Part One of My Life

My Beginnings.

Hello Substack readers and members.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Richard La France. This is my first post. I'm anxious to get to know you and share thoughts, ideas, whatever you wish to talk about.

I was born in Detroit, Michigan on April Fools Day, 1946, to a German American mother and a French Canadian father.

You may or may not believe this but my memory takes me all the way back to lying in my crib in the parental bedroom. This memory is short-lived. Here it is:

I could hear Ma and Dad standing next to the crib. He called her Betty. She called him Eddy.

Meanwhile, something was going on in my head. My eyes still closed, I could see little pastel colored dots. They hummed like the softer tone I later learned in life was much like the tone in a hearing test. I translate it as my brain cells connecting. One day the phenomenon ended. I felt sad. It was the end of that special memory.

I was told that I was not ready to grow into a boy child; screaming and crying downstairs from the dining room to the living room. Ma said the lady next door advised her to throw cold water in my face. The next tantrum Ma felt it was her duty to ask, “You want the water?” She claimed it worked.

If you know anyone who is of the German bloodline you'll understand that the tone of voice used to get a quick reaction, including dog training, is what the one hearing that tone of voice means, ‘Do it (or stop it,) immediately, if not, sooner.

Dad was the typically French romantic who, if he didn't know the law, would likely go after any girl in her late teens.

I loved Michigan dearly when I was a kid. One could be silly and giggly without being yelled at as long as we were in the presence of silly, giggly people only.

Hard workers, Michigan men loved to sit in front of their black and white TVs with a case of beer on hand. Moms were left to yell at or laugh with and love the children. It was the 1940s and 1950s after all.

More about me. I didn't like the neighborhood boys. They were rowdy and often cruel. There was a beautiful girl my age, gentle and delicate. She became my best friend in the childhood department. My preference was hanging out with the neighboring mothers.

Ma was one of two beautiful blondes on our street. Ma was the tough one. Barbara's mother was the other.

Ma owned a beautiful black stallion she named Smokie, of all things. Dressed in plaid shirts, levis, and cowgirl boots, Ma would get on top of old Smokie and go riding with the neighhood men. My brother and I each had a horse. Dad took care of the barn and the haystacks he fed with hay we gathered and loaded onto the wagon he towed with his car.

Okay. I could have left out much of the above. But I rarely visit the past because it can't be changed and there're enough current and future possibilities to drive the aging into Alzheimer's or, if Reagan hadn't done away with these rather necessary institutes, the crazy would have a place to scream until sleep stops them, laugh at nothing and irritate the hell out of anyone who is annoyed. Those and any variety of insanity are what I consider might be a welcome place to go. Just spend the day not even aware of your own behavior.

One last mention about Ma:

When my brother and I were going to elementary school, Ma would go with us to the porch. My brother and I stood on the ground, Ma on the steps. Each morning she would give us words to live by.

Before those words she wanted to be sure we were wearing T-shirts.

Not in order, I'll number some of her best instructions.

1. Never hit a girl or woman.

2. Never hit anyone wearing glasses.

3. When walking on a sidewalk, walk nearest the street if you're with a girl or woman.

4. (My favorite) Never make fun of someone whose skin is a different color than yours. People can't help how they're born.

5. Always be polite to adults, using ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’ when you speak.

6. Never use heroin.

That last one went way over our heads. It's just one of those things you learn about when you hear about the deaths caused by heroin.

I thank the gods for things Ma taught us. Instead of being outside with boys, after teaching us to read, she'd shove a book in our hands.

Dad only had one important thing to show just me. He came upstairs one day when I was little but old enough to understand. He had a book in his hand that was covered in a brown paper wrap. He opened the book to its very center, held it before me, and said, “Don’t ever forget this. “ He didn't say why nor did he explain it.

Held before my eyes was something I damned sure would never forget. Hundreds and hundreds of human beings of all ages stood naked behind barbed wire fencing. You could count every bone in their bodies. Their mouths could not close. Their eyes were a history of horror, too wide open to close. There were shabby looking buildings behind them.

Dad closed the book and went downstairs. I heard Ma angrily asking, “You showed him that book, didn't you?”

That was just one of the arguments I would lay awake waiting for one to start. It was common up and down the street; parents arguing, usually about money. One neighbor woman could be heard from the street reminding her husband loudly, “You didn't have a pot to piss in when you married me.”

Well, I'm going to end this portion of my life. There is much to add but it will be separated into separate posts as we go along. This will be the first time I've dealt with my past in detail. There won't be much dialogue. There's enough substance that qualifies my history told as it was, oral history? Not so much.

If you continued to this point, thank you for hanging in there.

Questions, complaints, compliments, but especially replies as short or long as you want to make them.