William R. Norman

Other nation still have some pride in their surroundings.

A ma*****na plant towering over mom’s tulips is casting shadows on the brick garage. It’s about eight feet tall, fat and bushy, with a stem like an axe handle. Skunky, too.
So, you can’t say that I didn’t know it was there. It would have been a flimsy excuse anyway. This was 1972, at a time when you could go to prison for holding a few seeds. We’re maybe looking at thirty years here. Guys have done way more time for a lot less w**d.
We really hadn’t expected much from the Panama Red seeds that we tossed among the flowers. The spot proved to be ideal. The sun cooked that side of the garage all day long, so the tan brick became a dutch oven that radiated heat well after sundown. Even better, since dad didn’t think the house needed rain gutters, the water dripped right onto the plants.
If anyone had bothered to look, this massive illegal w**d could easily have been seen from the air, or the gravel road in front of our house, for that matter. However, onlookers who inspected the Norman property in Limestone would quite sensibly conclude that not much you could see there would be unusual.
That is to say, there was plenty to look at: a pile of bricks behind the garage covered by a pair of beat-up encrusted mortar boxes; overgrown garden way in the back next to the old barb wire fence that was still there many years after 1957, the garden still producing fat tomatoes adjacent to the septic field; wooly lawn overdue for a mow; play forts and blankets and doll clothes in the front yard; plastic swimming pool lying flat in the back yard, unreeled hose willy-nilly, kids in trunks running through sprinklers; half-dozen bicycles tossed aside; kids running barefoot with plastic cups of Kool-Aide, lemonade booth nearby; motorcycles up on kickstands; cars up on blocks in various states of repair.
Most of the motors ran ok, especially the VW bug, which you could not kill – and we tried; us brothers sold the bug back and forth over the years, always for the same price: $200.
Tom was usually tinkering with a hot rod, pulling out engines or swapping transmissions, or both. One of his trannies was stolen by as****es who thought they were getting a four-speed because that’s what the shifter k**b said: 1-2-3-4-R. The tr**ny was only a three-speed. We laughed about that one for a long time, picturing the dumb s**t trying to shift that fu**er.
Ironically, a state cop, Bob Just, lived a short way down our gravel road just beyond the crossroads. Bob never cruised past our place. If you didn’t give him a reason to pester you, he left you alone. Bob was popular with the kids, and always waved as he drove by. It felt kind of nice knowing he was there, keeping an eye on things.
So, basically, a giant w**d growing alongside the garage wasn’t much cause for alarm. Not in our neighborhood. People had their own drama.
There were good times. Some of my fondest memories are the summer barbeques when families would push picnic tables to our backyard. The adults drank beer, burned meat, chain-smoked and listened to salty stories being told by Durl Preston, a war veteran and carpenter from next door. The Devines one summer brought sirloin steak to a cookout. They were made to feel ostracized by the people eating burgers and dogs. It wasn’t their fault they liked steak. Strange they should be made to feel like outsiders because of their meat selection. That all dissolved and soon they were having fun.
All the kids were running around until long after dark, playing tag, catching fireflies, or tempting fate with a game of lawn darts. We’d fetch beer for the adults and it was just too easy to skim the top of the can or bottle. Me and Tom did this enough to get tipsy and run around like monkeys. It’s a strange sight to see your little brother tip back a quart of Old Style at age seven. Dad thought all that nonsense was funny.
He also thought Mr. Preston was funny with his off-color stories that made even the crustiest neighbor blush. Nobody called him on it because he was such a commanding character. Plus, dad and the other men liked him. Durl wasn’t mean, just gruff. I think he was decent to his wife, Louise, and kids Brian and Durinda.
He did, however, know every cuss word out there and used them in creative ways – often stacked together in sentences, one after another. Mr. Preston was a sergeant in WW II. So, that makes him Sgt. Preston, not of the Mounties, but of the Marines, and a hard-fighting platoon of them at that.
Dad connected with fellow vets. His list of friends was top-heavy with wounded war veterans from places like Utah Beach, Guadalcanal, the Philippines, North Africa, Italy, you name it, they fought it. If you cracked this group socially and you weren’t a vet, you were special. Very few guys did. You almost had to be a bartender to get respect. And if you didn’t like beer and cards, they didn’t care to know you.
Between Sgt. Durl and the Myna bird at Engleman’s Café, we learned a s**t ton of dirty words at a young age. We rode or walked down Route 17 to Engleman’s truck stop for a burger and fries, sometimes a creamy shake, and try to provoke the bird into a blue streak while yakking with the Englemans behind the counter. Truck drivers seemed to find the talking bird amusing, perhaps conversation-starved as they were.
We practiced f-bombs in Rick Maddox’s garage. Somebody would produce a stolen cigarette and a pack of matches. We copied the older kids who leaned on hot rods in their leather jackets and duck-ass hairdo and smoke before school. The car we leaned on in Rick’s garage had been parked for some time and was full of rust and cobwebs.
My little brother Tom was not only a shade tree mechanic and motorcycle daredevil with a taste for practical jokes, but also a bit of an entrepreneur. It was his idea to tell a fib to Mr. Harbour to get jobs slinging burgers at Ron’s. Before that, he went downtown to get the Journal paper route. Then he subbed half of it out to me -- the long half, with no-tip Tony Panozzo at one end and at the other, the Hansen’s barnyard collie, a miserable, she-devil gangster mutt that waited until your back was turned to give chase. Dad, a union man, busted my wildcat strike over conditions one winter with the threat of violence.
At any rate, Tom had a nose for business. One fine day I walk into the bedroom at the Limestone house and see my brother breaking up a rather large pile of ma*****na from Panama. First thing we do is smoke a fat one and slap Led Zeppelin on the turntable. We’re good.
His aim was to bag up “lids” in the parlance of our time. As we fill the bags, we saved a bunch of seeds and tossed them behind mom’s tulips. We didn’t think much of it after that. But then, this freakish w**d heavy with flowers had taken solid root and was getting more than enough light, heat and water alongside the garage. The top of it tickled the soffit.
We never did get to smoke it. Sure enough, someone did us a favor by taking it. This brazen act of thievery probably saved us a ton of misery. I thought for years that Sgt. Preston had snuck over one night and pulled it out. I’m not sure he cared, or even knew what it was. He was no idiot, so he probably knew.
Turns out it was taken by some guy that brother Steve had met years later at Fat Rat’s Tavern. The subject came up kind of like: oh, by the way, I’m the guy who stole your pot plant. It’s some consolation to know that it was pretty good. Still, I would like to personally thank the gentleman for saving us from ourselves. Reckless behavior would be a Norman trademark.

Kathy Ryan was my first real crush. I put that poor girl on a pedestal. I couldn’t help myself. She was cute and friendly and one of the gang. And she liked to laugh.
Her auburn hair had some blonde and red and was always done up nice. She wore a touch of perfume that you wouldn’t notice unless you were lucky enough to be inside her bubble.
She had the sweetest smile and she knew how to listen. She cared about people. Plus she was fun, and would gently tease you when you deserved it. I didn’t mind it one bit — the teasing. One minute of this heaven had me hooked.
You wanted to be around her. Like sitting on her front porch when Kathy and her younger brothers Dave and Mike would join us and a bunch of other neighborhood kids, riding bikes up and down the gravel road, catching fireflies, talking late into the hot summer night, falling into helpless teenage love with this beautiful angel from Limestone.
I started to think I was special. She made you feel that when she listened to you, it was the most important thing she could be doing at that moment.
We talked about things. Sometimes she would be sad about her parents fighting again. In all the time Kathy and her brothers were there, I never saw her parents outside. I never even knew what they looked like. You just heard them fighting. I learned what “assault and battery” was from them. Our shortcut to the ballfields was next to their house. I thought I heard Kathy’s mom say something one day about putting “salt on her battery.” Mom set me straight.
On occasion Mike and Dave would have lunch at our house and stay for awhile and watch tv when it was cold out and they needed to escape the house. Kathy was still inside, trapped in her room, probably weeping into her pillow, listening to her parents fight again. Knowing how trapped she must have felt broke my heart. She wouldn’t come over with her brothers. She probably figured three Ryans was one too many. That would be so like her.
The only thing left to do was talk. We would walk down to the climbing trees near Route 17. She never bad-mouthed anyone. Never heard her complain about mom and dad. But you could tell it was killing her by the way the smile left her pretty green Irish eyes in weak moments when her guard was down.
She didn’t like being sad. She was fun and smart and just a real treat to be around. She liked to climb trees and ride bikes and run and get dirty playing baseball with the guys before it was cool to do that. Everybody loved her. She was our Kathy. But no one loved her more than me. I was certain of that.
Kathy had other plans. In high school she absolutely blossomed as a woman. Ahead of her time for a 14-year-old kid. In addition to the fun, outgoing, smart young lady everyone loved, she was movie-star gorgeous, tall and graceful, with a delicate, china-doll face and all the class and style to go with it.
Guys from all over were charmed. They came to pick her up all dressed fine, hair greased back duck-ass style, driving Mustangs and Harleys they bought with money from pops. I was this pimply string-bean kid in a butch haircut riding a Honda 50 and mixing tile mud for dad.
Kathy couldn’t wait to get out. None of these guys were good enough for her, I was sure, as I watched her jump on the back of a motorcycle with yet another stud muffin taking her out to have fun.
She met Danny Hinderer in high school. They were about as glamorous a couple as you could get. Beauty queen and handsome star athlete. It made you kind of proud to know them. It was a perfect match. Until it wasn’t.
Danny was a wild mustang, all p**s and vinegar and wanting to go do things. I don’t think he was mean at heart, just unsuited to be a full-time partner. Kathy had this notion that she could tame the mustang in Danny, make him into her man, and her man only. They had twin boys. Cute little blonde haired guys. Handsome like their parents.
But it was just wrong. Danny was Kathy’s dream boat, but Danny couldn’t love her back as much as she loved him. When Danny left her with the boys, she couldn’t take the pain, so she snapped and took her own life.
We all were devastated. Stunned beyond belief. This woman with the huge heart and beautiful soul was gone. Our Kathy was gone without ever knowing the love she had hoped for. And so richly deserved.
The last time I saw Kathy and Danny together was in the front seat of my car. We had been hanging out at the Kankakee County Fair, drinking cokes and listening to the bands. They needed a ride home so we all hopped in my car.
I had just turned the key when the song “Never My Love” by the Association came on the radio. Kathy had me wait in the parking lot for a minute. She loved that song. Sad and sentimental, it’s a lot like her.
I cut the engine and turn up the radio. Halfway through the song I glance at them in the dashboard lights. Danny looks bored as if he can’t wait to leave. Kathy has him cradled in her arms with one hand on his cheek, absorbed in the music, her face pressed tight to his. Huge crocodile tears pour out of those liquid green eyes and slide down her cheeks.
That was the last time I would see my Angel from Limestone.

With few clues and even less planning, a deeply wounded young couple launch an American family adventure while never really figuring out that love is the reason for it all, not work, or pleasure, or the church pew you deserve based on the level of your tithing.
They would without question follow the dictates of a self-serving religion while working hard for the little house on the prairie. And pledging ten percent of their income to the church.
That would be my parents.
I think of the hours spent riding with my dad in the car or, just as often, the tile truck. All the wasted hours of unnatural silence. Not even the radio was on. Just the sound of the breeze in the windows. We could have been talking about everything from Einstein to Eisenhower, but no. Any attempt at conversation met with more silence. Most of the time it was not the evil silence, the kind where you felt he actively hated you, but it was more like the silence of indifference, the benign “leave me alone” type of silence.
It was not the momentary silence that two people will enjoy while digesting the new ideas put forth in a spirited verbal exchange. No, not that. It is just the unnatural quiet of two human beings ignoring each other. Mile after mile of agonizing silence. Dead, quiet, say-nothing-at-all silence.
Even in moments where he had the opportunity to come alive, to have been inspired, motivated, eager to pass down some fatherly wisdom.
Like the day he drove me to Charleston to start school at Eastern Illinois University.
Silence. Wind whistling in the windows silence. Not a word about goals, dreams, plans, interests, remember to use a condom, or even what the hell major did I choose. It was PE. I wanted to be a football coach, of all things. Couldn’t play it. Got hurt trying to play it. But I wanted to coach it. That career path would have been an absolute disaster.
Dad never asked about girls, or sports, or who the f**k killed Kennedy. When we got to the dorm, he didn’t even come in. He dropped the suitcase on the sidewalk, said “seeya” with a condescending smirk, got in the car and took off, practically burning rubber. Like he couldn’t wait to get the f**k out of there. I never got a call, a letter, or a visit the four years I spent clueless at EIU. From anyone, not just dad.
It would be many years before I would come to realize how unnatural it is to be so mute in the presence of another human being. But as I got to know dad as an adult, I began to see the pattern emerge elsewhere. His drinking pals and card-playing buddies liked him for that quality. He appeared to be a good listener. I’m not sure how they could tell, but he must have had a way of letting them know he was their pal. Maybe it’s the way he didn’t unspool his belt and whip the s**t out of them for any drunken reason he saw fit.
That was my role. I was the belt whipping boy. Also, the kicking boy, the slapping boy, the knock-me-to-the-floor-with-a-forearm boy. The other kids got some, too. He even whipped Jo once, she says. If I had been there to see that, I might have killed him. Bad enough a 200-pound gorilla whipping a 60-pound son, even worse to beat a helpless daughter.
There are times I came close as an adult to losing my s**t over stuff he would do. Like the time he bipped Alex Carraher on the head and made him cry. Alex was throwing rocks in the river, but his real crime was disobeying Wm. C. Norman after being told to stop. He had a special way of using his fingernails like ball peen hammers. The effect on your skull was blinding. I was in my 20s then, and benching over 200 pounds. It wouldn’t have been fair.
I don’t know what me beating him up would have proved, except to show him how terrifying it is to be on the receiving end of an angry beat-down. I’m glad I didn’t do it. I would have just felt bad now. At the time, though, it might have felt good. That scares me a little.