More "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" (2)

Here we go for episode two of my personal "Diary of a Wimpy Kid."  I want to get this down while I'm in the mood and the memories are still fresh in my head.  

The funny thing is that I've forgotten much about my early childhood but certain indelible memories have stayed with me.  God forbid, I hope I don't end my days with some form of dementia but if I do, I'm sure my very earliest memories of going to elementary school will stay with me until I take my last breath.

So folks, are you ready?  Hop aboard the Ron Memory Train and let's revisit my own personal wimpy kid memories:

About a year after we moved into second floor apartment on Washington Avenue which we shared with about 50,000 roaches (give or take a 1,000 or so), it was time for Little Ronnie to go to school.

120 Washington Avenue today - not much has changed since we lived in the second floor apartment front in the late Forties and early Fifties - this is still the White Trash section of Downingtown - probably the same cockroaches too

Since I was the oldest of the three Tipton Terrors (me and my brothers), I was the first to LEAVE HOME.  And yes, I was SCARED TO DEATH.

Mom and Pop Tipton with the Three Tipton Terrors (me in the middle. . . as usual)

The school where my Mother enrolled me was the East Ward Elementary School.  The school looked like a penitentiary.  It WAS a penitentiary.  

The East Ward Penitentiary Elementary School Downingtown, PA 

We lived on the 100 block of Washington Avenue, the East Ward school was on the 400 block, a three block walk for my five year old little legs.

Washington Avenue today - beautiful now and probably even more beautiful back in 1948 - one thing though that I noticed - Washington Avenue has shrunk because those three block were a LOT shorter when I took this picture than they were when I was a five year old wimpy kid.  That was a LONG walk back then.

I remember well walking those tree lined streets, looking at the houses where my classmates lived and wishing I lived in a house like they did and not our $22.50 a month roach hotel apartment that we had to share with my school age uncles.  Oh how I wanted my own backyard to play in.

Walking those three blocks by myself was a scary experience.  Two danger zones was a classmate of mine (whose name I will not mention here because he claims he doesn't remember doing what I'm about to tell you and he said if he did he apologizes) who would often be waiting for me right before I entered the blacktop that was at the back of the school (sorry for the long sentence).  

There I was, within sight of the school and "Pudgy" (he was bigger than me, quite a bit bigger than me)would be waiting for me, barring my last few steps to the safety of the school.

Guess who "Pudgy" is?  Yes!  You're right, he is the big kid in the back row on the left.  This photo from our sixth grade operetta play.  Don't ask me the title of the operetta, I only know I was dressed as a scarecrow (a portend of my future?)

There he was, standing on the embankment, with a smirk on his face, knowing that he was going to scare the crap out of me.

He said "Where do you think you're going?"  He knew very well where I was going but I think he liked to hear me stammer and stutter (which I did at this time - how I was cured is another story to be told later)

"Pudgy"

I said "Uh, uh, uh, . . . I'm, I'm going to, to school."  

He said "You're not going anywhere until you get past me" and then he would shove me to the ground. Then he would laugh, loud.  Others could hear! 

Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to get up, only to be pushed down again.  "Please Pudgy, let me go." 

I think that's what Pudgy wanted to hear because every time I begged to be left alone, he usually stopped.  Sometimes he didn't and would push me down on the wet, grassy ground until my bib pants were stained green with grass.  Maybe he wanted to show our other classmates his conquest.

I don't remember exactly when Pudgy grew bored with pushing me down on the wet grass (this is the first time I found out that grass is always wet early in the morning, even today!) but eventually he did stop.  Maybe he found someone else to bully.  All I knew was to avoid him whenever I saw him.

"Pudgy" today - ironically we're good friends today and he has no memory of those first days of school for us in 1948

"Pudgy", Larry (my best friend during elementary school - a subject I will cover in future "Wimpy Kid" posts and me at a class reunion about ten years ago - do you see the irony?  I am BIGGER than Pudgy now - better looking too :)

"Lar", my fellow "Wimpy Kid" friend during elementary school and to this day

I realize this isn't a particularly funny story, and in fact it's a sad story.  But I only tell it because this actually happened to me.  I guess this was part of my "initiation" into the Big World Outside of our Roach Motel apartment. I have a couple of other bullying stories that I will tell in future blog posts but this is the first time I was bullied in my life if I don't count my father's bullying.

My father Ike Tipton, this is the man who I wish would have stood up for me but never did. . . . not once. Maybe it was just as well because I learned to stand up for myself.  A Boy Named Sue.

Which reminds me, the first thing I did after I was bullied by Pudgy on that first day was to tell my Mother and father.  I fully expected my father to confront Pudgy's parents.  Nothing.  They did nothing.  They just looked at me and then turned around and went about whatever they were doing.  My Mother washing dishes and my father eating his biscuits and gravy.  My father, who almost always wore a wife beater T-shirt around the house (no smoking jacket for him) and was a truck driver and welder. . . . nothing. I learned my first lesson in my young life, which, in retrospect was probably one of the best lessons I ever learned, stand up for yourself.  No one else is going to do it, do it yourself. 

My Uncle Dude (with his wife beater T-Shirt), my Mom and my grandmother (my father's mother) at her suburban ranch home with the washing machine on the porch (advertising to the world her hillbilly roots) - by the way, I'm in the picture too - my Mom is pregnant with me in this photo - 1941

To this day I remember how disappointed I was that my father wouldn't stand up for me.  I wasn't' angry, just sad and I felt so lonely. So very lonely.  I knew I was on my own.

Me, in third grade (1951), the wimp with the big mop of hair standing behind my ramrod standing straight friend Stuart. This is where I learned to keep a low profile. Notice that the tall kids always had to stand in the back.  Next to me is my friend Peggy West.  She had it worse than I did because he was actually taller than me which was a big No!No! in the Fifties.  We quickly bonded.  I lost track of her after sixth grade.  I've always wondered what happened to her.  I liked Peggy. Notice that she had pigtails which were a target for putting in inkwells and pulling.  Poor Peggy.

Interestingly, I don't remember why Pudgy stopped with his Troll Under the Bridge game with me but he did stop.  I would like to think I punched him in the nose and got him to stop but I think what happened was that he grew bored with me and went on to someone else who was easier to bully.  I think what I did was avoid him, I tried to make myself less of an easy target. 

Troll Under the Bridge story - used to scare the bejesus out of me

It's a funny thing with memories, somethings I remember very clearly and other things, not so much.  One thing that I do remember clearly was another Danger Zone on my daily three block walk to school. . . and that was the Butcher Gang.  That I will tell you about in my next "Wimpy Kid" blog posting. Which, by the way, I'm taking a few days hiatus from posting because folks, dredging up these memories I'm finding is proving to be somewhat exhausting.  Both mentally and physically exhausting.  

But I do have many good memories of those early times.  The innocent and pristine Fifties, which we thought at the time was so boring.  Hey folks, I am so glad I grew up in the Fifties.  Couldn't have been a better time for me to form my personality and skill at how to survive in this sometimes hostile but mostly friendly world.

Our Fifth Grade class at East Ward Elementary school - 1952 - that's me in the back row again with the mop of hair and my head slightly tilted - staying out of everyone's way - my tall friend Margaret "Peggy" West is also in the back to my right without pigtails now - guess she got tired of having them pulled on and dipped into inkwells by classmates who sat behind her in class (each desk had an inkwell - that's how OLD I am) - by the way, notice some of the really younger kids in our "CLASS PICTURE"?  They weren't in our class, they were outside during recess and photo bombed out class picture. 

   

Diary of a Wimpy Kid

My friend Pat sent me the book "Diary of a Wimpy Kid."  I've heard of this book.  Reading it I discovered something that I think just about all of us know, at one time or another we've all been that wimpy kid.  I know I have been.  

I'm tempted to write my own "Diary of a Wimpy Kid."  However, what really makes this book unique are the illustrations.  I would have to work on that folks.  I could make my own cartoon characters but it would take so long.  So bear with me while I do my own personal take on "Diary of a Wimpy Kid", sans the illustrations.  

Diary of a Wimpy Kid - Ron's Version

"Little Ronnie" - First Grade class photo - 1948

I was born in November 1941, one month before Pearl Harbor.

Me at two years old - literally a Living Doll (at least my Mother thought so) 

My father was a transplanted hillbilly from North Carolina to Pennsylvania. He was ten years old when he arrived in Pennsylvania by train.  First time he ever wore shoes.

"Pop" - Ike - my dad 1941 - 21 years old

My Mother was a 16 year old motherless high school senior anxious to get out of her Cinderella like home life.  "Pop" was her "Prince Charming."

My father Ike Tipton - the man my mother fell in love with at first sight when she first set eyes on him when he dropped  my Mom's date "Hank" off - my Mom immediately dropped Hank and told her girlfriend Edie to take Hank because she said "I'm taking HIM!" And she did.  Married sixty years, my father was the only man my Mother was ever "with."

I was the result of this unlikely union of a truck driving, semi-literate, handsome hillbilly father and a beautiful but poor daughter of a Quaker family.

My beautiful Mother - high school senior 1939

And it shows.  To this day I am a weird anagram of those two disparate cultures.  

For almost a year I was an ONLY CHILD.

Then my parents decided to HAVE ANOTHER.  That would be Isaac, Jr.

Me and brother Isaac, Jr - I have lost my privileged status as an ONLY CHILD

Even back then, in those black and white days I knew my special status as an ONLY CHILD had changed my life . . . forever.

Then, to add insult to injury my Mom and Pop decided to have yet ONE MORE.  His name was John.

 Baby John, hood ornament 

Now there were THREE.  I was the OLDEST but I had two coming up the rear.  

My Baby Brothers - Isaac and John - 1947 - Washington Avenue, Downingtown, PA

And from that day on my life was inalterably changed.  For the rest of my life sibling rivalry would rule, even to this day.

Growing up on Washington Avenue I had my friends and John and Isaac had each other.  Yes folks, I didn't hang out with my brothers. They were just THERE . . . in the way.

The Three Little Terrors - John, Isaac and me (hand over my eyes shielding the sun and my FIRST leather jacket) and High Water Pants 

One good thing about being the oldest, I never had to endure hand me downs.  But I was always outgrowing my clothes . . . long legs and long arms

Being the oldest I was the first to go to school.  Our school was three blocks down Washington Avenue, where we lived in a second floor, roach infested apartment that rented for $22.50 a month that we had to share with one of my father's younger brothers who was still going to high school.

My father had ten brothers.  The two youngest brothers(Sam and Bruce) were born in Pennsylvania and were orphaned before they finished high school. 

My grandmother Hester Tipton with ten of her eleven sons (the eleventh one took the picture) at Union Hill Cemetery Kennett Square, Pennsylvania where she buried her husband (my grandfather) Fieldon Jacob Tipton - 1939 - Uncle Sam (head peeking out next to my Uncle Bruce petting dog) were still in school - both Sam and Bruce was only Tipton boys born in Pennsylvania thus not authentic Hillbillies

My Uncle Sam (far left in photo) and Uncle Bruce (fourth from left with sailor cap) and Uncle Tip (kneeling with dog) on the porch at their rented home before their parents died. Note the wringer washer on the porch - an authentic Hillbilly Touch

Growing up I was constantly mortified with my paternal hillbilly roots and always tried to hide them.  My father was a Hank Williams wannabe - sooo embarrassing.

Pop with his brother Luther "Dude" Tipton playing Hank Williams on his guitar - so embarrassing (at that time)

When I began school two things were paramount in my mind.  I knew I was different and not just because I was "half a hillbilly" (as my father often liked to refer to me). 

I wasn't quite sure what I was but I definitely knew I was different.  I liked wasn't into marbles and pen knives. I was more into paper dolls.  Uh oh.

To be continued . . . . . . . . .