Head of Iron
(Summer of 1967)
The human skull is well built to withstand an adsorbent amount of violence-even though body muscles can be developed into near iron like toughness. But this alone will not explain the strange and incredible mortal happening that took place on Indians Mound in, St. Paul, the summer of 1967.
We know-often, perhaps too often, ordinary men are killed by comparatively light blows to the head, or knockouts; or knocked out senseless as the expression goes. That is to say, landing a blow in the right place at the right time, with the right hardness and force, can be fatal.
In passing, let me compare these facts I just mentioned explicitly with the person in question, the person I'm going to tell you about.
M.L., undoubtedly he was not the greatest fighter in the neighborhood where Chick Evens lived, but he was different from all those Evens had ever fought. He had two assets: he had durability and one hard skull.
M.L., and Evens were about the same height and weight, but without a doubt Evens being the better and stronger fighter. Who at one time finished a fight with two opponents with one blow each, and twice after those accounts, two other fights with a combination of blows with equal fighters; now then, look: it doesn't explain the chilled iron like hardness of M.L.s' skull.
M.L., was found raping a friend of Evens, by the name of Sandy, in the foliage on Indians Mound, while he and others were at bonfire nearby. Evens hearing the screams of "Rape!" went to investigate. And low and behold, there was M.L., doing just that, "Fuck off, Evens!" he said; Evens asking him to stop three times, and three times being told the same old jargon. Not realizing he had a beer bottle in his hand he struck M.L., three times across the skull, Sandy moved out of her position, from under him, with horror: "Stop the fight, Evens!" she pleaded, getting sick by the havoc, although happy to be out of her predicament.
M.L., simply said, well not simply, but furiously insisting, without a quiver of guilt for what he was doing, or for that matter, lightly phased by the three iron-like blows: "You didn't have to use that much force, Evens!"
#926 (June, 18, 2012)
The Strap
(109 East Arch Street, St. Paul, MN, 1955-56)
I knew the sound of the strap, the sound of Grandpa's belt, the one he used to sharpen his straight razor with. If you were hit with it, I mean really hit with it over the derriere you'd feel the pain.
The strap made a high whistling sound; it even reeked, like a leather whip. It was made out of dark stained cowhide; it was long and thin and two inches wide, a high whistling sound came from it-woops, I already said that, but you see it has still stuck in my mind like white on rice.
To think of it on my cold derriere, the chill of it on its threat to use it quieted me, no longer thinking strong thoughts, but gentle ones.
My brother would laugh when I got the strap, but to me there was nothing to laugh at in it. I mean, I had to let down my trousers like taking a bath when you undress. Mother only used it once or twice on me, that I can recall, she'd say in her latter years she never did use it at all, but I think my memory at eight or night years old was better at forty than hers at seventy. I don't blame her, never have, I could be annoying at times I suppose. And although I remember with cold-fright this high whistling sound of the strip, it was a quick way of learning a lesson.
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