I was raised on a farm.   From the time I was nine years of age we milked cows by hand, night and morning before school, seven days a week.  We sold milk to the cheese factory in Greenwood Arkansas.  Bedtime was 8:00 pm year around.  The only time I was allowed to stay up past 8:00 pm was like the nights our FFA chapter would catch a broiler house full of chickens for forty dollars for the FFA treasury.

I was unable to play sports in school as most of the  games were in the evenings or overlapped the evening hours.  During the daytime physical exercise class, the coach would show the  soles of my feet to others, commenting how tough the soles were.  I never had a pair of tennis shoes.

In my early years, during the summers I rode in the back of a truck with others to the bean fields on the Arkansas River to pick green beans.  In the fall I dragged a cotton sack right along side the black folks.  We cut spinach on weekends in the colder weather and in the winter I ran a trap line and ate some of the catch.  Possums were good but greasy.  Racoon meat was bland.  We did not have any bar-b-que sauce back then.  My mother cooked a six foot gar one time that we could not eat.  It tasted like creosote, you know, that preservative they put on telephone poles.

As I  grew older I worked with a crew hauling hay, stacking bales in those hot, dusty barns.  My last two summers during high school I rode the  sled behind the hay baler, stacking square bales on the sled in stacks of about twenty or twenty-four bales and shoving the stack off the sled by ramming a crow bar into the soil between the middle boards and walking to the back of the sled.

In the flooded bottoms along the James Fork River, the dust was so thick at times from the dried mud from the overflowing river that I could not see the  edge of the sled.  Those old seresa bales were so heavy the strings would break as the bale dropped out the end of the baler.  On the praries, it was so hot and when the baler would break down, the only shade was up under the baler.  It was hard to breathe under there with all the heat and pollen while the boss went to town for a part.

After graduation from high school, the baler guy who had employed me, called me, saying he could not get anyone to ride the sled and that I had to come back down there and ride the sled for him.  I said no.  Now that I had an education I was going to get a good job.  I had already said I would never chase another cow or swing another bale of hay.

The James Fork River, we called it the Jim Fork, ran through our farm and would overflow the banks and flood the bottoms with the slightest rain on the head waters over in Arkansas.  Invariably the cows would be on the other side and in danger of drowning if the water got too high and pushed them up against the fence.  Cows aint good at treading water.  They had to be brought back.  I had a spot on the bank where I would jump in and swim to the other side, through the logs and trash and whatever coming down the flooded river, doing a lot of thrashing to spook the snakes.  I would come out on the other side a hundred feet or so down the river  and run the cows back over.  Then I had to swim back through that muddy mess.

After high school, I rode a bus to Tulsa where they put me to work in a bakery making doughnuts and pastries all night, and  delivering them to the outlet stores starting about two o'clock in the morning.  I had never been allowed to drive anyone's vehicle and so I had never learned to drive.  At the bakery I was asked if I could drive and I said sure.  The guy who rode with me showing me the route had several near heart attacks while I was jumping curbs, driving on the wrong side of the street and such.  He told the boss that I was busting tires on the curbs.  The boss called the service station who said there was a nail in that tire, so I was saved.  There was no traffic on the streets at that hour of the night so I lucked out there too.

Back when I was attending the tenth grade in high school, a female teacher setup the boys in our class to have an outdoor evening party about dark with girls from the seventh or eighth grade.  We were paired up with girls and did the walk in the dark thing.  We did not know what to do as it made us feel like pedophiles  They were just too young.

About that same time, during the fall of the year, nice weather, a friend came to me and told me that some boys in the senior class were going to have a party with some girls down on the Jim Fork. We lived on a hill above the Jim Fork.  Just before dark I met the  friend at the crossing and followed him another quarter mile up the creek to an area across the creek from a road and a clearing on the  other side.  We sat down to wait.  It was like sitting on bleachers as the rock was stair stepped up from the creek.  I was ready for  the show.

It was not long until we saw about four sets of headlights coming down the road on the other side of the creek and about four  couples, maybe five, got out of the cars, lit the fire and started roasting marshmallows.  Shoot, I was enjoying the party until I saw who the girls were.  With the fire I could see that the girls were from my class and the boys were older seniors.  To me this was not  right.  This was wrong.  I now figger this had been setup by the same female teacher.

The marshmallow roast did not last long at all.  Under the blankets they went and the show stopped.  What!?  I was getting more  depressed by  the minute.  My friend was excited.  He crossed the creek and crawled up the other side close to the fire and threw in a  fire cracker.  Bang!  Another firecracker.  Bang!  One of the older boys said, "You all quit that."  Another firecracker.  Bang!  You all  quit that.  We are not doing that.  Bang!  WHO IS DOING THAT!  Out from under the blankets they came, all standing, staring into  the dark directly in my direction.  They never saw my friend who was laying at their feet.  Into the cars they went and down the road they went.

Walking back out my friend was so excited he built a fire and went crazy.  I was so depressed about what I had seen I could not say anything.  The next day I was sworn to silence by the friend who told me those old boys knew someone had interrupted their sex party and they were out for blood.  I never told anyone.

This changed my relationship with the girls in my class.  To me they were like old women after that.  It really threw me for a loop.

Being number eight in a family of nine children I witnessed first hand the fighting, divorcing, and "I'll get the shotgun and shoot the  SOB" of my older siblings, so I did not entertain a view of marriage as a stable environment.  It was probably those Baptist preachers who convinced me that divorced people go to hell when they die and I sure did not want to go there.  Years later I told my wife I did not want to have children because I was afraid they might turn out to be like my brothers and sisters.  Well too, the babies that a sister left with us after marrying an old bigamist who got to her.  The babies got trench mouth from crawling on the floor where we had tracked cow manure into the house on our shoes.  That was another mess.

After high school I wandered through life for a few years, trying to avoid marriage and divorce and all that goes with that.  I could not afford college and nobody would co-sign for me.  I worked  uptown, got drafted into the army, drove a truck cross-country and so forth until I applied and was accepted by a police department.

About the second week into the police academy, I was approached by a fellow cadet who got right to inquiring about my sex life.  I told him I was seeing a girl I had met at the laundromat.  After that he continually sought me out and greeted me as the laundromat casanova.  This guy really took an interest in me.  Really pushy.

After some time out of the academy in the field, the dispatcher, ole nervous bug eyes, gave me a telephone number to call one night on the midnight shift.  I assumed it was business but it turned out to be the sister of the fellow cadet from the police academy.  She got the promise out of me to come by her house the next evening.  I drove out to a park and we sat on the swings as I was very sleepy.  She was divorced with two small children and an ex-husband.  Just the type of situation I had always tried to avoid.

After that I could not get away from her.  I made up all kind of excuses.  If I said my car was broke she would come by and pick me up.  She was on me like stink on you know what.

I was still in my probationary year with the police department and could be fired without cause.  I walked a fine line because her  father had retired from the police department and she now had three brothers as police officers and I could not afford any trouble with them.  At times I would act like an idiot and I even tried to gross her out.  No luck.

To show how gross I can be, I recall an incident where a neighbor's bull had an abscess on his neck the size of a soccer ball from being hooked by the horn of a cow we speculated.  The neighbor called the veterinarian.  The neighbors had to go to work so I waited for Doctor John and took him to the bull.  Doctor John was a huge black man and the strongest man I had ever seen.  I had previously witnessed Doctor John manhandle livestock.

Doctor John roped the big bull, walked around a tree and pulled the bull up to the tree.  He then took a knife, cut the abscess and there must have been a gallon of the pus and corruption poured out on the ground.  Doctor John said he needed to talk to my mother in case I sneaked out of the house with a pan of hot biscuits next morning to sop up this gravy.  There were red spots in the pus and corruption on the ground and I said that looked like red peppers in the gravy and that would be really good on hot biscuits.  I  thanked him for putting me on to this and continued describing the gravy.  I asked doctor John not to step in the gravy as I needed to run back to the house and get a pan to save a bunch in.  Doctor John had stopped talking and when I looked at Doctor John, he looked sick.  He looked like he was about to throw up.  I stopped.

Whenever someone tried to gross me out I grossed that person out.  I always won out until this divorcee.  I could not gross her out.   She was one-track minded.

One night she picked me up and took me to her residence where she told me that we were going to get married.  She said she could not have any more children but that I would be happy raising her children.

Where is the door?  I had already told her that she needed to go back to her husband.  I dont know where he lived but he worked not far away.

Her house was on the north side of town and my apartment was on the south side of town.  I walked while she followed me in her car all the way across town.  After that she stalked me.  I would turn around and see her.  The phone in the apartment would ring, ring,  ring.  Silence or some girl I had never heard of.  I was living with two other guys who were perturbed by the ringing and would shout at me to answer the phone.  I would tell them you answer it.  You know who it is.

On the police department there were other matchups of other single guys with divorcees with children and ex-husbands.  The place was like a re-marriage bureau for informants.  While on a fishing trip, one police supervisor extolled the virtues of a thrice married divorcee with a houseful of children and at least a couple of live ex-husbands.  Later, this angry divorcee told me that she was supposed to have gotten this one guy instead of this other divorcee with children and an ex-husband whom that divorcee was peeved at for his buying of a new pickup.  So who sold this poor guy out?

A few months later I married a girl who had never been married and had no children.

Marriage was great.  I still did not want children.  On weekends we would drive to Six Flags, Wildlife Refuge at Lawton,  Fountainhead, Arrowhead, or some place and stay in motels.  One time we stayed in a motel in the woods on the Arkansas side of Table Rock Lake.  That evening we were hungry and found a cafe back in the woods.  The cafe was closed and as we sat there pondering what to do, the owners of the cafe drove up with some of their friends.  They said they were going to cook some steaks and asked if we wanted a steak.  The steak was large and great and free.  They would not take our money. We had such a good time that peaceful weekend that we went back later but we were unable to find that cafe or the motel.  It was just some road off the main highway.

Then it started.

The fellow police officer / fellow cadet from the academy / brother of the divorcee with the two children and an ex-husband, would catch me among a group of police officers and would loudly say to me, "Come on."  "Suck my dick."  "I know you are queer."

It took a while to catch on as to why I was being propositioned by other police officers.  I started thinking the whole bunch was  queer. I was even propositioned by a fellow police officer in a tent up on the Kansas line where we were supposed to be on a deer  hunting trip.  What the hell???

I may have figured out after all these years why the patrol commander came to me one night and said "We got him", saying they had caught a police officer having homosexual sex in a police car.  It was just one of those things that I did not think about until I started this webpage.  I think now that the patrol commander must have said that in order to observe my reaction.  Looking back, all the lies spread by these brothers must have gotten to the patrol commander and undoubtedly was the reason I received bad ratings from this patrol commander.

This guy and his older brother did a real slander campaign on me.  They interfered with my job assignments, my ratings, my  associations, my family, a neighbor or two, and even drummed up complaints against me.  They were very angry with me but for a long time I know they thought they could still make me come around to being a slave if they could get me a divorce.  It was very weird.

If I believed in reincarnation, I would think he and his older brother would be reincarnated slavers from the eighteen hundreds.  How  can someone completely take over your life?  Is that not what they did to the blacks in the eighteen hundreds?  I think the definition of slavery back then was only taking twenty-five percent of a person's income.  Not his whole paycheck.

But then the divorcee did not find me.  The fellow cadet/brother of the divorcee found me.  All the time down there, years and years, he would proposition me every time I saw him.  Maybe he was in love with me.  I really started to think some of them were in love with me.

How can anyone be  angry with, and harass a person over his lifetime for simply refusing to become a slave to a woman who said we are going to get married and I cannot have any more children but you can be happy raising my children?  Especially since you had tried to avoid a situation like that for all of your life?

Some people in their clique told my wife to divorce me.  Some told me to divorce my wife and set me up with other women.  One successful divorcee informant out of the re-marriage bureau of the department told me, in my mother's house, at Christmas while I was changing the diaper on my oldest son in a bedroom, that I had to resign from the police department and leave town.  When I told her to mind her own business, she screamed in front of the whole family reunion that she could not stay in a place that allowed their son to treat her that way and she stormed out the door.  Is this not insane?

This old gal had run an unemployed brother out of my house by shaming him and upsetting my wife and had repeatedly told my wife to divorce me.  I think she is the one who started the rumor on the department that I was likely to commit suicide.  Can you believe it?  I stopped going around the whole bunch and gave my wife the ultimatum that she could see either me or them, but not both.

Some of the guys in their clique would run up to me and ask me some off-the-wall question, or more like a suggestion, and, while I was trying to figure out what it was, they would leave and take my silence as an admission, I guess.  They were frantic.  Then word would get back to me that I had said something.  These people were vicious.

I had tried to humor them all this time to avoid trouble but it got to the point that I decided that whatever they said, I would let  them believe it to be true, however, by the time they realized I might be that way, I had heard something else and I was acting in a different manner.  It was goofy.  This threw all the sycophants for a loop.  What else can you do?

We had our share of sycophants and power hungry Machiavelli followers.  I read their books when they were not there.  I played  their games with them but I did not join them.  The problem was that some in their clique, or gang, were supervisors, like their water skiing partners, and that was when I was assigned to every DOA on the evening shift and was assigned to inventory greasy engines in an auto salvage in 105 degree weather while wearing a suit.  This came across the chain of command from the older brother.  All this was in addition to my regular assignment while the sycophants were sitting around in bars and restaurants.

The sycophants, including some supervisors were more concentrated on the evening shift by choice, I guess.  I was on the evening shift due to my day classes at the university and persisted to the end even though I was told repeatedly that it would do me no good and that I should quit.

At one time I was setup to commit a burglary of vehicle with witnesses.  That was quite an elaborate scheme.  There was a loaded .45 semi automatic pistol with both safeties off pointed between my eyes.  There were shots in the dark.  I was assigned the burglary of an apartment which, unbeknownst to me, turned out to be directly across from the apartment of an officer who had just gotten fired on a dope warrant.  The apartment of the bogus burglary was vacant and when I turned around the fired officer had been staring at my back.  I guess they thought the fired officer would be mad enough to shoot me.   The tension on my steering box was loosened to the point I could not steer my vehicle.  That was a rank amateur.  Some of the stunts they pulled were so petty they were almost laughable.  It would take several pages to list all the crap I went through.

I got so many obscene phone calls at home on an unlisted telephone number that I thought the city had a real problem with obscene phone callers.  Of course everybody down at the station had a copy of the roster of everybody's telephone numbers.  It was like the queer deal.  It took me a long time to figure that one out too.

One time one of the brothers' water skiing buddies, a supervisor, cornered me and asked me what I was going to do when one of the chiefs took our guns away from us.  I replied well I guess I will work without a gun or look for another job.  This supervisor started screaming that I had just committed political suicide.  He reminded me of a banty rooster jumping up and down.

I keep remembering funny things to add to this.  Some of their outside sycophants endangered one of my sons then said I must send them five hundred dollars or else.  Else what?  We will go down to the police station and file a complaint against you.  (felony extortion)  Well, I am not about to send you any money.  They sent this crazy woman to file a complaint against me.  The head guy in Internal Affairs Division told me they could not understand what her complaint was.  I never told him about the extortion attempt.

The extortionist was a regular associate of a division commander of the police department.  This division commander later sent one of his sycophants to feel me out on the issue, I guess because I had just let it drop.  This was the second screw-around this division commander had pulled on me and the second time he had sent this same syscophant to me.

When my second son was arrested and jailed on a felony in Catoosa Oklahoma for no reason whatsoever (false arrest #2), I assumed this to be more of the harassment and insanity being pushed by the fellow police officer / fellow cadet / brother of the divorcee, and his brother, because he always said he lived in Catoosa.  When I would remind him that he lived within another city's limits, he would  say, "I live in Catoosa."  He must have spent a lot of time out there.  I am sure he fraternized with the police officers out there and bad-mouthed me to them also.  I think the older brother did live out there at the time.  They both have been listed recently as living in Catoosa now, although I am sure that the one still lives within another city's limits.

The crazy Catoosa police officer did everything he could to frame my second son for a manufactured felony crime that did not happen.  He grilled and mistreated my son.  He definitely knew that my son was in fact my son because my son informed him so under the grilling.  Professional courtesy?  What a turd.

Seven years after the attempted enslavement of me, an adult child of the older brother setup a nonsensical deal and then lied about me, making this a second generation attack.  And as my son is a second generation with me, is this a continuing long-running one-sided feud?  Are they ever going to quit?  We never did anything to these crazy people and never wanted to have anything to do with any of them.  They are mean, mean people.

Come to think of it, a few years after I was sent word to resign from the police department and get out of town, I caught a guy trying to come through my front door at 4:00 AM on a Sunday morning.  Assassin's time.  Guess where he was from.  Catoosa Oklahoma.

Even the totally ridiculous faulting of my first son (false arrest #1) for the wreck had me wondering if this highway patrolman had recognized me and  was in on the crap.  That wreck was not an accident.  It was a drunk driver on the wrong side of the road who rammed and demolished my son's car.

What a waste of good times it all was.


False Arrest and Malicious Prosecution - NUMBER ONE

False Arrest and Malicious Prosecution - NUMBER TWO