drug lord was deported back to the USA and did not need such a fine, high-tech dish receiver. So, with a little help, it ended up in the parking area at Grande Bob’s to be used for our enjoyment. That is where high tech stopped as we were all going to watch a 26-inch television mounted on the back of the bar with no discernable way to control the volume. Having no television for weeks on end can make you appreciate what you have. We sat at the bar with several other TV-starved people, longing to watch anything. The beer was cold, and the food was edible…kind of.

The Internet had yet to be created and cable and phone services hadn’t reached this part of Costa Rica. Without the dish, only one grainy local television channel from the distant town of Liberia was available. It mostly focused on the local version of bull riding. A rider would get super drunk; then climb up onto the back of a big nasty Brahma bull. The handlers would open the gate and the local cowboy would get thrown off and possibly even trampled to death. The bulls won every time.

Four local bystanders would lift the poor rider and then toss him into the bed of a waiting pickup truck. There in the truck (ambulance), he would be checked by medical personnel. If they found no broken bones, they would give him another small bottle of Guaro—a local sugar cane, alcoholic drink—and he would go back into the bull ring.

With help from the big satellite dish, we were guaranteed to be able to watch the Rose Bowl the next day. It appeared some other people were arguing for their favorite bowl games, but the majority agreed on the Rose Bowl—after I promised to buy the first round of beers. Everyone cheered and we appeared to be set for the big event.

The bar manager was a heavy-set, bearded guy known as Captain Ron. I think he was from south Florida. After he came back with our order of two cold Imperial beers, he immediately went into his life story. I came down to Costa Rica as the captain of a large, expensive Hatteras fishing boat, Ron continued, We got her through the Panama Canal and ended up near here in the town of Flamingo Beach.

He explained how the owner of the boat refused to pay him the full amount and tried to beat him down on the agreed amount. In a fit of madness, he loaded up his things and headed for the local bar. He fell asleep in a lawn chair next to the pool, only to discover when he awoke that the owner and the boat were long gone. The great thing about Costa Rica is that you can be anybody and from anywhere—there is no way to verify your story, no one cares if it’s true. They only care about the quality of the story and the delivery.

After about an hour, Captain Ron came back over and said, There is going to be a private party here for the rest of the night.

Does that mean we have to leave; it’s only 10:30? I asked Ron.

No, No, Ron said, You guys are invited to stay as my guests. He seemed pretty proud to say that, and we both thanked him.

You are one of the few couples not asking for credit, and you’ve been paying after every round, Ron said with a big handshake.

I felt particularly special as there were only three other groups in the whole place. Then I realized that nearly the entire population of Playa Grande was represented.

Ron turned off the television to make a big announcement. We are having a private party with a new bartender; her name is Marty.

Marty stepped up and announced all the drinks were on her. She was a tall, smart, and extremely attractive woman. She looked like someone who could entertain anyone including the Royal family. Marty stated that she had worked for the airlines in the past and knew what a real drink tasted like, and with that, the party started. Marty was pouring real drinks and slammed a shot of rum every few minutes.

A stranger paying for all the drinks! That just does not happen in a coastal surfing town, but that night it did! Four guys sitting at a table decided to crowd around the bar for easier and faster consumption. Laurie and I chose to occupy a table near the back entrance. After an hour, one young guy at the bar started complaining about how his parents had sent him to an inferior college and how life had been so unjust to him. He continued, explaining that if his parents had sent him to the University of Chicago, he was sure he would have had a better education in marketing and would have had his own company by now.

His parents had been cruel by buying him a coach ticket to Costa Rica; he deserved at least business class. It was getting to the point where I wanted someone to slap him silly. The more he drank, the louder he became. He was a good-looking guy who had his health and several friends—what was he thinking? I listened, wanting to swap life stories with him, and tell him to just get over it. Instead, I sat and listened to how his life was so bad. How it was everyone else who had made bad choices for him. This pissed me off and made me want to write a book about no matter how bad life could be, the conclusion is shaped by us. Our responses to our circumstances are more important than the circumstances themselves. We make our futures by choosing our paths and making good choices—mostly hard ones that often don’t work.

Little did I know that this party and open-bar was all a big set-up. Soon, Marty was probing this young complainer about his line of work and asking about what he did for a living. He explained that he worked for a large advertising company in San Francisco, but the main office was moving to New York. He was underappreciated and his talents were being wasted. He should be working in the New York branch making twice the money.

Marty was now pouring him straight shots of Ron Centenario rum, using a water glass instead of a shot glass. Marty said that maybe she could help this guy go to work with a company that would be more appreciative of his artistic genius.

She asks, Who did you say you worked for?

He slurred, Hal Riney and Associates.

Marty said, Wait a minute, I have my husband’s business card here in my purse, and began to rifle through her beach bag. She handed him the card and reached under the counter for her preset camera.

Can you see the card and read it for me?

Mr. James Travis, CEO Hal Riney & Partners, New York City, NY! Click.

The young guy melted to the ground; how was it possible?! Of all the gin joints in all the world... He stood up in shock, stumbled, and dropped to the floor.

He was dragged out, mumbling to himself and put to bed in his room upstairs, not believing what had just happened.

Laurie and I were laughing so hard we were tearing up. We started to talk to the older guy sitting alone at the next table. We introduced ourselves and he said simply, I am Jim Travis. We all began to snicker. He explained that earlier that evening, he had befriended the traveling group and the one kid had explained that he was unappreciated by his current employer and named them. Jim said he had heard enough and knew that Marty would take it from there.

The young guy left Costa Rica and went home and thought no more of the New Year’s party. It would remain an unrealistic blur in his memory bank.

Later that year, at the company Christmas party, a new award was instituted. The first recipient of the Foot-in-the-Mouth Award was—guess who. Jim and Hal used their advertising skills to make a big production of the event—after all, they had photos.

That was the start of a long and glorious friendship with Jim and Marty. We spent many nights trading life stories, and with their encouragement, I decided to share my life experiences living in foster homes.

For some reason, Marty thought my childhood stories were interesting and felt they should be shared and could even provide a positive influence for foster children.

When I shared the stories, they were just history to me; I did not think they were so interesting. At this point, Marty pulled out a business card showing her name and title: Marty Travis, Psychiatrist MD. I know this stuff and, damn it, if I say it is interesting, take the free advice.

But she always carried her stack of cards, doctor, lawyer, architect, banker, cosmetologist, and many more.

Jim shared great stories with us over the years as well. He ran the second presidential election campaign for Ronald Reagan, who won by a landslide. Jim knew everyone and was so smart. His stories were far more interesting than mine. The Madmen television series mirrored Jim’s firm.

It took a few years to get it started, but I began writing about my life. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent; this is just what I remember.

Chapter One

The Early Years

My parents were what most would see as the two people most unlikely to have ever met. My father could not read or write. He was born in Oklahoma just off the Indian reservation, in the middle of seven or eight children. Some were born on the reservation by two or three different fathers. Some were part Cherokee Indian of various degrees. The stories varied greatly among family members, but the result was a loose-knit family.

The uncles and one aunt that I knew had simple folk names. My uncles were named, Tulsa, Buck, Speedy, Carl, and Junior Lee. My aunt was only known to me as Sis. At different times, they lived with us or near us. One of the brothers had drowned while he and my father were working on a cotton farm. I do not know his name, and only know he was about ten-years-old when he died. One of the sisters died at eight-years-old from a fever. One no-name uncle was killed in WWII. All that I knew of him was a faded picture of a man in an Army uniform.

All the living siblings had serious drinking problems. My father, for reasons unknown to me, never drank. My father, Robert Lee, was tall, dark, and handsome by all accounts. He drank 11 cups of coffee in the morning and smoked three packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes a day. A daily tradition for his clan was to sit around in the late afternoon, tell stories, and get wasted. My father would sit with them and enjoy the camaraderie while drinking coffee. I didn’t pay much attention to the stories because they usually involved past family events, which I found boring.

Most of the brothers worked odd jobs and could not manage to stay employed for more than a few weeks. The exception, Uncle Speedy, the oldest brother, worked as a government employee and eventually retired with a full pension. We only saw him about once a year when he pulled up in an almost new car, which the kids all got to sit in and pretend to drive. We all thought he was our richest uncle, although he never gave us gifts.

He would bring boxes of port wine and several cases of beer. The drunken, storytelling fest would last about three days. Everyone would pass out on the floor in our living room and wake up and do it again. Eventually, they would all migrate back to their homes.

My mother had an entirely different upbringing. She was born in Michigan to an immigrant German family. There were many brothers and sisters who all spoke German as their first language. My mother, Rose Marie, was tall, thin, blonde-haired, and blue-eyed. She was smart, worked hard and no one could explain the love she had for my father.

My mother and grandmother, Molly, moved to California in search of a better life. They were part of a large group of Molly’s brothers and sisters and her old mother leaving Michigan. The entire clan was hard-working, give-it-your-all type Germans. Most went into farming and one of the sons, John Kautz, became one of the largest and most successful farmers in the state of California.

My great grandmother, Grandmother Molly, and mother all worked the roadside vegetable stand outside of Lodi, California selling John and his father Ben’s fruits and vegetables. My grandmother Molly eventually changed occupations and started to sell real estate in Modesto.

The story of my parents getting together is not documented nor is it well known to me. It was around 1945 when most men were returning home from World War II. My father was not one of them. He tried to join the Army and Navy but was turned down due to having a bad heart. He had contracted rheumatic fever when he was a small child, which caused major valve damage to his heart. That did not stop him from getting a large eagle tattoo spread across his chest, as a lot of returning soldiers did. He eventually had tattoos all over his body.

I know that my parents met and decided to go to the movies. Seven days later, they were married in Reno, Nevada. My father was 34 and my mother had just turned 18. My mother’s family was shocked and disappointed. My mother gave up her full scholarship to the University of Michigan to marry an illiterate, unemployed, and older drifter. Her family never really recovered from the shock and consequently, we were always considered the bastard side of the family.

Molly, the wonderful grandmother, would tell me the story of how she helped my parents get their first apartment and how she gave my father work as a handyman. Molly made it a point to include in this constantly repeated story the details of the wedding gift she had given them—a brand-new Sears and Roebuck wringer washer.

My father put it in the back of his old truck and told all that he was heading for Oklahoma to see his family and that he would return in a few months. Months? Of course, the first seed of six children was already planted in the oven.

He returned with no washer and a different and older truck. I am sure all this endeared him to the German side of the family. A few months later, Patricia Lynn, a girl, was the first addition.

After a few months, he announced another road trip to Oklahoma. Soon after his return I, Robert Lee Jr., was added to the growing brood. Shortly after my arrival, we moved from Modesto to San Bernardino, California. Most of my father’s clan had relocated and settled in the same area.

I never knew the reason for the move, but I suspect family pressure was a big factor. His behavior was so unlike the German side that I am sure he and my mother were often reminded of his lack of a good work ethic. My father had established a very predictable pattern. Plant a seed and head for Oklahoma, return and welcome the new one. John Leslie was next, followed by David Louis. The big adventure was underway.

Chapter Two

Fourth Street

We moved into an old Victorian house on Fourth Street near the brand-new Safeway store. The house was small for a family of five plus my father’s dad, Lee.

I felt very lucky; we three boys had our own room upstairs with access to a window and the porch roof just below it.