Walking On Thin Ice

By Michael Brock

A dream come true. Only one person knew the entire story in the twenty-one years it took me to complete this dream project--that being my daughter Natalie who processed it for me on her computer. My ADHD complex played a major role in my taking all those years of contemplation to write my story. Now that it is finished and publicized, I only hope that my children and all family members, as well as my in-laws and friends, have an appreciation for what my Lord and my God has done in my life for his glory and honor. Lastly, I still struggle with ADHD, but I have a much better understanding of myself and try to keep those complexes in check. Also, God's telephone number is still Jeremiah 33:3, "Call to me and I will answer you and show you great and mighty things which you know nothing about"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888323304

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Walking On Thin Ice

Michael Brock

ISBN 979-8-88832-329-8 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88832-330-4 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Michael Brock

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. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

The Sentencing

Chapter 2

A Mother's Memories

Chapter 3

Born into the Projects

Chapter 4

The Kidnapping

Chapter 5

First Homecoming

Chapter 6

Juvee Days

Chapter 7

Walking on Thin Ice

Chapter 8

Second Homecoming

Chapter 9

The Last Homecoming

Chapter 10

Dropping Out

Chapter 11

Cracking the Ice

Chapter 12

It Happened at the State Fair

Chapter 13

The Abusive Dad I Never Knew

Chapter 14

Hitching a Ride

Chapter 15

Rock 'n' Roll All Night

Chapter 16

Destitute and Losing

Chapter 17

Something's Gonna Happen

Chapter 18

The Great Escape

Chapter 19

Paradise Gained

Chapter 20

I Found It

Chapter 21

Seeking the Kingdom

Chapter 22

My Heart Beats Like a Drum

Author's Note

About the Author

Introduction

I am not a writer; I never have been and presume I never will be—at least in the true sense of the word. However, I believe that my life, goals, and accomplishments will be incomplete if I never tell my story of extraordinary events and experiences that shaped me into the person I am today.

In my endeavor to write my personal account, I wish to share a condition I was born with—that being ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder). A tremendous amount of my circumstances and behaviors, as I progressed in life, were impacted by this abnormal mindset. Therefore, it is necessary and key to my storytelling in explaining certain behaviors, thinking processes, and outcomes in life as they are so often related to my ADHD. I desire for the reader to acknowledge the correlation of my behaviors and/or my decisions to the varied challenges of ADHD while at the same time recognize and appreciate the great potential I possessed since birth.

My story begins in November of 1957 in Louisville, Kentucky, inside a federal courtroom with my mother. I believe it is a remarkable true story of redemption and self-discovery.

—Michael E. Brock

Chapter 1

The Sentencing

With the crack of a courtroom gavel. This quote, from the Louisville Courier Journal newspaper, was often repeated by my mother to her children in the subsequent years of that fateful day in 1957 when my father, Thomas Earl Brock Jr., was sentenced to twenty years by criminal court Judge L. R. Curtis to the Eddyville State Penitentiary on a narcotics and safe breaking charge.

Louisville Courier Journal staff writer John Briney alluded to the thirty-two-year-old father of six children, being arrested twenty-three times on charges ranging from traffic violations to murder. Three other persons also received twenty-year sentences on charges of furnishing narcotics to a minor.

Before sentencing all four individuals, Judge L. R. Curtis told them it would be more merciful to take them out and shoot them. I'm certain my father was not a mobster of any sort; however, he did commit a variety of criminal acts. Prior to the twenty-year sentence, my father had served one two-year prison term. He walked on the murder charge. What's ironic is that two of the men had mobster-like names—James Clifford Rag Doll Kemble and Carlton Cotton Peach Doran.

In addition to the twenty-year sentence, Judge Curtis revoked the probation of a ten-year sentence that my father had received for safe breaking in 1951.

After the sentencing, the Louisville Courier-Journal article stated, Brock's 29-year-old wife Joyce, buried her head on her husband's shoulder and sobbed. Five-month-old Michael Brock, in his mother's arms, began to cry. In his jail cell a few hours later, it was Brock's turn for tears.

A reporter had asked him how it felt to be sentenced to twenty years in prison. My father responded, I thought, he said slowly, about my wife and children…what they were going to do. Suddenly, his voice cracked, and he buried his head in his arms. How can you ask a question like that? Outside of them, I don't care about anything.

There were a lot of tears shed that day in 1957. I can only imagine the countless other tears from friends and family who loved him.

I look back on that day now, and I feel the judge, in essence, was handing down a twenty-year sentence on my mother as well. For the next twenty years, she would be solely responsible for the upbringing and welfare of us kids. She alone would have to instill good character, moral values, and respect in each of us until we were released from her care.

I don't know much about my father's upbringing, but after his passing in 1983, I asked my aunt Mable what had happened in my father's life that led him down a criminal path. She only said that he was a good boy growing up until the time he was arrested for stealing a car, and after that, he continued to get in trouble.

My father was raised in the east end of Louisville, Kentucky. That part of town certainly had its share of rough characters, with my dad being one of them. I learned much later in my adulthood that my father served three years in the Army Air Corps in WWII. He was involved with bombing missions over India. Certainly, there were some good things in my father's life. However, as it was, I was going to grow up fatherless.

Chapter 2

A Mother's Memories

Having not known my father, it was my mother who told the many stories of their relationship. She spoke often of the kind of man he was. Some of her stories told how he often beat her physically. I remember her telling me and my sister Shelly (the two youngest siblings) that he once beat her so badly that she ended up in the hospital with two broken jaws! She indicated her face had swollen to the point that she was unrecognizable. She told us how her father, who had become a minister of the gospel, would visit the hospitals and pray at the bedside of the sick. On one occasion, he came into her room and didn't recognize her as his daughter. He came to her bedside and asked if he could pray for her. It was then my mother revealed who she was.

Ironically, she also talked of their deep love for each other. She bragged about his ability to dance and how they became great dance partners at the clubs and bars. She also told us how her father was against her marrying Tom Brock. He told her what kind of life she would have with him. My mother married him despite her father's warning.

One horrific story she told us was when the rental house she lived in burned down to the ground in the middle of the night. There were four kids in the house when Jackie, my older sister, came into my mother's room and woke her up saying she smelled smoke. My mother then discovered it was a fire. She went and woke up Ritchie and Donnie and then to Shelly's room (she was the only baby; I was not yet born). She handed Shelly through the window to Ritchie and climbed out last. They went to the front street where they watched the entire place burn down.

My mother told me how our oldest sister Sandi ended up being cared for by my mom's parents. She said after Sandi was born, she took her to see her parents. My mom said that when she was leaving and getting ready to pick Sandi up, her father said, Leave that baby there! My mother said she knew that was the best thing to do. So she left her. My mother was nineteen years old at the time.

My favorite stories were the ones that told of my father's reputation as a fighter. My dad was only five feet and six inches tall. He weighed about 140 pounds. He was built well for a small person, and my mom said he never backed down from anybody. She said he was feared and respected by everyone in the east end.

My mother had said my father was only home six times in their marriage, and she could prove it. Thus, her having six kids. My father had a son from a previous marriage and named him Thomas Earl Brock III. He was our half brother, and as I grew older, I came to know him well.

Chapter 3

Born into the Projects

Brick City—an appropriate name for the Iroquois projects located near Taylor Boulevard in the south end of Louisville, Kentucky. They were clad with red bricks and had huge concrete foundations. There were as many as sixty-plus buildings scattered about. Two families shared the same porch. One side was an upstairs apartment, and the other was downstairs. We lived downstairs.

I have several recollections of personal experiences as a young child while living in the projects after my father's sentencing. I clearly remember being outside a great amount of the time—day and night. I once was outside riding my tricycle late into the dark. It was summertime because I had no shirt on. It was past 9:30 p.m. because the summer stayed light until late in the evening. Also, I had wandered away from our building. There I was about three years old, alone, with no fear, late into the night, riding my tricycle. My mother told me of the time I was out in the sun playing when I got blisters all over my shoulders. She said I would never keep my shirt on when playing outside.

There is this one image I have where I was being wrapped in a sheet and carried out to care. I once told my mother about this image many years later, and she confirmed it did happen. I had fallen off the bed and landed next to an iron floor heater. My leg was lodged between the bed and the heater. She discovered me there and saw my leg was badly burned. Her boyfriend then wrapped me up in a sheet and carried me to a car and rushed me to the hospital. It was determined I had second-degree burns on my leg. My mother said I was only about two years old when this occurred.

Another event was when a neighboring lady came to tell my mother that I put up my middle finger at her daughter. My mother called for me and asked if I did that. I said, No, I didn't. The lady kept insisting I did, so my mother continued to ask if I did that. Each time, I would say, No. Finally, I gave in and raised my index finger in the air, saying, It wasn't the middle finger. It was this one.

A story my mother has told countless times over the years is one from when I was around the age of two. I was going porch to porch and knocking on doors. When someone answered, I would tell them my mother wanted to borrow two dollars for the pall pestipal (fall festival). Later, my mom ran into a friend who said, Joyce, I would have given Mike that two dollars, but I didn't have it at the time. My mom said she immediately figured it out and couldn't believe what I had done.

Another story my mom has told over the years happened in the Iroquois projects as well. She had gone down to visit a close friend. They were out on her friend's porch talking when her friend said, Joyce, isn't that Mike standing on the porch down there? My mother responded by saying it couldn't be me because she left me sleeping in the playpen. It just so happened that it was me. Her friend then made the comment, Well, it looks like your husband is a safe cracker, and your son is a playpen cracker. My mother then came down to the porch, picked me up, and went inside. Lying there on the floor was a wooden bar piece that belonged on the playpen.

I remember on some occasions, as young as three years old, my mother would take me with her boyfriend and other friends to bars. I would always get a coke to drink. Oftentimes, my mother left us, kids, with babysitters. My oldest sister Sandi frequently came to the projects to watch us. One reason for babysitters was the fact that my mother worked late at a Chinese restaurant as a waitress.

I'll never forget the time when I was three or four years old. I heard my mother crying loud, hard, and profusely. I went to her room, and she was lying across her bed still bellowing out in her crying. I asked her why she was crying, and she responded, My daddy died today. I remember feeling sad for her, but it was the fact that she cried that never left me. Years later, I would hear this same cry from my mother, especially when she faced hardship.

I once saw my mother put something over the kitchen sink in a cabinet. I later got a chair and climbed on the counter and opened the cabinet door. There was a bottle of pills, and I opened them, took one out, and put it in my mouth. I began to chew it, and it was so bitter tasting I spit it into the sink. Many years later having tasted aspirin, I know then what I had bit into that day.

I was once playing on a porch down from our porch, and I was swinging on the railings. I was on the top railing swinging down to the bottom one. I lost my grip, and my momentum smashed my mouth on the bottom railing. I ran home crying, and when my mother looked into my mouth, she was a little hysterical to see my front teeth pushed back into my gums.

It seemed I was always taking risks of some sort. It is well-documented that a characteristic of ADHD behavior is risk-taking. Many of my childhood and youthful behaviors can be directly associated with this symptom. It seemed that risk-taking was something I was never short of.

Chapter 4

The Kidnapping

In the summer of 1961, while still living in the projects, I was playing outside one night with my sister Shelly. I was four years old. As I played, my sister Shelly approached me and told me we were going to my aunt and uncle's house to stay for a few weeks. We had never met them before, but the idea sounded fun to me.

They came to the projects that night and suggested to my mother they could take us kids for a couple of weeks to give her a break. They both agreed to take four of the five kids—Donnie, Jackie, Shelly, and myself. Supposedly, they left Ritchie with my mother since he and Donnie had a tendency to fight each other. They were very close in age.

So our two weeks with our aunt and uncle began that night. We packed some clothing and left with them later that evening. However, after two weeks of staying with them, we were not returned to our mother. Essentially, they never intended to.

Years later, I learned that my dad's side of the family had planned to get us, kids, away from the care of my mother. Information was getting back to my dad that my mother was unfit to take care of us. Presumably, she was always out carousing, leaving the kids all alone or constantly with babysitters.

My mother said years later that my aunt Millie only wanted the money which would be generated from them taking care of us. Regardless of their motives, I believe the way they took us from our mother was wrong.

I will share some experiences from the five years of living with our aunt Millie and uncle D. First of all, we were project kids. We possessed many negative behaviors. I already came programmed with a filthy mouth. I got in trouble often with my aunt Millie. I had a problem with wetting the bed.

Our aunt Millie was not our blood relative. Uncle D was my dad's brother. He was more patient with us than aunt Millie. My aunt was the ruler of the house. Whenever I wet the bed, she would get a thin branch off the front yard tree and give me a switchin'. When that did not correct my problem, she had uncle D sit down and talk to me about it. He said if I continued to wet the bed, my aunt would switch me in the morning. Then he would spank my butt with his shoe when he returned from work. As he said this, he took off one of his shoes and started to pound it on his hand. I was terrified, to say the least. Two whippings now for every time I wet the bed. I could not control my wetting the bed as hard as I tried. I don't know if it was psychological or what. When I think back on it, every time I wet the bed, I was having a dream of some sort whereby I was peeing in my dream. Every time at that point in the dream when I was using the bathroom, I actually was wetting the bed. I could not wake up. So I lived in constant fear of wetting the bed.

I also had an issue with lying. My two sisters told on me for using a cuss word at a playground, and I denied it to my aunt to the point that she said she could tell when I would lie because my forehead would wrinkle.

In those first few months of living in a structured atmosphere—we hated it! When we learned we were not going back home to my mother, my two sisters and I began to talk about running away. We were too young and too scared to try.

In the first month of living without our aunt and uncle, my mother was trying to get us back. I was too young to know what was going on, but once, our mother came to where we were living, loaded us up in her car, and took us back with her. This incident was short-lived as within a brief time, we came back to our aunt and uncle.

During the process of gaining custody over us kids, I remember very distinctly the day we went to court. We all knew it was to see if we would go back home with our mother or stay with our aunt and uncle. It seemed like an entire day sitting in that courtroom. We were at the back waiting for the verdict to decide our situation. We finally learned in the afternoon that we would stay with our aunt and uncle. I began to cry profusely as we walked out of the courtroom.

Outside in the lobby were my aunt Millie's parents. Her father, Uncle Norb as we called him, approached me and leaned down hoping to comfort me. He then showed me a toy holster and gun set and tried to give them to me, but I refused with a resounding, No! I don't want them! By that late afternoon, I had calmed down and accepted what was going on. I was five years old by the time final custody was given to our aunt and uncle. It was an event that stayed with me forever.

Life continued on, and our mother became a passing thought. In the five years of staying with our aunt and uncle, we probably saw our mother a total of two or three times. They had won sole custody of us. We eventually settled in and lived under Aunt Millie's rules and expectations. We ate supper together; I was the first to memorize a catholic prayer that one of us had to recite before eating. We were given chores and an allowance each week.

My aunt and uncle were part of a bowling league. I enjoyed going to the bowling alley where I could burn off all my hyperactivity. We traveled to Canton, Ohio, at various times to visit my aunt's parents. Her mother and father were nice people, especially Uncle Norb. We met all of our aunt's family and always had a good time. My uncle D would allow me to sit on his lap and steer the car on city roads close to the house. I remember the time he bought a brand-new 1964 Impala Super Sport. It was glossy black with a red interior, and I got to drive it while on his lap.

Christmas times were exciting. We would be sent to bed on Christmas Eve at about eight o'clock. We would then be awakened at midnight and be led single file into the living room where stacks of presents awaited us; they were