Summer of '87

By Erik Kratzer

Every move I make, every decision I employ, every thought in my brain and every word I speak are based purely on who I am. Who I am is based on the culmination of my reactions and internalization of every situation ever placed in front of me. But even with a lifetime of situations and a lifetime of my reactions shaping my outlook on life, there is one specific moment that defined me. Every other moment bent, formed and shaped that definition to finely tweak who I became. However, fundamentally, I was formed from that one moment. This is the lead up to that moment. When my father moved his family to escape the world and his problems, we only saw that new problems arose and the inevitability that the originally problems didnt go away, they just changed. This is my story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496943705

Erik Kratzer

Erik Kratzer was born in Moline, Illinois, in 1977, the first child of Monique and John Kratzer. After his father died at the age of nine, he and his sister were raised by his mother. Parts of his childhood were spent in Southern Ohio before his father’s death. He aided his mother the best he could in the rearing of his sister, as his mother worked numerous jobs to support the family, while attending school to build a career.

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© 2014 Erik Kratzer . 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.

This is a work of fiction based on events in the author’s life. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue have been modified to be used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/23/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4371-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-4370-5 (e)

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CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter 1 Summer Of ’85

Chapter 2 Fall Of ’85

Chapter 3 Winter Of ’85

Chapter 4 Spring Of ’86

Chapter 5 Summer Of ’86

Chapter 6 Fall Of ’86

Chapter 7 Winter Of ’86

Chapter 8 Spring Of ’87

Chapter 9 Summer Of ’87

Chapter 10 Fall Of ’87

About The Book

About The Author

PREFACE

Every move I make, every decision, every thought, and every word I speak is a product of who I am. Who I am is the culmination of my reactions and my internalization of every situation ever placed in front of me. The way I perceive these situations and the sparks that fly in my brain when presented with my unique version of life shaped me just as your unique version of life shaped you. But even with a lifetime of situations and a lifetime of my reactions shaping my outlook, there is one specific moment that defined me. Looking back in life you may find one moment in time, one situation that influences you the most.

In life, there is one moment that defines you. Every other moment bends, forms, and shapes that definition to fine-tune the individual that you are. Fundamentally, however, you are formed from that one moment. This book describes my one moment. It is an account of my memories. The conversations may not be precisely remembered, but the overall message is clear. The book recounts what I have seen, how I have interpreted what I have seen, and what I have been told. Like all historical accounts, it states the facts as the writer knows them. This is my story.

CHAPTER 1

Summer of ’85

It was a warm summer day. A refreshing breeze lifted the normally bleak atmosphere on a sleepy street in the ghetto. I, Jimmy, an average seven year old boy, by any definition of the word, stood in the front yard of the duplex my family rented playing with my favorite toy—an old, broken desk that was cast off after a school renovation. Well, average may appear to be a bit strong as the details grow clearer.

The sails of the model ship that sat atop the television billowed as the breeze from the open window wafted across the living room.

My father, Calvin, looked out the window at me and shook his head as Mona, my mother, approached. What’s wrong with that boy?

What do you mean?

What do I mean? he exclaimed as he pointed out the window. Are you blind? The kid is playing with a desk, for crying out loud!

So what? He’s not like you.

That’s for damn sure. Why isn’t he throwing a ball? Or running around?

Because of some complications when he was a child, my father was never able to play sports while he was growing up. This lack of fulfillment turned my father into one of those quintessential father types who puts unneeded pressure on his only son to be the best he could in any—nay, every—sport.

Mona looked fondly out the window. I think I like it this way. At least he won’t get hurt.

My mother, on the other hand, was quite overprotective. I guess it was a response to my father’s reckless philosophy.

Calvin left the window to sit in his recliner. Whatever. When I was his age, I would have killed to be able to run around or try out for a team. But no, my son sits and plays with a desk while the helmet I got him collects dust.

I didn’t mind my father’s need for me to be athletic; I liked sports and, looking back in life, I wish I had kept up more with sports as I grew up. My father was a very old-fashioned man, and on more than one occasion we bumped heads, for we were very different in many respects.

Father fidgeted in the chair and abruptly stood up. Forget this. He went outside. Hey, Jimmy! Wanna toss the ball around?

No thank you, Father. I said with a slight speech impediment. I had what they called a lazy tongue and my R’s sounded like W’s.

It’s no problem. I’ll be back in a second with the football.

I said no. I’m in the middle of a very important presentation.

Oh sure, I see that now.

He lumbered back inside.

When I was growing up, it seemed that we took opposite sides in every situation, and that seemed to polarize our relationship. I constantly fought him, his ways, and his views, sometimes going so far as to reject the notion that we were related. Oddly enough—as life tends to be—we were also very similar. We were more similar than I could ever have realized, especially as time went on. There were times when my mother would look at me, and she was startled by what she saw in my face. The smirk on my face or the glint in my eye could remind my mother of my father to the point of shocking her senses. At a later age I would sing a song in a certain way, and my mom would say, You are just like your father. It took me many years to find this out, and in retrospect I do wish that I could have seen it sooner, accepted it sooner, and enjoyed it more.

My father was always a wild child, to put it mildly—the complete opposite of what I was at a similar age. When he was growing up, he was more than a handful for my grandmother, especially while following the example set by my grandfather. My father was more commonly described as my grandfather’s partner in crime. At one point his antics made my grandmother feel she had little choice but to send him off to a place for wayward boys. This did not curb his appetite for fun and destruction. His boyish behavior continued until he was seventeen, and, based on my father’s actions, a judge felt forced to offer him a choice. Enter the military or go to jail. He chose the former. At first it seemed as if the military had saved his life. He still had a wild streak in him, but it was a bit tamer, or at least he chose better times for his stunts. He grew, too. When he left the military, he was no longer a skinny boy but a large and strong man. This new, strong, invigorated man unfortunately lived a short life.

Bam!

The sound of the front door closing woke me as dawn was approaching. I shuffled toward the living room as the unmistakable sound of footie pajamas scraping the floor warned my mother that I was coming.

I saw my mother watch my father get into the car and drive away. Where is father going?

He has to see the doctor again.

Is he going to be okay?

Let’s hope so, baby.

The day drifted by—seeming to be both the blink of an eye and an eternity, like a time-lapse video of a person standing still with the world moving quickly around him. As dusk arrived, so did my father.

My little sister, Kate, ran up to him and hugged his leg. Daddy!

Mona turned to her husband. And?

My father patted my sister on the back, removed her from his leg, and walked back to the bedroom without answering my mother. She soon followed him.

Not long after he returned home from the military, my father was diagnosed with cancer from being exposed to Agent Orange.

This must have devastated him. He was so calm in the face of impending death, however, that no one was any the wiser to it if he was devastated.

Morning dawned.

Wake up, sleepyhead, Calvin whispered.

I opened my eyes to an instant close-up of my father’s face. Ahh!

Calvin laughed. Come on, get up. Your mom is making breakfast.

He wasn’t one to show or share any emotion so you never really knew what or how he felt. I cannot imagine what I would do if I were faced with my own mortality.

The entire day was a blur. I couldn’t get what my father was going through out of my mind. The day seemed to pass by as like a time lapse video and the next thing I knew, it was night.

I was tossing and turning in bed. It was nearly one in the morning, and I couldn’t sleep. I got up and walked into the living room to see my father slumped over on the couch, disheveled, staring at the television, beer in hand. I can’t sleep.

Well, I can’t do a lot of things. Get over it.

May I have something to drink? I asked.

He raised his beer. Join the club.

Mona entered, tying her bathrobe, and whispered, What’s going on in here?

I couldn’t sleep, I said, rubbing my eyes.

Stop bothering your father. He isn’t feeling well. Let’s get you a glass of water.

Mona escorted me to the kitchen for a glass of water before I returned to bed.

Father couldn’t fight the urge to interject, Yeah! Well you wouldn’t feel so fuckin’ hot either if …

Calvin!

Calvin sighed and turned his attention back to the television. Whatever.

The only glimpses we had of his real feelings were at his worst moments, when he was most broken down and most vulnerable. The drunken nights combined with the fits of rage were as close as we got to the emotions that ran through him. To be completely honest, when I grew older, I realized that I would have expected much more rage from him. He was surprisingly strong and in control for what he was going through.

The cancer my father developed from exposure to Agent Orange was known as aseptic necrosis, and it targeted his bones and his organs. His bones and organs were slowly disintegrating. Piece by piece, day by day, there was literally less of him. Over time, in several places, metal had replaced his bones. This was changing him—not only in large ways, like his not being able to walk or being in a cast or bedridden, but in smaller ways as well. He had been born right-handed. To add stability to his right hand, the doctors surgically imbedded a metal plate to fuse his hand to his forearm, basically bypassing his wrist, since the small bones of the wrist could no longer handle the stress placed on them when he used his hands.

This had completely changed the mechanics of his hand, and in time he began attempting to write left-handed, and let me tell you, his handwriting looked atrocious. He tried very hard to learn how to write left-handed, and in time he became decent at it, and he was quite proud of himself and his small victory. But as fate always has it, at least with members of my family, when he finally felt he was doing well at being left-handed, his left hand was fused to his forearm like his right hand had been. At this point he had to learn to write all over again—but this time, with no movement in either wrist. You could see the frustration in his eyes. It was a moment where all he could do was to take in a deep breath, sigh, and quietly go about his life. It may have been a cruel joke by fate, but he took it as just that—a joke. At times a good laugh is equal to a good cry, and there are times when you can’t tell the difference between the two.

My father’s situation played an integral part in my life—in how I was raised and, more important, how I allowed myself to be raised. Sure, his going in and out of the hospital and my mother acting and living as if she were a nurse did change the dynamics of the household, but it’s the small