The Hard Way: The Life's Journey of an Ordinary Man

By Barnie Slice

This book is the story of one man’s journey through life. It is about his life from birth until the present and features the ups and downs of his life.  There are tragedies and triumphs, many that are unique just to his life.  His life was normal until his mother died when he was seven years old. The following years were a diffic

• Language: English
• Publisher: LitFire Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781641519502

Barnie Slice

Although Barnie's talents lie in the art world, he has always had a passion for writing. When he was very young, he hand wrote long letters to his grandmother, aunts and uncles and this carried on through the use of typewriters, word processor and finally, computer. Barnie writes mostly about his life experiences, which is very colorful. Losing his mother at age seven caused him to grow up early and the hardships gave him the character and experiences to fill many volumes of stories. He likes to incorporate his childhood memories into the characters of his books. Barnie enjoys illustrating his own books and takes great pleasure in writing new adventures with his characters. His cartoon work has been in several magazines and newspapers in his southern state. There are many books in his head and, God willing, he plans to get them all in print. Barnie resides with his wife by the sea near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

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The Hard Way

The Life’s Journey of an Ordinary Man

Copyright © 2018 by Barnie Slice

ISBN:978-1-64151-950-2

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

Printed in the United States of America

LitFire LLC

1-800-511-9787

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Contents

My Earliest Memories

Living in Columbia

Moving Again

The New House

Bad Times…Sad Times…Hard Times

Living Hard Times

The Bike Accident

The Next Old Woman

It Wasn't All Bad

Home Antics-Life as usual in Columbia

Our New Mother

THOSE TEEN YEARS

JOINING THE MARINES or What was I thinking?

Hell On Earth or What have I got myself into this time?

GETTING IT ON

STARTING MY LIFE IN THE WORKING WORLD

THE SEARS SAGA BEGINS

LIFE CHANGES IN A BIG WAY

THE TRIALS OF MARRIAGE

The Great Adventure

A NEW JOB, A NEW LIFE

THE BIG CHANGE

BIG CHANGES AND A NEW LIFE

The Job from Hell

The Beginning of the End

The End of a Life

Sue and I Make the Move

LEAVING SEARS

Starting a New Career

More Life-changing Decisions

The Final Chapter

My Earliest Memories

The earliest memories I can recollect was when I was about five years old. Born in Columbia, South Carolina some five years before on August 22, 1940, we had since moved to Rock Hill, South Carolina so that my dad could work in a manufacturing facility making bombs during World War II. He had not been able to go into the service because of some kind of gland problems that kept him out. He wanted to serve his country in some manner, so he elected to work in a factory, building war materials. We lived in a small white wooden lapboard house there in Rock Hill, but I can’t recall what part of the city it was in. I remember having a small front porch that we would sit on late in the evening and enjoy the sunset after supper. Dad worked the night shift, so he would leave soon after supper to go to work in the bomb plant. About the only thing I remember about Rock Hill was seeing the Army troops from a nearby base, dressed in T-shirts and fatigues, jogging down the road in front of our house. There was a large field across from our house and the troops would turn down a dusty dirt road that bordered the field and jog toward the sunset leaving clouds of dust drifting across the field. One of my earliest memories is not an especially a pleasant one. I had been visiting a friend down the block from my house one day and, as we played, we found a pile of coal. He was bigger than I and could see over the pile of coal, but I could not. We started throwing coal at each other, and the next thing I knew a piece of coal came over that pile and hit me in the forehead right between my eyes. I don’t remember much after that except walking down the sidewalk toward my house with blood streaming into my eyes. A woman neighbor of ours happened to see me and came running out and took me home where I was patched up and taken care of by my mother. I still have a small scar on my forehead from that incident.

Another time I was sitting on the back steps of our house late one evening eating an ice cream cone. Because it was wartime, it was not uncommon to see B-17 and B-29 bombers come over the house on their way to an air base somewhere. Most of the time they were escorted by P-51’s or other fighters as they flew across the sky. This day, as I sat eating my ice cream, I heard a strange sound coming from the sky. I looked up and, much to my horror, saw a twin-engine B-26 bomber spiraling out of the sky and heading straight for the ground about half a mile away. I don’t remember seeing any parachutes, so I can’t recall whether anyone was killed or not. All I remember was that awful sound and that plane falling out of the sky. I threw down my ice cream cone, jumped up, and ran into the house yelling at the top of my lungs, An airplane has crashed! An airplane has crashed! I couldn’t find my mother, so I ran into my dad’s room as he was sleeping because he worked the night shift, still yelling. He jumped up and told me not to bother him with these ridiculous stories and ran me out of the room. No one would believe me! But late that evening, as we sat on the front porch watching the sunset, a flat bed truck came by our house with the wreckage of the plane on the back of it. A newscast on the radio confirmed my story later that evening.

One day my dad came to me and asked if I wanted to go with him to see an airplane that had crashed a few miles from our house. I jumped at the chance because I loved airplanes (and still do to this day).

We drove out into the country on an old dirt road for several miles and turned down a road until we came to an old country house, weather beaten by the Elements. When I saw the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The house was in good condition except for one thing; there was as airplane sticking out of one end of it! It was a WW II Hellcat dive-bomber that had crashed into the house. I don’t remember if the pilot was killed or whether he had bailed out and survived, but the plane had struck the house knocking a room completely off leaving the rest of the house untouched. There was a lot of debris and splintered wood all over the yard and the field behind the house as I remember. The remarkable thing about the whole crash was that, when the plane hit the house, there was an old black woman rocking in her chair on the front porch. She was an invalid and had not walked in more than fifteen years. Someone had to carry her out of the house and place her in the rocking chair each day. She simply could not walk on her own. The strange thing was that when the emergency people arrived on the scene, the old woman was standing in the road alone some three hundred feet from the house! She didn’t even remember how she got there.

Living in Columbia

Shortly after the war we moved back to Columbia and moved in with my Aunt Dot and Uncle Joe who lived in my Grandmother Slice’s house. My grandmother was still alive at that time, but she had what they now call Alzheimer’s disease. They just said she was out of her head. Her house was a very large single-story brick home with a large kitchen, a formal dining room and large living room. A long hall went from the living room all the way to the back door, and the two bedrooms and bath were on the other side of the hall. In the hall was an old pump organ that must have belonged to my grandmother. We children would close all of the doors in the hall, which made it pitch dark, and try to find each other in the dark. On the front of the house was a porch that went most of the way across the front and part of the way down one side. I believe there was a one-car carport next to the side porch. The house was located on about an acre of land that fronted on Broad River Road and went all the way back to the next street, called Greenville Circle, which, at the time was a dirt road. The back yard was a wonderful place for us kids to play. The grassy yard was covered with huge pecan trees that provided plenty of cool shade even on the hottest of days. On the left side of the house was the Riddle’s home and on the right was a large grassy field that we called the Boomerang Field. We occasionally ventured out into that field, even though we were told not to, and usually ended up getting our butts whipped for disobeying.

My younger brother, James, came along about that time. We used to play in the back yard under the pecan trees in the shade when he was big enough to get out and play. Times were hard back then, but we didn’t know it because that life was all we knew, and we had nothing to compare it to. There was no extra money for toys or anything like that, so my dad built my brother and me a wooden wagon. We loved that wagon. It was painted bright red with a black handle and wheels, which were also made of wood. My dad also built himself a boomerang from plans that were printed in a Popular Mechanics magazine. This thing was huge, and we were scared to death of it. Whenever Dad would throw the boomerang in the field next to the house; we would turn that wooden wagon over and hide behind it. When my dad threw the boomerang, it would go out about sixty yards and then shoot straight up to about a hundred feet. At this point it would make a large circle overhead and return to my dad. Sometimes he caught it and sometimes he didn’t. It was those times he didn’t that terrified my brother and me. We would duck down behind the wagon until that awful whirling thing passed and hit the ground somewhere behind us; only then was it safe to stick our heads up. One day my dad got out the old boomerang and my brother and I headed for our wagon. You see, we liked to see the boomerang, but we were still terrified of it. My dad walked to the edge of the field as my brother and I positioned our wagon and turned it over on its side. As my dad drew back and threw the boomerang we got down behind the wagon but still peered over the top of it to see the flight of the boomerang. As it turned and headed back our way we ducked down behind the wagon once again. We waited for a few seconds and I stuck my head up to see if it was gone passed us. Well, it had not passed us, and that thing cracked me right in middle of my brow knocking me out cold. I woke up about twenty minutes later on the way to the doctor’s office.

Another time my dad had built my brother and me an Army jeep made mostly of wood, but it did have steel wheels with rubber tires and sported rack and pinion steering complete with a steering wheel. It also had leaf springs on the rear for extra bounce over rough terrain. It was painted authentic olive drab with a big white star on the hood. My dad really did an outstanding job on it, and we spent many happy hours pushing each other around the back yard with it. Over time and much use, the steering wheel finally wore out and came off. We didn’t care and continued to push the jeep around the yard and even though it had no steering wheel, we steered it with the stub of the steering shaft as best we could.

One day my brother was pushing me down the slight hill behind the house. Faster and faster I came trying to steer it as well as I could. My Uncle Joe was home for lunch and had parked his ’41 Chevy in the driveway at the back door of the house. I told my brother to stop but he didn’t hear me. The Chevy was coming up fast, and I tried to steer away from it but to no avail. The jeep hit the rear bumper of that car with such force that I was propelled over the hood of the jeep and hit my head on the trunk of the car. The last thing I remember was my mother screaming and jumping off the back porch as she saw me crumple unconscious to the ground. Again, I woke up thirty minutes later in the doctor’s office. Now you know why I act the way I do…..

One day my brother and I were playing in the yard out back. We were playing submarine with an old pick head that had lost its handle. Turned upside down it resembled one of the World War II submarines that plied the oceans. We had seen pictures of them in the newspaper and magazines and thought they were cool. This particular day my brother was playing with the pick head and I wanted it. So, being much larger than he, I grabbed it away from him. He jerked it back away from me and drew it back to hit me with it. As I jumped up and started running, he started chasing me with that deadly weapon waving over his head. He was a fast-little booger and those short legs of his were gaining on me. I started screaming bloody murder, and all of the adults in the house came running out to see who was being killed. When they saw my little brother chasing big, ole’ me, they just stopped and laughed til they cried. How foolish I felt! I was so ashamed that I ran back into the pecan trees behind the house and hid myself for more than an hour. They kidded me about that for years.

One more memory comes to mind. One day when I was old enough to go to the first grade, I caught the chicken pox and stayed in the bed for about a week gladly giving up my schooling and goofing off all day. Now you have to remember that there was no television to watch and I didn’t care for what was on the radio, so you can imagine how slowly time must have gone by. I was feeling very sick anyhow, so it really wasn’t much fun for me to just be lying around. My mother felt sorry for me, so she went to town one day and brought back the first toy I ever remember. It was a small, die-cast metal model of a WW II P-40 War hawk fighter plane that I thought was a wonderful toy. Its prop would turn and so would the tiny wheels under the wing. I was thrilled with that plane and played with it for many weeks. I never knew what happened to that toy airplane, but I would give five hundred dollars to get it back today!

Moving Again

You’ve heard people jokingly say, While I was in school my parents moved and didn’t tell me. Well, that actually happened to me! My parents were building a house of their own, so we could get out of Aunt Dot and Uncle Joe’s house. Even though my grandmother had passed away, the house was simply too small for two families.

Coming home from school one day I stepped off the school bus and walked slowly around the house to the back door. (We never came in through the front door. That was for company.) The door was locked and, even though I tried time and again to get in, I could not. Walking around the house calling to whoever might be home, I soon realized that no one was there. At first, I wanted to cry but finally decided that maybe my parents were at the new house just two blocks away. Two blocks are a long way for a little first grader at that time, but I decided to walk way over to our new house to see if my parents were home. As I turned the corner on Means Avenue, I spotted my mother in the yard of our new house. I ran to her and she apologized for not being there to pick me up. They never moved on me again although there were times I’m sure they wanted to.

One other story comes to mind…. we were at the new house, which was under construction at the time, playing in the yard with my cousin, Larry, when a handicapped boy, who was older than us, came down the street. His name was Buddy and he was so severely handicapped that he could only walk waving his hands over his head and shaking his head violently from side to side. We were terrified of him and we would run and hide whenever he came into view. That day Larry and myself were watching him come up the road arms flailing the air as usual. As he approached my cousin and I started mimicking the way he walked. Both our mothers caught us in the act and we got the worst whipping we ever had! I think back about it now and realize that we really deserved the spanking. Buddy turned out to be a fine friend and, as we grew and matured, we took pity on him and spent much time talking to him. His favorite subject was all about the Boy Scouts. He loved the Boy Scouts but could not participate with any troops because of his extreme handicaps. All of us were in the Scouts and we kept him informed as to what was happening. We would bring him Boy Scout items and he was so very proud of them. Buddy died early in his life and I have no doubt that he is now a Scoutmaster in a Boy Scout troop somewhere in heaven.

The New House

The new house was great! At last my brother, sister and I had our own room. The three of us had a junior bed set up in the corner of the kitchen behind the bathroom. You see this was a temporary house built for us just until the big house could be built someday. It was a kind of garage apartment with just two rooms and a small bathroom without bathing facilities. We had a front room and a back room, which was the kitchen, and that was it. But, it was ours and we were glad to be in it finally.

Like I said, the three of us children slept in one bed in the back room and Mom and Dad slept in the front room. I was six years old at the time, and my brother was five. My sister was four, so we didn’t mind sleeping in one bed together. The first few nights were sleepless because of the new surroundings, but we soon became accustomed to it and slept soundly. How happy we were all living in our brand-new house. We could not have been happier if it were a mansion! I remember playing on the sand pile left from the construction of the house, I had said earlier that we had no bathing facilities. We also had no hot water heater. Our once a week bath would be taken in a number two galvanized washtub. The remainder of the week we took sponge baths which probably consisted of no more than washing our face and hands, neck, feet and private parts. Momma would heat the water on the stove and pour it into the washtub and cooled it with a little cold water. The three of us kids all took a bath in the same water so you were pretty lucky to get to take a bath first. The second one wasn’t too bad but that third bath was pretty raunchy. Since my sister was the only girl she usually got to go first. My brother was usually second since he was the baby so that left you-know-who to bathe last. I never felt clean after taking one of those baths and the water was always cold by that time anyway. After taking our bath we would scurry into the living or front room and dry off behind the old Warm Morning coal stove and listen to the Hoppalong Cassidy Show on the radio. (We didn’t get a TV until I was fourteen years old.) I still remember that old radio. It had a wooden cabinet and stood about four feet tall. Its tuner had just about every band you could get on a radio at that time. There was, in addition to regular stations, a citizen’s band (whatever that was), a marine band for listening to ship to shore or ship-to-ship messages and an airplane band. We would sometimes explore some of the bands and listen to pilots talking to each other with sometimes strange and unknown messages. Sometimes we would hear people talking in foreign languages and it was fun trying to figure out what they were saying. This was not our regular every-night routine but was reserved for Saturday nights only.

Each Saturday morning, providing we had done our chores that week, my dad would give my brother, sister and me some money to go to the store to buy some candy or whatever we could buy for the amount of money he would give us. He would usually give us ten cents, which was a lot of money to us at that time. Sometimes he would not have that much and we got a nickel or a penny but, whatever the amount, we would trot off to Rye’s store, which was about two blocks from the house, down on Broad River Road. As we walked happily along, looking forward to some tasty treat, we would examine the money we were given. My brother and I would team up against our baby sister and, I’m ashamed to say, took advantage of her buying power, so to speak. If my dad had given her a dime and my brother and me a nickel and five pennies