If you've been around for a while, you may recall that my sixth year on this earth, was not a very good one. I covered much of that in an earlier post. My mom made me change schools three times in first grade and my dad walked out of my life. There were several other things that happened that year as well. One of them follows.
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Saturday morning was usually the high point of my week. I loved it for two reasons; cartoons and the fact that my mom usually spent little or no time at home on the weekends. One fateful Saturday morning, while waiting for "Felix the Cat" to come on, my brother Mike and I were looking at comic books.
When it was time for me to watch "Felix", I left my brother to his comics. He was reading his favorite one, it was called "Blackhawk."
Blackhawk was a comic book about a group of hero's called "the Blackhawks." These guys spent most of their time fighting nazis, villians, and criminals. Whenever the Blackhawks attacked whomever it was that needed attacking, they let out a shrieking battle cry of, "Hawkaaaah!"
I'm sitting in the ugly and stained green chair in the living room, enjoying my Felix cartoon, when I hear my brother running out of our bedroom. He's screaming "Hawkaaah" at the top of his lungs, like he's going into battle.
Well, it wasn't much of a friggin battle. He ran up behind me and cranked me right on top of the head, with a croquet mallet. Hospital, x-rays, stitches, and a fractured skull. Needless to say, my brother and I weren't very close. We still aren't now...
