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- 04/10/2015
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Broken - 1. Kid's of the Warrior Caste
I was born into a good, old family with deep roots in Mississippi. My father was a veteran of WW II in Europe and Korea. My mother was a teacher. From my very earliest memories the values of parents were instilled in me: God, family and country. I am quite proud of my parents. Proud of who we are and where we came from. I very much wanted to please them.
I was always just a little gun-shy of my Dad. His time in the wars had taken its toll on him. The war had left him a touch deaf and in hindsight it easy to tell that he suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He was always very loud which was intimidating. He also had an unpredictable temper. Once when I was very young, he was napping on the couch having a nightmare. Seeing him in distress, I wanted to wake him up and make it go away. When I did, for a split second he was still fighting North Korean infiltrators in some dark place. He slammed me to the floor- pulling up just short of landing what would have easily been a lethal blow.
He was a good Dad for the most part- but older than most of my peers dads. We did all of the things Southern dads and sons do- hunting, fishing, and Mississippi State football games. I loved to help Pop work on our cars and trucks and had a natural gift for it. I just knew better than to get on his bad side which was sometimes painfully unavoidable. His hearing problems made it difficult to communicate with him, as he was prone to misunderstand. I might say, “I'm going to take a nap”. He might hear, “Oh Pop, you're full of crap.”
A dirty little secret of Southern culture is that Southern men are all mamas' boys. If you're not, then you just haven't had a Southern mother and that's a pity. Mine was great. She was one of the first women in her family to be college educated and was smart as a whip. She was a great teacher of reading and taught first grade for 35 years before she retired. My fondest memories of her were reading to me in the garden. That was her greatest trick of teaching reading. She read good stories then she would feign tiring out which would force you to continue on your own. I was reading well before kindergarten.
My Dad was the Captain of our house but my Mom was his good Executive Officer. She always had things ship shape and made sure they stayed that way. There was a routine in place as efficient as any train service. Wake up at 0600, Breakfast at 0625, bus at 0700... Before bed she would read me a story and then I had to read a few bible verses to her. Every Sunday we went to Church where I would get my ear pinched good and proper if I dared any nonsense. Then we would race home for Sunday dinner and I'd watch pro football with my Dad.
Our family was spread out all over the state. My maternal Grandmother's family came from Greenville where she insisted on staying despite her advanced age. Her other children were spread out all over the country with my Mom being the closest. We would drive up to see her a couple of times a month.
My father's family came from South Mississippi- Smith County with branches on the coast. Originally settling in Smith County in the late 1700s, the Savik family and the family name was ancient. Norman-French in origin by way of the Danelaw, the family won its renown standing with King Henry and his merry band of brothers at a place in the French country side called Agincourt. The family crest is red with the lions of Henry. The martial tradition had been in the family for going on for over 6 centuries. A proud, old family steeped in traditions, which expected and demanded much of its sons.
My father's uncles were my heroes. James, my namesake, had been a marine during WWII in the Pacific. He was a great hunter and fisherman. Every summer my Dad and I would go down to the coast and go out shrimping with him.
Uncle Richard was retired from the Air Force and lived in Gulfport. He had started out as a 17 year old recruit in 1942 in the original Army Air Corp. He stayed in when the Air Force became its own branch and retired after 30 years a full bird Colonel. He was smart, well traveled and articulate. I used to love to listen to his stories for hours.
Uncle Edward had ridden with Patton in 1944. He brought home a Silver Star from the Battle of the Bulge. He had a water melon farm in Smith County.
My Dad had gone to West Point and retired from the army. All three of the brothers were college educated. That was rare for Mississippi in those days. These are the titans in whose shadow I grew up.
As is the way with my family, the boys grow big, early with puberty starting at 10 or 11. I was no exception. By the time I was five, I was as big as the first-graders and already reading.
Kindergarten was wasted on me, so it was decided that I would start school a year early. Thankfully, not at my Mom's school- a kid needs to be able to get away with a few things.
The only thing that bugged me was that I did not have any brothers or sisters at home. I had an older brother but he had been away at college and then at his career in Texas and I didn't get to see him that much. My neighborhood friends told me that I was lucky but I didn't see it that way. I would see my friends being mean to their little brothers and sisters and scold them for it much to their amazement.
I was an odd age for my neighborhood. All of the other boys were year or so older, and a little mean, so no one close by was in my same grade. It wasn't until a year later that a boy in my grade moved in across the street. I was delighted.
Southern hospitality demands that when you have new neighbors that you should introduce yourselves. My Mom made a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of turkey sandwiches and the three of us went over to say hello.
Mr. Michael's was a tall, slender man who was sweating up a storm moving furniture into their new home that August day. He smiled when he saw us walking up. He stopped working, wiped the sweat out of his eyes and said, “How ya'll doing. I'm Beau Michael's.”
My Dad walked up to him shook his hand, “Just fine new neighbor. I'm John Savik; this is my wife Emmaline and my boy Jimmy. Could we give you a hand?”
Mr. Michael's grin widened, “I'd sure appreciate it. I think we picked the hottest day of the year to do the most work. Come on inside and meet my wife and son.”
We went into the kitchen through the garage. Our new neighbors were well underway in the moving in process. Mrs. Michael's looked up from a box of glasses and saw my Mom with a platter of lemonade and sandwiches.
Mr. Michael's said, “Miriam, meet our new neighbors- the Saviks. Where's Scott?”
She laughed, “You know how shy he is. Scotty, come in here and meet our new neighbors.”
Scotty entered the room hesitantly. When I first laid eyes on him I though that he was much younger than me. He was a head shorter than me.”
I asked, “What grade are you in Scotty?” while our Moms poured glasses of lemonade and handed out sandwiches.
“Second.”, he replied softly, trying to decide if this giant kid in his kitchen was friendly.
“I'm in second. We can walk to school together.”
Mr. Michael's asked me, “Jimmy, why don't you show Scotty around the neighborhood after we have a sandwich?”
I nodded eagerly but Scotty looked a little skeptical. When we were done with sandwiches, the parents shooed us out the door to get us out from underfoot while they got down to serious work. His Mom told us to be back before dark.
Scotty asked, “Where are we going.”
“This is my house..”, which was right across the street, “and right behind my yard is Deer Creek.”
We walked over to the little bluff overlooking the creek that was just a little trickle that time of year.
Scotty asked, “Any fish in it?”
“Naw. There's a pond about a mile back in the woods though.”
The old growth oak and pine forest behind our suburbs was a favorite playground for the local kids. The ancient trees were home to many tree houses and Scotty looked at the Spanish moss draped canopy of the woods and said, “It looks a little spooky.”
“It's cool. We've all got forts out there and there's bike trails all over.”
Scotty looked up at me. “We won't get lost?”
“No way.”
He smiled and replied, “OK. Let's go.”
We walked down a well-worn bike trail along Deer Creek that lead up to the main paths into the woods. I asked. “Where did you live before?”
“Tupelo. It was fun there. My Uncle Rich and cousins live there.”
“What did you do there?”
“Mostly play with my cousins. They got dirt bikes and BB guns.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. My cousin Ray has a Mustang that goes a thousand miles `n hour!”
“They're tough...”
We passed the rest of the afternoon exploring the woods as far back as Clark's pond. I showed Scotty where Dear Creek and Cainey Creek came together in a muddy swirl, the main bike trails and the red sand dunes. We talked about weighty matters like bikes, Star Trek and comic books.
I'm not sure where and when it happened but Scotty decided that he liked me and I liked the idea of not being the only second grader on the block.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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