Page 16 - Gary's Book - Final Copy 7.9.2017_Active

demanded that we all massage his leg with cocoa butter. We had to do it repeatedly
– more than once a day while he lay on the couch.

Dad was big and strong. When I was young and just the skinny runt of the litter, he
would hit me alongside my head by my ear. Often, he would lift me up and throw
me across the room. Literally, he’d throw me – yes, throw me! I’d actually go
airborne! He didn’t have to have a reason; he didn’t need a reason. Just if I were in
the area, he’d slug me. If he was home, and he decided someone was to get a

beating, he or she got a beating. Any of us - all of us! Nancy would get it! Betty
would get it! Doug – it didn’t matter. Suzanne would get it sometimes but more
infrequently because she was not there most of the time.

In the basement, Dad had built a wooden insulated target for practice shooting of
his service revolver. It was about 4 x 5 feet wide – 2 x 6 inch boards, 4 boards
thick - mounted on the wall with a bullseye paper target. When he would get done
with one paper target, he’d remove it and put up another one. Yes, he shot at the

bullseye - in the house – in the basement! He saw nothing wrong with it; neither
did we. He was an expert in shooting many kinds of firearms - rifles and pistols.
Today I have a case with many of his expert medals and ribbons.

During his final years with the police force, Dad became a plain clothes cop
because of multiple injuries caused from his motorcycle accident. We lived in the
south section of St. Louis, which was primarily a German immigrant
neighborhood. Neighbors would often take their beer pails to a local tavern for

“take home” tap beer. Many times, when disturbances broke out in the
neighborhood, even if Dad was off duty, they would call him in to assist, and they
would come pick him up in a patrol car. He enjoyed a fight and always bragged
that he had only lost a few in his lifetime. Those were when he was on the boxing
team in the Army and then a few during his police assignments. He said that he

would never turn on his police car’s lights or siren because he always wanted to
sneak up on the S.O.B.’s and beat the living crap out of them.

On one cold night in January, he got a call; he was needed to help clean up a tavern
brawl down the street. He went in the rear door and was hit with a chair across his
left shoulder and arm. This caused a very large and quite severe bruise, which
turned purple and later yellow. About six weeks later, he came home from work
one afternoon very tired. That evening, after dinner, he went upstairs to bed.

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