Home Again, Home Again

After the first of the year in 1971 I was back a McCluer Senior High. Not much had changed and nobody missed me.  I was still a geek and my cool was 750 miles away in New Orleans. A new restaurant was opening close to my house called Mr. Steak. They hired me as Head Cook making about $1.40 per hour. After a month I was promoted to Assistant Manager and went on salary at $200 per week. The Head Waitress and I started dating. Pam, a pretty redhead, was a year older than me, having just graduated the previous year in 1970. For graduation her dad bought her a new car.  Not just any car.  She had a 1970 blue Dodge Challenger. Oh, how I loved that car.

She had a boyfriend her age but, I guess she wanted a young stud like me “on the side”. Her boyfriend was a grease-monkey kinda guy with one of the fastest cars on the street. I didn't mind this at first. Initially I thought it was cool sneaking around behind his back but after a few month the love triangle was too much and I had to give her an ultimatum. She stayed with "Mr. Go Faster" and they eventually got married.

Back at home the old rules were still in place.  I know I should have known that when I accepted the terms for coming home.  After only 6 weeks I tested one of those rules.  Actually it wasn’t really a conscious test.  I just thought that he wouldn’t notice.  The kids were still not allowed to watch TV when Dad and Mary Lou were out. I figured that I was making good money so I went out and bought a small black and white TV of my own and put it in my basement bedroom. It didn’t take long for him to notice and he was pissed. He had to react sternly so he could make an impression on the 6 kids who still lived there, so he kicked me out. No discussion; just “get the hell out of the house.”

Now this was in February in the mid-west. The temperature at night hovered around 20 degrees. I bought a 1957 Chevy station wagon for $300 soon after I got back and now it was my very chilly home. It was particularly tough watching my new TV in the car.  But I still went to high school and showed up for work and life went on with sponge baths in gas station restrooms and gym locker rooms.  It was tough staying warm at night; waking up two or three times to start the engine and warm it up.  I had enough money for my expenses and food from the restaurant when I worked.  I also had my freedom.  What more could a guy want?

Living nowhere got old and after a couple of weeks the parents of my friend, Paul Groth, allowed me to move in with them.  I never told my parents where I was and they never reached out to find me.  Paul’s Dad was a retired Army Colonel.  There was considerable discipline in the house but it was tempered somewhat but Paul’s Mom who was a truly nice person who you could talk to.  It would be good to have a warm bed and an adoptive family to come home to.  I had to follow the same rules Paul followed regarding being home at a certain hour after work but it wasn’t as restrictive as it would have been at the Howard house.  Their family life was more “normal”.

I had an interesting motorcycle accident one spring evening around dusk.  I had borrowed Paul Groth’s Hodaka 100 and had ridden it down to a place called “John’s Coffin” in the area off Missouri Bottoms Road.  It was called that obviously because a guy named John had been killed there while hill climbing on his motorcycle.  There were 3 of us in our group and several others riding around in the dirt.  Each would take a turn climbing the face of a 60’ hill that had deep cuts into its side as you got about 15 feet from the top.  The cuts were just about wide enough for your handle bars to go through but you had to be in full control when you got to that point or you’d hit the sides and get stuck in the rut.  I hadn’t tried it before on my bike because a Honda Super 90 is a street bike and didn’t have enough torque to climb steep hills.  That’s why I had Paul’s bike on this night.  I waited and watched and then it was my turn.  I dropped into first gear and hit the throttle hard moving quickly onto the S-curve lower half of the climb.  I got past the first lower curve and into the upper section to just before the cuts in the face, then hit a bump.  The front end of the bike came up and over on top of me and I crashed backwards down the hill, rolling and sliding until I hit my head on the fallen truck of a tree.

Thank God for the helmet law in the State of Missouri.  From this point I remember very little of what happened next but others who were there filled in blanks and some of it came back to me eventually.  The helmet was cracked and I had a large lump on the back of my head.  I got up and had to straighten the handlebars of the Hodaka but the bike was not as damaged as my head was.  I’m told I just got on the bike and rode away without saying anything to the other guys I was with.

I have vague memories of going to Bonanza Sirloin Pit and walking into the back door as if I still worked there.  Someone told me I wasn’t a part of that team anymore and that I worked at Mr. Steak now so I got on my bike and rode there.  When I got there my boss realized that something wasn’t right with me and called Mrs. Groth.  Someone drove me to the Groth’s house, where I was staying.  Mrs. Groth was a nurse and she called a Doctor.  I’m not sure why we didn’t go to the hospital but I believe she was told just to observe me for awhile and not let me go to sleep for several hours.

The next day I woke up with a giant headache and couldn’t remember anything about the incident after arriving at John’s Coffin.  I had to pay to get new handlebars on Paul’s Hodaka.  He never loaned it to me again and luckily they didn’t have to change the name of the hill to “Kirk and John’s Coffin.”

Sometime in the spring I was let go from Mr. Steak because the owner heard from another employee that I had taken a drink of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill from a friend in the parking lot while emptying the trash. The owner, Hank Bauer, was also a devout Christian and couldn't stand people who drank at all.

Within 3 days I found a job at another new Mr. Steak Restaurant in Ferguson, as Assistant Manager.  Work was work but it was fun and my social like revolved around it.  There were always girls working with me.  Some even liked me a little.

Today this would be Harassment!

In June I graduated from high school and stayed out all night with Paul and two cheerleader types who wouldn’t normally have given me the time of day.  The “Groth” name came in handy that night. We had a good time. I remember all four of us swimming in a lake in our underwear at dawn. The girl I was with never spoke to me after that night, though, despite my repeated efforts.

High school had always been a necessary evil to me. I don't remember really disliking it, but I didn't really enjoy it either. I never was involved in anything. I had tried to get into sports but wasn't strong enough to compete. I thought about running for student council but realized I wasn’t very popular… or even known by most people.  I didn’t stand out in any way.  Puberty didn't even set in until my junior year. I went out for baseball and got cut from the team. I went out for wrestling, made the team but was 4th string, and probably wouldn't have wrestled in competition. I was a teenager.  I wanted personal peer validation and recognition. Hell, just give me a friggin' trophy or sumthin!  🏆  Just being on the team 4th string wasn't enough.  That meant I wasn't very good so I quit.

My job at the restaurant gave me more spending money of my own than most other high schoolers had.  Other parents paid for their kid’s expenses like clothing and personal entertainment but all that stopped when I started working at 15, with the exception of Christmas presents.  Buying my own cloths had its benefits in that I wasn’t told how to dress.  One of my aspirations was to be noticed so I tried two main routes.  The first was, in retrospect shallow, to go “Jock” and I bought what the cool kids wore.  I had the money so why not.  Bass Penny loafers, cuffed trousers, a wool Pendleton shirt.  After a few weeks of strutting my stuff it became obvious that the clothes don’t make the man.  And after a few months the much more expensive loafers wore out even faster than my Hush Puppies did.  It was a life lesson for me. Maybe one of the first, behind not pissing Dad off.

Now it was time to take a different approach.  The Hippies were in vogue and they had a distinctive look.  I could put on my bell-bottom jeans and jean shirt with a Peace symbol and that would make me cool.  I wished my Dad would let me grow my hair long.  Then I’d be cool.  Unfortunately without the long hair I felt I couldn’t complete the look so I just decided to dress a little weird and see if anyone noticed.  My weirdest look was when I bought a pair of fake fur pants while I lived in New Orleans.  They got noticed.  Then when the butt ripped out I cut off the legs and sewed them onto the bottom of a pair of blue jeans.  Then I really looked cool with my American flag t-shirt on my Honda Super 90, a half-shell helmet that I spray painted with the Confederate flag.   I knew I wasn’t that cool but this was likely the coolest I could get under the circumstances.

I stayed with the Groth family until mid-summer. I had joined the Army on the delayed entry program and was scheduled to leave for boot camp in mid-July. It was 1971 and the Viet Nam war was still raging.  Even though the draft had slowed and my number of 75 hadn’t been called yet I spoke with the recruiter and he convinced me that I wanted to be an Airborne Ranger. Joining the Army was also a ploy to get Pam to choose me over her boyfriend, but it backfired. So, the day before I was scheduled to report I backed out.

Soon after that I broke one of the Groth family rules about staying out late without calling. Colonel Groth was also disappointed that I had backed out of enlistment. They asked me to leave.  I had quit my job to go into the Army. I traded my 1957 Chevy station wagon to Randy Groth for his Honda 305 Scrambler and took off for New Orleans again, just a vacation this time.  A full-shell Captain America helmet just like Peter Fonda’s in the movie Easy Rider came with the motorcycle.  Now I was cool again… and getting cooler all the time.  I think I watched that movie 10 times.

After the first of the year in 1971 I was back a McCluer Senior High. Not much had changed and nobody missed me.  I was still a geek and my cool was 750 miles away in New Orleans. A new restaurant was opening close to my house called Mr. Steak. They hired me as Head Cook making about $1.40 per hour. After a month I was promoted to Assistant Manager and went on salary at $200 per week. The Head Waitress and I started dating. Pam, a pretty redhead, was a year older than me, having just graduated the previous year in 1970. For graduation her dad bought her a new car.  Not just any car.  She had a 1970 blue Dodge Challenger. Oh, how I loved that car.

She had a boyfriend her age but, I guess she wanted a young stud like me “on the side”. Her boyfriend was a grease-monkey kinda guy with one of the fastest cars on the street. I didn't mind this at first. Initially I thought it was cool sneaking around behind his back but after a few month the love triangle was too much and I had to give her an ultimatum. She stayed with "Mr. Go Faster" and they eventually got married.

Back at home the old rules were still in place.  I know I should have known that when I accepted the terms for coming home.  After only 6 weeks I tested one of those rules.  Actually it wasn’t really a conscious test.  I just thought that he wouldn’t notice.  The kids were still not allowed to watch TV when Dad and Mary Lou were out. I figured that I was making good money so I went out and bought a small black and white TV of my own and put it in my basement bedroom. It didn’t take long for him to notice and he was pissed. He had to react sternly so he could make an impression on the 6 kids who still lived there, so he kicked me out. No discussion; just “get the hell out of the house.”

Now this was in February in the mid-west. The temperature at night hovered around 20 degrees. I bought a 1957 Chevy station wagon for $300 soon after I got back and now it was my very chilly home. It was particularly tough watching my new TV in the car.  But I still went to high school and showed up for work and life went on with sponge baths in gas station restrooms and gym locker rooms.  It was tough staying warm at night; waking up two or three times to start the engine and warm it up.  I had enough money for my expenses and food from the restaurant when I worked.  I also had my freedom.  What more could a guy want?

Living nowhere got old and after a couple of weeks the parents of my friend, Paul Groth, allowed me to move in with them.  I never told my parents where I was and they never reached out to find me.  Paul’s Dad was a retired Army Colonel.  There was considerable discipline in the house but it was tempered somewhat but Paul’s Mom who was a truly nice person.  It would good to have a warm bed and an adoptive family to come home to.  I had to follow the same rules Paul followed regarding being home at a certain hour after work but it wasn’t as restrictive as it would have been at the Howard house.  Their family life was more “normal”.

I had an interesting motorcycle accident one spring evening around dusk.  I had borrowed Paul Groth’s Hodaka 100 and had ridden it down to a place called “John’s Coffin” in the area off Missouri Bottoms Road.  It was called that obviously because a guy named John had been killed there while hill climbing on his motorcycle.  There were 3 of us in our group and several others riding around in the dirt.  Each would take a turn climbing the face of a 60’ hill that had deep cuts into its side as you got about 15 feet from the top.  The cuts were just about wide enough for your handle bars to go through but you had to be in full control when you got to that point or you’d hit the sides and get stuck in the rut.  I hadn’t tried it before on my bike because a Honda Super 90 is a street bike and didn’t have enough torque to climb steep hills.  That’s why I had Paul’s bike on this night.  I waited and watched and then it was my turn.  I dropped into first gear and hit the throttle hard moving quickly onto the S-curve lower half of the climb.  I got past the first lower curve and into the upper section to just before the cuts in the face, then hit a bump.  The front end of the bike came up and over on top of me and I crashed backwards down the hill, rolling and sliding until I hit my head on the fallen truck of a tree. 

Thank God for the helmet law in the State of Missouri.  From this point I remember very little of what happened next but others who were there filled in blanks and some of it came back to me eventually.  The helmet was cracked and I had a large lump on the back of my head.  I got up and had to straighten the handlebars of the Hodaka but the bike was not as damaged as my head was.  I’m told I just got on the bike and rode away without saying anything to the other guys I was with.

I have vague memories of going to Bonanza Sirloin Pit and walking into the back door as if I still worked there.  Someone told me I wasn’t a part of that team anymore and that I worked at Mr. Steak now so I got on my bike and rode there.  When I got there my boss realized that something wasn’t right with me and called Mrs. Groth.  Someone drove me to the Groth’s house, where I was staying.  Mrs. Groth was a nurse and she called a Doctor.  I’m not sure why we didn’t go to the hospital but I believe she was told just to observe me for awhile and not let me go to sleep for several hours.

The next day I woke up with a giant headache and couldn’t remember anything about the incident after arriving at John’s Coffin.  I had to pay to get new handlebars on Paul’s Hodaka.  He never loaned it to me again and luckily they didn’t have to change the name of the hill to “Kirk and John’s Coffin.”

Sometime in the spring I was let go from Mr. Steak because the owner heard from another employee that I had taken a drink of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill from a friend in the parking lot while emptying the trash. The owner, Hank Bauer, was also a devout Christian and couldn't stand people who drank at all.

Within 3 days I found a job at another new Mr. Steak Restaurant in Ferguson, as Assistant Manager.  Work was work but it was fun and my social like revolved around it.  There were always girls working with me.  Some even liked me a little.

In June I graduated from high school and stayed out all night with Paul and two cheerleader types who wouldn’t normally have given me the time of day.  The “Groth” name came in handy that night. We had a good time. I remember all four of us swimming in a lake in our underwear at dawn. The girl I was with never spoke to me after that night, though, despite my repeated efforts.

High school had always been a necessary evil to me. I don't remember really disliking it, but I didn't really enjoy it either. I never was involved in anything. I had tried to get into sports but wasn't strong enough to compete. I thought about running for student council but realized I wasn’t very popular… or even known by most people.  I didn’t stand out in any way.  Puberty didn't even set in until my junior year. I went out for baseball and got cut from the team. I went out for wrestling, made the team but was 4th string, and probably wouldn't have wrestled in competition. I wanted personal validation and recognition. Just being on the team wasn't enough so I quit.

My job at the restaurant gave me more spending money of my own than most other high schoolers had.  Other parents paid for their kid’s expenses like clothing and personal entertainment but all that stopped when I started working at 15, with the exception of Christmas presents.  Buying my own cloths had its benefits in that I wasn’t told how to dress.  One of my aspirations was to be noticed so I tried two main routes.  The first was to go “Jock” and I bought what the cool kids wore.  I had the money so why not?  Bass Penny loafers, cuffed trousers, a wool Pendleton shirt.  After a few weeks of strutting my stuff it became obvious that the clothes don’t make the man.  And after a few months the much more expensive loafers wore out even faster than my Hush Puppies did.  It was a lesson for me. Maybe one of my first right after not pissing my Dad off in Winter.

Now it was time to take a different approach.  The Hippies were in vogue and they had a distinctive look.  I could put on my bell-bottom jeans and jean shirt with a Peace symbol and that would make me cool.  I wished my Dad would let me grow my hair long.  Then I’d be cool.  Unfortunately without the long hair I felt I couldn’t complete the look so I just decided to dress a little weird and see if anyone noticed.  My weirdest look was when I bought a pair of fake fur pants while I lived in New Orleans.  They got noticed.  Then when the butt ripped out I cut off the legs and sewed them onto the bottom of a pair of blue jeans.  Then I really looked cool with my American flag t-shirt on my Honda Super 90, a half-shell helmet that I spray painted with the Confederate flag.   I knew I wasn’t that cool but this was likely the coolest I could get under the circumstances.

I stayed with the Groth family until mid-summer. I had joined the Army on the delayed entry program and was scheduled to leave for boot camp in mid-July. It was 1971 and the Viet Nam war was still raging.  Even though the draft had slowed and my number of 75 hadn’t been called yet I spoke with the recruiter and he convinced me that I wanted to be an Airborne Ranger. Joining the Army was also a ploy to get Pam to choose me over her boyfriend, but it backfired. So, the day before I was scheduled to report I backed out.

Soon after that I broke one of the Groth family rules about staying out late without calling. Colonel Groth was also disappointed that I had backed out of enlistment. They asked me to leave.  I had quit my job to go into the Army. 

Randy Groth and I traded my 1957 Chevy station wagon for his Honda 305 Scrambler.  He wanted to rip out the interior of the car, weld panels over the windows and create a custom "Nomad".  He had some vision... I just wanted to get the hell outa Dodge.  I just took off for New Orleans again for a vacation this time.  A full-shell Captain America helmet just like Peter Fonda’s in the movie Easy Rider came with the motorcycle.  Now I was cool again… and getting cooler all the time.  I think I watched that movie more times than I did the Exorcist 😈

Honda 305 Scrambler - I painted mine Yellow

Loved that bike!