The Lovely Chocolate Mob

The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett



Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following for their contributions: First of all, to John Belken, Arkansas Parole Board member, who read the rough draft and made suggestions concerning the Law & Order aspect. Second, to Stephen Bennett (my brother), a civil engineer, who read portions of the book and made suggestions in that area. To J. Caleb Clark, who provided the beautiful artwork for the front and back covers, to David Couric, who proofread and edited the final product, to Hampton Keathley, who formatted the book for both the printed and electronic versions, and finally, to Walter Harvey, author of “III”, who showed me that writing could be fun, and didn’t have to be all research.





End of an Era

Cornelius Lovely had breathed his last. Surrounding him at the transition from this life to the next were his personal physician, Dr. Franklin Burke; his granddaughter, Susan Lovely; and his Minister, the Reverend Christopher Cone; plus his personal staff, which included his butler and chauffeur. Cornelius Lovely had made his peace with God many years earlier, but having a clergyman near in his final days brought him comfort. Most of his family were dead or scattered, except for his granddaughter, Susan, who was the likely candidate to inherit his earthly fortune. If she were the sole heir, she stood to inherit all the family estate, properties, and much of the Lovely chocolate industry.

Mr. Lovely had spent most of his final days at his mansion on the grounds of the chocolate factory, but on this last day, he was brought to the hospital for treatment after he’d fallen into a coma. His butler and chauffeur thought he might come around, given the chance to be near the most modern of medical equipment. He had rallied before, and lived a much longer life than most, but this time he didn’t make it.

Cornelius had been a hard-working businessman who knew and loved chocolate. Strangely enough, he had been rail thin all his life, and at six-foot four had towered above his co-workers, employees, secretaries, truck drivers, factory workers, and board of directors. They all owed him their occupation, as did many in the town of Lovely, in one fashion or another.

Being thin, he didn’t appear as though he enjoyed chocolate, but he did, testing his products as many as three times a day. Exercise and hard work kept the extra weight off. Plus, he just didn’t eat it at every opportunity; he had will power, more than the average citizen of Lovely. To him, chocolate was a means to support oneself and to build a business; to others, chocolate was life itself.

This would be the main feature on the local news channels and in the city papers: the founding father had died. The city of Lovely had lost its biggest employer, benefactor, guide, director, heart, and soul. The mayor would soon call a day of mourning. Churches and private school children would offer up prayers; civic meetings and public school children would observe a moment of silence, although there were those among them who would also pray for Cornelius Lovely. Lights would go out at the hospital in observation of the passing of the founding father, the man who donated land for the hospital as well as the elementary, junior and senior high schools. The Lovely Children’s Home he sponsored would close its administration office for a day.

The Lovely Chocolate Factory, however, would keep making chocolate around the clock, with no slowing of production, as per his instructions; he wanted it that way. In fact, “Chocolates around the Clock” was a slogan at the Lovely Chocolate Factory, and had been used in their advertising in years past. Digital clocks were not allowed on the factory grounds, in the administrative offices, and on the workroom floors; any use of a digital watch was frowned upon.

Mr. Lovely saw the creation of chocolate as a duty and a means of spreading happiness to his customers. When making a good product for the buyer, a need is met, and the world is made a better place.

Needless to say, the town of Lovely was thrown into darkness. Within an hour most of the population knew of the passing of Mr. Lovely, or “Old Man Lovely,” as he was called with great respect and admiration.

With his passing, his granddaughter, Susan, gave permission for his body to be moved to the funeral home and was helped through this process by the family physician, Franklin Burke. Afterward, he escorted Miss Lovely out of the hospital and to her car in the parking lot, since his duties were mostly over for the day, and also since it was night, and it wouldn’t do for a pretty woman to be by herself in a parking lot, even though it was well-lit and watched by security cameras.





Mentally Healthy

My name is Randall Owen. I’m 50 years old and have never been one who you would call extremely happy. Happiness and excitement are what I would have welcomed in life, but somehow I’ve never been able to get or keep a grip on them. Contentment, as well, has eluded me; it’s always been around the bend, out of reach, and in the future. As a result, I’ve grown older feeling I’ve missed my “place,” my calling, and haven’t been able to carve out much of a niche in society. I suppose this isn’t really a tragedy, since this seems to be a common malady in our culture. And yet, since I expect others to rise above their culture, I’d also like to rise above mine.

No one has been helped by me except for my immediate family, which is good enough, I suppose, but it doesn’t live up to the glamorous expectations I had as a younger man. There’s not much of a life here, at least not like Ross Perot; now there’s a life! Rich, powerful, driven, he even made a run for president. He doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to; I’ll bet he even pays someone to put his shoes on in the morning, and then pays them extra to tie his shoestrings.

Maybe I’m being too self-absorbed, but hey I’m 50 years old and looking at life from the perspective that it’s all downhill from here. Since the prospect of depression scares me, I decided to have myself assessed, and to seek out professional help.

Now I didn’t want for people to think that I was a “case,” or nutty, or even weak, but I had come to the conclusion that it’s not weak to say one needs help. This can be compared to the man who decides he’s been too proud to ask directions, and finally winds up at the gas station. If he’s going to get anywhere, he ought to ask somebody who knows the area, like his wife would want him to.

So this is what I did, I made an appointment with a local mental health counselor. I didn’t want to shell out the big bucks to pay for a full-fledged doctor or psychiatrist. I’m was paid well on the job, but not that well. Besides, I had other bills to pay, and this seemed to be an almost frivolous spending item, but again, now that I’m at the half-century mark, I could use a course correction.

After arriving at the medical center, a few blocks from the hospital in downtown Lovely, I spent time just looking at it from the front steps. This building was mostly doctor offices, separate from the patients and equipment at the hospital; the health professionals felt more in control here, more relaxed. I had an appointment in 15 minutes and was trying to talk myself out of it. It’s been embarrassing; it was embarrassing to make the appointment with the secretary, and that was over the telephone.

I did ask around beforehand, and heard about a friendly mental health counselor who had a good reputation among those who had sought out a life “course-correction.” The counselor was female, age 45, educated, pretty, and single, now. Her name was Karen Planter. Rumor said she married young, had kids early, but her husband turned out to be a boy who never grew up, drank excessively, didn’t amount to much, and liked girlfriends. They divorced after six years and three kids; Karen reverted to her maiden name, and Miss Planter had worked odd jobs and long hours to support her kids. She came to the conclusion that the only way she was going to further her situation in life would be through education. Her marital experience had matured her two decades in six years, so school came easier for her than before. She had managed to become a mental health counselor after a few years’ study, and word had it she was working on her doctorate in psychology. During the day she practiced in the medical center, the building I was then entering. I had learned much of this from church acquaintances, friends, relatives, and through the internet.

This internet was a great new invention; if you wanted to know something about somebody, you just typed their name and information poured out. I have wondered how much somebody knew about me by looking on the internet, but then, since I’m not a very exciting subject, nobody would really want to read much about me. I guess I slept easier knowing this.

In the elevator my stomach began to act up and get butterflies, but I couldn’t back out, not when I was already there. “I’m a man!” I thought. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing! If counseling helps, then it’s not a waste of money.” I exited the elevator and walked down the hall to a glass office door marked “Mental Health Counseling,” and saw a young secretary typing at a desktop computer, with the nameplate “Phyllis Rozzell” sitting beside a bowl of candy. Candy was everywhere in this city.

I waved at the pretty girl, and pushed the door open. “Hello, Mr. Owen?” she asked. She was a charming little thing, and I felt silly, even with my butterflies turning. “Yes, ma’am, that’s me,” I replied. “I’m here for my one o’clock appointment.” She smiled and handed me a clipboard with a pen and some forms attached, something I was supposed to fill out before the “Doctor” saw me. I hoped this wouldn’t take too long. I realized I was holding in my stomach for her sake; what was wrong with me? She was just a little girl; why did I feel the need to impress her? To her, I probably looked like somebody’s confused grandfather.

I walked over to the couch and sat. There was only one couch in this waiting room, along with about ten metal chairs with cushions, a television (which was turned off at that moment, thank goodness), a few lamps, magazines, books, but no coffee table; I guess the room was full enough without a shin-banger. A bare-minimum waiting room, and I was the only person filling it. There were three other mental health counselor offices besides Miss Planter’s, or Ms. Planter’s, or whatever she preferred to be called. They must have still been out for lunch; maybe they staggered their lunches, so somebody would be there all the time during the workday. Not being a very big waiting room, perhaps this had been some other type of doctor’s office before. That’s O.K., seeing how Miss Planter really wasn’t a full-fledged doctor, at least not yet. A professional had to start somewhere.

I began filling out the questionnaire, much of it on my health, weight, height, mental state, and insurance. I tried to be objective here. I was fatter than I’d like to be, grayer, and slower than I used to be. The world used to be filled with old people, but was quickly filling with younger types, kids who couldn’t dress right, talk right, and act right. What was wrong with this country? But this little secretary, Phyllis, put them all to shame. She’ll be married in a year, if she’s not already. I hated being 50, but who was I kidding? She’s 30 years younger than me, and already out of my league, a classy little girl. With her good looks and health, she could be a model if she wanted, but she’s working now and in a health-related job so she must have brains as well.

The forms were boring. I was writing about myself, so maybe I had a boring life. I hoped the wait wouldn’t be too much longer.

After about 15 minutes, “Ms.” Planter came through her office door. I still debated whether she’d like “Ms”; “Mrs.” was out, and I didn’t know if she’d liked being a “Miss” or a “Ms.” since she’s not a “Dr.” yet. I supposed it was safer to be politically correct than to insult your shrink. And hey, she was really a pretty lady at 45! (prettier than her portrait on the internet). Nice clothes as well, and in a dress, not a pantsuit, she glided across the waiting room to greet me. I sat there, stunned, because I wasn’t used to pretty women looking in my direction, and there she was, in my personal space with her hand extended in greeting before I even thought of standing up. What was wrong with me? “Get up! Get up!” I said to myself.

I stood up slowly and took her hand. “Good to meet you, Ms. Planter. I’ve heard you’re a good listener.” She smiled and said, “Won’t you step into my office?” I nodded and started to follow her back into her working area, but handed Phyllis my forms before I forgot. Two pretty girls in one day; I hoped I didn’t say something too stupid. That usually tends to turn girls off, and I needed these girls to be “on.” But since I was paying them, they’d probably give me their attention, as long as the money lasted, anyhow.

I stepped into Miss Planter’s office, and found it to be a bare-bones set-up also. There was a desk, a chair, a couch (I suppose that’s standard mental furniture), a few pictures of family and children, two degrees, and professional licenses framed on the wall. There was also another door to the office, probably an escape for patients who would rather take the back exit than walk through the waiting area again. A box of tissues sat on the desk, but I didn’t plan on doing any crying here. I had an agenda.

“How can I help you, Mr. Owen?” she asked. I paused for a moment, and said, “I think I’m supposed to tell you about myself, and you’re supposed to give me feedback; isn’t that how this works?”

“Well, yes,” Miss Planter replied. “But what I was really trying to get at was, what problem or problems are you concerned with? What problem would make you pick up a phone and call a complete stranger for help? That’s what I should have asked.”

I sat down in the chair in front of her desk, and, after a moment of stalling, said, “I think that I’m not a very happy man, Miss Planter. I think that I would like to try to remedy that.” I hoped she didn’t take offense at me calling her “Miss.” I looked at her for a little while, and she didn’t seem upset. She might like it; maybe it made her feel younger.

Miss Planter thought for a second, and asked, “Is there anything that’s making you unhappy? Have you gone through any life changes recently? A divorce, a death in the family, loss of funds, property, or job?” She looked to be a hard person to read, neither smiling nor frowning; she made with a good poker face.

“No, nothing like that,” I remarked. “I work a lot. I suppose you could say I’m married to my job. I have a little bit of money, and my job is fairly stable. I’m in financially better shape than most people in my neighborhood, or kids I grew up with, anyhow.”

At this moment I was able to read her, because she looked a little puzzled. “Well, as you know,” she said, “we will have five sessions as a minimum, and I thought if we could pinpoint the problem at the beginning, that this might give us a little more time to work on a possible solution. On the other hand, if we have to talk and discuss, which really amounts to digging through your life story, this might mean more sessions, which could prove to be more expensive. I’m not trying to be rid of you, Mr. Owen; I just wanted you to be aware of the costs, so you wouldn’t run into any financial hardships.”

I smiled and said, “Thanks for your concern, Miss Planter, but I have a little money set aside. I have been thinking about this for a long time, and I’ve prepared myself in this area adequately.”

Miss Planter, although she did not readily show it, seemed relieved. Now that the finances had been settled, and she had warned me that this could be expensive, she was cleared to go to work with no hurried schedule, at least not with me. Also, if I did drag these sessions out and put myself in a financial bind, she had told me, and had given me fair warning.

She picked up a pen and a clipboard with another form from her desk, leaned back in her chair, and said, “Shall we get started?”





Early Years

Miss Karen Planter was the type of lady who wanted to start from the beginning, who wanted to know about my family, parents, siblings, surroundings, my growing up years. I paused and looked ashamed, saying, “Well, I don’t go around telling many people this but…” and looked to Miss Planter, who leaned forward to hear better, so I whispered, “I come from a two-parent home,” and waited, then grinned when she got the joke. She smiled and leaned back into her chair. “Funny, Mr. Owen. What were your parents like?”

“This might seem almost unusual,” I said, “but I had parents who loved each other, a working father and a stay-at-home mother, who made sure we kids didn’t get into too much trouble. That wasn’t rare when I was younger, but these days it might be uncommon.”

“What did your father do for a living?” Miss Planter asked, obviously wanting to know something about our socio-economic situation. “How did he support the family in a one-paycheck home?”

“Dad was an electrician,” I said with a bit of pride, “and a very good one, too; at least, he was always in demand. He wired houses and businesses, in both new and old homes, and was hardly ever without work. As a result, we were kept financially sound and comfortable. We weren’t rich, but on the other hand, we never missed a meal.”

“Can you describe your home? I mean, the size of your house?” she inquired.

These questions were easy. “Yes, I can. It was a one story, two-bedroom, pier and beam home, and at $12,000 a bit pricey for a house that size in its day. I think the reason it cost more than other homes on the block was because it was the ‘show house.’” Miss Planter looked puzzled, so I explained. “A ‘show house’ is the house the realtors use to display the homes in a new neighborhood to prospective buyers. They would bring buyers to a ‘show house’ to give them a good idea of the layouts of all the houses in the neighborhood. All the houses in the area had the same amount of square feet, the same sized bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms, etc.” Miss Planter nodded. Smart woman, she caught on quick. “Anyhow, our house had one and one half bathrooms, and it was maybe 1000 square feet, total. A one-story, with a front and back yard, it was a little more than a ‘starter’ home. A drainage ditch ran behind our backyard. When more siblings came into the family, Dad built onto the house, with two more bedrooms in the garage. We brothers had to share a lot, and later the biggest bedroom went to the oldest. When we grew up and began to leave home, one by one, there was more room for the rest.”

“Did your mother ever work?” Miss Planter asked. Women seemed interested in what other women did; I supposed that was normal.

“Yes,” I said. She worked before she met and married Dad, and then for a few years before the babies started arriving. This gave Mom and Dad a little breathing room, I think, to lay a financial foundation, so as to buy a home. That seemed to be what people did back then.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Planter asked. Maybe I had talked too much, and now was being asked to clarify my opinion.

“Back when I was a kid, parents got married and, for the most part, stayed married, and worked and saved so as to prepare a little nest, so the kids would have a place to stay. At least that’s how it was in our home. I know it didn’t happen everywhere, but that seemed to be the norm among the neighbors when I was growing up.”

Maybe I talked too much. Perhaps I’d better wait until she asked me questions before I freely gave any views. I hoped she didn’t think that I was sounding arrogant. I knew I could sound inappropriate to others at times with my opinions; on the other hand, I was paying for this.

“How many brothers and sisters did you have while growing up?” Miss Planter asked.

“I had two brothers and one sister. We had a big family but not a huge one. We weren’t rich, even though Dad worked continuously. We had all we needed, but not everything we wanted, which was probably a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t perfect; we were far from perfect. We had our miscommunications and misunderstandings, but overall, Mom and Dad did a good job raising us; they tried. Any time one of us screwed up it was because we deviated from the path that our folks had set or hoped for us. What was most important, I think, was the fact that they loved each other.”

I looked up in time to catch Miss Planter peering directly into my eyes as I finished speaking. She averted her gaze and went back to her writing. It was as though she had this “I don’t believe what I’m hearing” look on her face. She wrote a little on her clipboard, and said, “I see. Sounds to me like you had a stable home life. Did you know your place in the home?”

This question puzzled me. “My place? What do you mean?”

She said, “I mean, did you feel welcome at home; were you comfortable where you were; did you fare well as a child?”

I paused again here. “I guess you could say I fared well. I’m not really sure at times. I knew what my role was, which was to keep out of trouble and to find something productive to do, or else Mom would tell Dad that I wasn’t living up to my potential. If I didn’t do my chores, that would be a sure sign to Mom that I was a child in need of correction.”

Miss Planter wrote some more, and then asked, “What type of chores did you have in your family, Mr. Owen?”

“Let’s see,” I began, “there were different chores at different stages in growing up. For example, as a small child, I was expected to help Mom in the kitchen. This was really a means of Mom keeping an eye on me; I really wasn’t much of a help at all. I’d sometimes get a wash cloth and clean the dining room table and chairs, sweep the kitchen floor, and, if Mom handled the water, mop the floor, but that was only if she let me. At other times, I’d help to wash the dishes, but I think I only got in the way; Mom was the real worker when I was a toddler. Later I’d be following Daddy around on Saturdays, whenever he didn’t work. We all did that; I learned how to mow the yard by age 10, and soon found this was a trap, because after that it was an expected chore from then on. But it was something I could accomplish rather well, so I didn’t mind doing it, not too much, anyhow.”

“You didn’t mind helping out the family, as a child, then?” asked Miss Planter.

“No, not at all,” I replied. “Keeping the home running didn’t all fall on our young shoulders. Most of it went to our parents. The older we got, the more work we took on, but we were never overwhelmed.”

“What did you do for fun?” asked Miss Planter.

“I was always looking for something for fun, but mostly I read comic books and watched TV”

Miss Planter looked at me, as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle.

“Not very typical, I know,” I said. “Guess I was kind of a pre-nerd growing up. Sports wasn’t my thing; television and entertainment was. And our television was black and white, with an antenna on top of the set to catch the two major stations in the area. Lovely wasn’t a very big town then, and this was before UHF came along.” Miss Planter looked puzzled again, so I explained, “UHF stood for Ultra-High Frequency, a cheaper brand of television station. We didn’t even know the UHF stations existed until one day we got to playing around with dials on the TV and found them, but the reception wasn’t very good, although at night they did okay. They offered more entertainment, or more cartoons.”

Miss Planter was becoming easier to read, because she looked at me as though I had a hole in my head. So I gave her more information to ponder: “But my real interest was westerns.”

“Why westerns, Mr. Owen?” she asked.

“Westerns were morality plays with quick solutions. There were heroes and bad guys, with nothing in-between. You knew who the good guys were and who the bad fellers were. You had an idea who was going to get killed and who was going to get winged in a shoot-out. The good guy always won, because it was his series and he had to live to have another show the next week.” Miss Planter was tuned in, so I included more to interest her. “Oh yeah, there were girls on the shows, too. The good girl always got the good guy.”

That remark made Miss Planter smile. “What happened to the bad girl, Mr. Owen?” I suppose she said that to tease me a bit.

“Well, since shooting girls was against the code of the west, they usually boarded a stagecoach at the end of the show and rode off into the sunset, or back east where all the bad people came from.”

“Did you have a favorite Western?” she quizzed, probably trying to find out what type of hero I favored.

“Yes, I had several, but the one I liked best was “The Rifleman.”

“Why was that, Mr. Owen?” she said, not looking up from her scribbling.

“Because the Rifleman was a show about a father and a son who moved to a small town to start a ranch; it was them against the world. Every now and then the father would have to ride into town to help the sheriff shoot bad guys with his rifle, but that was about 10 minutes into the show, so you got to see plenty of family interaction. Lucas was the good father and Mark was the good son. And the music, oh, the music! Are you familiar with the music, Miss Planter?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m not.” She paused and looked up, re-grouping for her next set of questions. I thought she was reading from a list on the clipboard. “Did you get along well with your siblings?” she asked, getting back to the family. I had to think about that for a short while, this being a never-considered-before issue. “Yes, we got along. We were different. We didn’t all develop the same in the same areas, but overall we cared about each other. We had our fights and disagreements, but hopefully by now we’ve grown out of that.” I chuckled when I said that. Miss Planter did not.

“How did you perform in school?” she asked.

“I was interested in learning as long as a subject held my attention, but later when I figured out that the teacher or teachers had ‘favorites,’ I kind of lost interest. I did okay in some early school classes, and not okay in others. It depended on how well the teacher and I got along; if I liked her, I did great; if I didn’t, I didn’t. I shouldn’t have let any teachers’ feelings toward me interfere with my learning, but I was a child.”

“Did you have a favorite teacher, Mr. Owen?” she asked, looking up to see my reaction.

“Yes, I did. My third-grade teacher was a young lady named Miss Plummer, and she never spanked me. That’s how I knew she liked me. I once made straight A’s in her class, which for me was almost miraculous. She was looking right at me when I opened that report card, and I could see her smiling when I discovered my fortune for that six weeks. She was so nice to me.”

“Did things stay good for you in early education?” Miss Planter continued.

“No, the next year I got stuck with some lady who didn’t want to be teaching but had to in order to get her husband through medical school; I made my first ‘D’ that year.”

“Do you blame her for that ‘D’?” she asked.

“I blame her for not liking me; I don’t think she went out of her way to help me learn anything, plus, if you were a teacher and you didn’t like a kid, would you grade him higher?” Miss Planter looked stumped for a moment, then said, “I’m not so sure I’d like being a teacher, either, if I didn’t have to be.”

I replied, “Well, you don’t have to! But she thought she did, and felt trapped. I think she took some of it out on us kids. I had to take that ‘D’ home to show my parents.”

“Are your parents still living?” she asked. This question stung, but I tried not to show it.

“No,” I replied. Dad died about 20 years ago, Mom departed about 15 years later. I’m the only one left at home.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Your parents sounded like good people; I’d like to have met them,” she said.

“Thanks. Yes, they were good people. They were good parents.”

Miss Planter took time writing her answers down, then asked, “Do you have any special memories about growing up? Anything that stands out of the ordinary?”

I didn’t have to think about this. “Yes, what I remember and cherish best are the vacations we took. Actually, we didn’t take a regular vacation or holiday; the meaning of a vacation is to get away, but on ours, we had a purpose, which was to visit our relatives, our grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins. Twice a year we’d pack up the car and drive north to visit our grandparents, and in actuality, this was also a trip into the past.”

“What do you mean?” said Miss Planter, writing quickly now.

“Our grandparents were all born in the late 1800s, and they had a way and manner about them that was different from the modern 1960-type of person I was used to. They had been born before the turn of the 20th century, and were married before World War I. They were too old for World War II, and my Dad and uncles all joined the military during that time. Realize that they lived in the country away from the big cities; they had grown up without electricity, no indoor plumbing, no radio, television, phones, appliances, and no Social Security. I got to see and visit with people who were used to ‘making do’ with what they had, and never seemed to be in a rush.”

“That is like stepping into another world,” said Miss Planter. She was getting involved in my story; now I knew she was really listening. She shook her head. “Excuse me for interrupting, please continue.”

“You didn’t interrupt me, Miss Planter,” I said. “Jump in anytime you feel like; I like feedback.”

“That seems to be quite a special memory,” remarked Miss Planter, returning to her professional mode.

“The grandparents were quite old when I knew them; they all passed away when I was a teenager. Even now, thirty-plus years later, I still miss them. I feel I know them better now than I did when I was a kid, because I got Mom and Dad to tell me stories about them.”

“At least you got to know your grandparents,” said Miss Planter, giving me a glimpse into her life. That almost seemed to be a wistful remark.

After a few moments, Miss Planter said, “Well, you seem to have had a good relationship with your folks and relatives. No major issues here, hopefully. Why don’t we move to the people in your immediate neighborhood. I assume you had friends, didn’t you? Why don’t you tell me about them?”

This question was like turning on a spigot of water. “Yes, I had friends growing up. They were almost like extra brothers and sisters. In fact, during the early sixties, we lived in a neighborhood where there were at least 40 children in the immediate vicinity. If we ever got bored, all we had to do was to step outside into the front yard, and there was always something going on with the children. It was a great neighborhood. And this was before the pill took hold, so there were lots of kids around to play with. Family was still the main means of raising and taking care of children. They weren’t all perfect; we weren’t all perfect, but they still existed.”

Miss Planter’s eyes flashed here. “Tell me about your neighborhood. I’d like to hear some stories concerning the children you grew up with.”

“Miss Planter, you’ve just struck oil; I can tell you stories that I’ve carried with me for years.”

“Good, I’d like to hear some of them.”

Miss Planter looked at the clock on the wall, and said, “You’ll have to save that for next time, Mr. Owen. I’ve got another patient to see in five minutes.”