Don, Wayward Son: Book One

By Don Law

A book to reach troubled youth to keep them out of prison.

The best way to beat the police--stay out of trouble!

I am not intending to promote this as a Christian book "only,", but it is also an exciting adventure with more to come!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662464959

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Don, Wayward Son

Book One

Don Law

Copyright © 2022 Don Law

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6494-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6495-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

Always in Trouble

Thinking Back

Off to Juvenile

Free Press Camp

Hi There, I'm Charlie Boze

Great Balls of Fire

Back in Hell Again

One More Try

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

I'm Putting It All in the Family

It was 1941, the start of a decade, the start of WW2, December 7, 1941, and the start of my life, July 2, 1941. I was born into a large family on my mother's side. My grandfather was Edward Martin, and my grandmother was Mary Schellkowski, who was born in Poland and who died before I was born. I really wish I had known her, how they had met and were married; I never knew. What I did know, however, was that Grandpa and Grandma Martin had ten children, my aunts and uncles. The oldest was Uncle George, who died before I ever was born, next came my uncle Norman, uncle Leonard, aunt Virginia, Catherine, my mother, aunt Dorothy, uncle Jerome, uncle Jimmy, and aunt Ann. Grandma Martin died while giving birth to number ten. Of that I never knew if that child was my aunt or uncle.

During WW2, four of my uncles served their country in the United States Army, never coming back. Uncle Norman was in England; Uncle Leonard, Uncle Jerome, and Uncle Jimmy all were in Europe. Uncle Jimmy was killed at the age of twenty in 1944 in France. He was a sniper. Uncle Jerome was a medic, a very dangerous position during wartime. Uncle Jerome came home an alcoholic, and he was my favorite of my aunts and uncles though I loved them all.

Of all the relatives I had, something was missing. I did not have a father.

When I was ten years old, it was on a Saturday and I was still in bed asleep, my mother shook me awake, crying. Donald, get up, she said, hurry up. Grandpa is laying on the back steps calling your name.

My grandpa Martin was laying on the back steps, and I did hear him calling out my name as he had just then died from a heart attack. He was sixty-six years old, and he was in the backyard at the time pulling nails out of wood used to fuel our outdated coal-and-wood stoves we still suffered with.

My mother was my grandfather's favorite, and they loved each other dearly. She yelled at me for not being there for him and was not herself at the time and unaware of what she was saying.

Before Grandpa's body was taken to Risko Funeral Home in the area, she had called Father Karey, an associate priest at St. Lawrence, to come and give Grandpa or his body what was called in Catholicism the last rites. Then Risko came and took my grandpa's body away.

My mother, still not herself, was incoherently sounding as if she was blaming me. Father Karey very professionally assured my mother that it most definitely was not my fault in any way. I never faulted my mother for her actions that day; everything she had ever done in life in regard to me was always the complete opposite. She was always there for me, always.

It was July of that year, and I would soon be going into the fourth grade at St. Lawrence, and the following issue involved my father who I was always told had died. I also had a beautiful little sister, Veronica, who was my best friend in life. As I said above, Veronica, hereafter called Ronnie, as I said, we never had a father. I never saw my real father until I was in fourth grade at St. Lawrence Elementary School near my home. My father, Clement, came to my school one day and asked to see his son, Donald. I was called out of class and into the hallway and stood there with the principal, Sister Grace Eileen.

Hi, Donald, he said to me. I'm your father.

I do not remember all that was said, but it only lasted about fifteen minutes, then he had left. It was a complete surprise to me because my mother had always said to me and Ronnie that our father was dead.

When I went home that day and told my mother what had happened, she took my out of St. Lawrence School, and I went to live with Aunt Ann and her husband, Everett, in Wayne, Michigan. I was enrolled at St. Mary's School in Wayne.

My mother did not want me to see my dad or he see me. As I got older, I sort of resented my mother for lying to me. I always loved my mother very much, and as time went by over the years, I finally understood why she did what she did; that will come later. My mother was always there for me, always. I never had a dad to be there for me. I never knew what a dad was; all I knew was how to get in trouble.

By the time the fifth grade came around, I was back in Detroit at St. Lawrence once again. I loved Detroit during those years. We lived on Cabot Street during those years, and we were poor in a Polish neighborhood, but times were good to me. The way of life, families were more together, the people a different breed than those who came years later. People cared and were always helping one another as I saw it and remember.

During the years, I think I was cursed and blessed at the same time. Cursed because I was evil and a troublemaker, always in trouble. Blessed because I have such a remarkable memory and always had good health.

I'm back to St. Lawrence, and I can remember all my nuns' names to this day. First grade, Sister Bernice Ann; second grade, Sister Jane Martin; third and fourth grade, Sister Adele; fifth grade, Sister Lucilla; sixth grade, Sister Merichi; seventh grade, Sister Bertrand; and eight grade, Sister Grace Eileen, and she was the principal. As kids, some of us made fun of those nuns, and we were not very nice to them, and we were ornery. But to this day, I miss those precious ladies and wish I did not give them such a hard time. As I look back, I was a fool; they were very precious. Then there was Father Vince, my saint, my family, my hero. Father Vince was a pastor of St. Lawrence when my mother went to school there.

This is how I remember Father Vince. At the age of five years old, I remember my mother took me shopping on Michigan Avenue, the main street a couple of blocks from our home. As she held my hand and we walked along the avenue, a very tall man dressed in black approached us.

Good day, he said, talking to my mother and ruffling my hair. How is the big boy today? he asked, looking at me.

Fine, Father my mother answered. He starts in the first grade in September.

You were one of my children, he told her. You bring him in. We have a place for him also.

Aren't you going to say hello to Father? my mother asked, calling me by my first name, Donald.

Hi, Father, I said bashfully.

Hello, Donnie, would you like an ice cream cone? he asked.

I nodded my head yes. We walked to the drugstore on the corner, and I had an ice cream and also a friend.

Say thank you, Donald, Mother told me.

Thank you, Fodder, I managed with a mouthful of ice cream.

You're welcome, Donnie. He smiled and went on his way to finish his walk along the avenue. I was always Donnie to him ever after.

From the first till the fifth grade, I saw Father every day except Saturdays. There was no Mass or school on Saturday. I can recall two incidents of him, and they left great impressions in my mind forever. Children are easy to impress, but Father Vince could impress someone without trying.

When report card day came once a month, Father would come and pass them out himself. From first till eighth grade, he went once a month. As he walked into the classroom, everyone was nervous as the nun would tell us beforehand that Father was coming today to pass out report cards. Father would say hello to the nun and tip his hat to her and then leave it off. As he turned to the class, we would all jump up and say Good morning, Father with a little prompting from the nun.

Good morning, children, he would answer. Have all of you been keeping up your grades?

Yes, some of us would yell out while others said nothing while standing there looking up at so gentle of a man.

We'll see, he'd muse with a twinkle in his eyes. We'll see.

One of the things I remember most of Father in my early years was him passing out our report cards. Our cards were prearranged by the nun according to how we were seated. As we approached Father to get our cards, Father would say something to each and every child. His voice was deep, but no tone ever came out of his mouth that wasn't flavored with kindness and gentleness.

He'd call a name, Susan, then look at the child, That's a very nice card, keep up the good work and marks.

Yes, Father, thank you, Father.

John, better watch that spelling, John.

Yes, Father.

Donnie, watch that talking in class and your arithmetic, or I'll knock your block off and patted me on the head.

I'll knock your block off was one of his favorite expressions he had of trying to sound mean. He never hurt a fly in his life. When he finished, he always had a box of candy or suckers that he'd give to the nun to pass out. He'd say goodbye to the nun and to the class and leave to the shouts of small voices Bye, Father, Thank you, Father. He'd seem to smile more as he left.

Every morning before school, the nuns would line us up outside with our class and get ready to go to Mass first. The nuns would get us all lined up in order, and Father would be coming from his house a half block away and across the street. The next thing we knew, all the kids would run to Father to hold his hand and tug at his sleeve, say hello to him, or just be near him. We would all come back together laughing, shouting, and Father would have a little hand in each of his. As I look back on the scene, it reminded me of Jesus and the children.

Every year when the fifth graders passed into the sixth grade, Father would take the whole class for a train ride. He would reserve a car for us, no school that day, and the adventure was on. A ride on a real train, some 60 to 90 miles and back. I think Father looked forward to the trip much more than the children.

Several boys in my class through the years, myself included, seemed to be the so-called black sheep of the school. Always in some kind of mischief or trouble. Father seemed partial to us. We were in the seventh grade when he started letting four boys a weekend stay at his house with him and the assistant priest. All the boys in our class stayed; there were some twenty or more in all. When the four different boys arrived each week, Father gave them one twenty-dollar bill and sent them up to Michigan Avenue to buy fruit, candy, pop, or whatever we wanted, but we must spend the whole twenty dollars besides our meals which he made sure we ate. He had a TV for us to watch, and back at this time, a TV was a rarity and just like Saturday afternoons at the movies to a kid. He would take us for a ride every afternoon in his car.

He had a dog he found wandering and homeless as a pup; he called it Butch. And as Butch grew, he seemed a part of Father. Father had us brush and walk Butch every day, clean our living quarters, wash his car, cut the grass, or shovel the snow in the wintertime. He would give us extra spending money during the week, but most of all, we got kindness, gentleness, and love from Father.

Thereafter, when he came to pass out report cards, we had a new visitor, Butch. Father would tell him like a spoiled child, Behave, Butch, sit down for a while. Butch would sit, but you could tell he had the energy of ten dogs. He would look at us and Father, waiting impatiently to be turned loose and visit all of us at our desk. When Father said Okay, Butch or Say goodbye, he would bark two or three times then woe to anyone in his way as he went tearing up and down each aisle, stopping here and there, getting a pat or a hug from one of us. Now Father waited patiently but with a twinkle in his eyes, love in his heart, to the scene before him.

I was always brought up to look upon a nun or priest as someone special, that you show more respect to them than anyone else. To me, they were very close to God. At this time while I was young, I did dislike the nuns in our school because I thought they were mean. As I look back, I would sooner be around those dear ladies of God than anyone else, and I miss them very much.

People have strange tales and lies to tell about Catholic nuns and priests that I have heard over the years. Yes, it's true they have a place to live, food to eat, clothes to wear, and a priest has a car given to him. Besides the fact these things are necessities, they aren't given nearly as much as they deserved. That is where it ends, and I consider myself as somewhat of an authority on this subject. Eight straight years' worth of personal knowledge. I was around them constantly, and one can't help but see and feel their good ways.

The nuns could have been schoolteachers getting a paycheck and going home to a loving family each day if they were married. They sacrificed all that to devote their lives to God, to teach and learn the children, and to care for the sick. They don't have all kinds of money as people believe. Back during the period I was going to school, the nuns received twenty-six dollars per month each to buy a handkerchief, maybe a treat of a box of chocolates. They would more than likely end up giving it to the children. They might have bought holy cards or boxes of gold stars they would give to the children if they had done good on a test.

A priest lived the same way but received about sixty dollars a month spending money and a car to travel to administer the last rites to a dying person. They had a housekeeper to come in and cook their meals. The nuns clean house for themselves; they were in constant prayer when not minding their daily routine. They would pray and fast and offer it to God to help sinners find their way, sick people, and people who condemn them for the easy life. They still live this way, and maybe we can all benefit from a few of their examples, such as prayers.

All the money taken in each Sunday at Mass is not put in the priest's banking account. It is all turned into the chancery and used for the upkeep of the schools, churches, hospitals, and for the clothes and food of the sick or poor.

As for Father having us boys stay over the weekend to keep us out of trouble, it was never as you hear it nowadays. A young boy was never molested or approached by a Catholic priest at St. Lawrence in the years that I was there. In fact, it was just the opposite; we received nothing but love and kindness and caring from Father Vince. Molestation of children was unheard of back then at St. Lawrence, just love and goodness.

Fr. Vincent Balcer

Second Pastor

1928–1966

Fr. Balcer rejoiced in the blessing from the Holy Father, John XXIII, extended to him on his 35th anniversary as pastor of St. Lawrence Church. He grew old gracefully and he loved you whom he served and helped in so many ways.

Always in Trouble

At one period of time, I started getting into a lot of trouble. Excitement, it seemed was what I craved, and little did I know, I would be getting plenty of it coming my way. In the midst of all the trouble I had been in, I had a paper route in Wayne for about six months. After I quit the paper route, me and my friends would keep going back on the route collecting the paper bills for each week. The money was for the gas in my friend's car. People were very trusting back in the fifties, and they either thought that I was still the paperboy or one of my friends was the new one.

Eventually, our luck ran out we had run that into the ground, and customers were complaining to the police. We would be getting 15–20 dollars a week until it caught up with us. In the fifties, fifteen and twenty dollars were a small fortune to us. We always split everything evenly among me and my friends.

One day soon thereafter, as I was walking down a main street near Aunt Ann's house, a police car pulled up alongside of me, and the cop inside, Sgt. Mack McGregor, yelled my name. Donald, come here!

I walked up to the car and asked what he wanted and wondered how he knew my name.

How's your paper route going? he asked

I don't have one, I answered, not in weeks.

Then why are you still collecting the money from the paper route?

I'm not, sir, I lied.

Don't lie to me. I can take you to several houses where you can be identified collecting money just a few days ago.

He had me, I thought, and he knew it.

He got out of the police car and put me in the back seat, taking me to the police station.

What I want to know, he said, is the names of the other boys who were collecting the money.

There were no others, I did it all, I lied again.

You're lying to me again, he said.

I did it all, I repeated.

When we reached the police station, he took me to an open room with a table and some chairs and told me to sit. When I did, he said, Now I want to know who helped you with collecting, and you're not leaving until I get those names.

There was no one else, I repeated

Okay, Donald, you can sit right there until you decide to tell the truth on who the others were. I'm going out on patrol, and you can sit right there until I get back even if it takes all day. Then he walked out of the room and left me sitting there alone.

The room was off a main hallway, which came from the garage, and outside, the other way led to jail cells. I was right in the middle. Coming into the garage was a large door which raised up for police vehicles to enter with prisoners, and right next to that was an ordinary door that squeaked very loudly whenever someone entered or left and slammed even louder. I heard it when McGregor brought me in and several times when I was in the room. In front of the hallway almost across from the room I was in was a large glass window where the main desk was for when someone entered the police station. From the front main entrance, an officer sat right there and could greet whoever entered the police station for complaints. And the officer could just turn and see the hallway where I was.

More than an hour had passed before McGregor returned. Coming into the room, he said, Donald, are you ready to talk now and give me some names?

There are no names, I said.

Okay, Donald, I have all day, just sit there. And he left, going out through the garage, opening the squeaky door and letting it slam loudly. You could hear it throughout the entire building. It was very quiet as I sat there in that room unless some cop came and went out that noisy door every now and then, breaking the silence with that loud squeak and bang from the door.

I was just sixteen, and McGregor thought he could scare the names of my friends out of me, that I would break before this was over. He had another thing coming.

It was very quiet as I got up and walked to the doorway of the room. I looked