What was it like to grow up on the fringes of our modern society? Life in the Fringes presents a collection of short stories and poetry that marks the transition from the innocence of childhood to the understanding of adult life. It examines the situations a child experiences as life takes its twists and turns. Author David de Tremaudan uses autobiographical storytelling that combines old oral traditions with a personal, modern perspective. Each short story offers tale of de Tremaudan's life, described from his unique perspective. It explores the personal view of a child maturing towards adulthood and his growing awareness of the values, morals, and beliefs that frame his life. Evil We look for evil apart from man Someone to personify But, the true face of evil With humankind does lie Evil is not an entity That to Satan gives a face But the truth is in the lot of us The total human race We travel the world to seek our fates For our selves and truth we search And in our search we see the ways That evil will besmirch When Rome took the world renown And its legions where conquering all Ask a Roman citizen then If it was wrong to conquer Gaul

Life In The Fringes

By David de Tremaudan

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2011 David de Tremaudan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-6021-5

Contents

Introduction......................................11. Memories.......................................52. The Fringes....................................93. Life In The Fringes............................174. More Fringe Life...............................255. Chop-Chop......................................296. Fringe Development.............................397. Right Of Passage...............................498. Growth In The Fringes..........................599. The Fringes To An Outsider.....................6510. Test By Fire..................................7711. Night.........................................9312. The Rider.....................................9513. Horse.........................................9814. The story of Dog..............................10015. Evil..........................................10416. The Specter: Death............................10717. The Drum......................................10918. Life's Path...................................11119. Life's Storm..................................11220. Waves And Time................................11521. Did you ever wonder...........................11722. Lefty.........................................11923. A Tale of Nevermore...........................124

Chapter One

Memories

The best way to begin this thing is to go back to my earliest memory of note. There are other memories, but not as cohesive and certainly not so significant as this. I have put this one off as a part of my life that others may find as unbelievable and I do want this to be a believable work of nonfiction. At the time there was no real way to measure what my life was, as I had no real yardstick with which to scale it. What I did know was that I had rheumatic fever, I was in a hospital, my roommate was a small boy with horrible burns on his legs, and when I stood at the end of my bed, my chin would come to the top of the end board. I could look out the window at that point and see the dairy down below. I would watch every morning as the white horses were hooked to the wagons and then they would leave every morning on their appointment with whatever destiny that awaited them. I could not fathom too much more than this, because I wasn't tall enough to see more from my window. It 1954 and was I was only 18 months old.

It's kind of hard to say just when it was that I started to remember, but the closest that I can equate it too is waking up and being awake ever since. All of the other memories that come before that, although clear, seem more like lucid dreams. Visiting my grandparents place, playing with my older cousins and brothers, watching my Grandfather working around the barn doing various chores that seemed needing to be done and most of this from my mothers' knee with the surreal affectation of a dream. The morning I woke up in that hospital, there were no more dreams of that nature and I've been cognizant of my surroundings since. At that time I can honestly say that the world around me, which was very small, fascinated me and held my fascination to this day. Naturally, it never remained very small, my little world turned into an ever-expanding universe, and that was just fine by me. When I look back on this time and my fascination with life and its works, a quote of a famous writer and philosopher comes to mind, "Man, armed with his senses sets out to explore the universe and calls the adventure science". I don't know if what I did could be construed as empirical study, but it certainly has been an adventure. But before I digress into witless semantics and ramblings, back to what the story was about.

The last of the milk wagons had just pulled out toward whatever appointments they were to meet and I knew that the lady in white would be back with a trolley loaded with little cups containing all kinds of coloured and odd shaped things. They mostly tasted bad if you tried to chew them. You would take them one by one, pop them into your mouth, and wash them down with a bit of juice. The woman in the white dress, the nurse I guess, would babble at you saying things in baby talk that did little more than embarrass me for her. She would make the most ridiculous faces that one could imagine while she was trying to get you to swallow whatever it was that she was trying to get you to swallow. In retrospect, this was always what I appreciated most about my folks. They always treated you as if you owned a brain. This was not something that most other adults would give kids credit for, so most speak to kids as though their mentally challenged adults. Someone should have told the nurse that we were born with brains, but I guess that wasn't part of her training.

The horses were gone for the day, the nurses had made their rounds, and there was nothing left to do but wait. During these times I would retreat into a world that seemed to have been created for me where I could go to a place that resembled my Grandfathers home. It was a warm place of sunlight and farm animals with sights sounds and smells to go with them. It was a wonderful place and was far away from the nurses, cribs, and sterile smells that went with this place. I went there as often as time would allow. When someone spoke to me, I would come to the world without so much as blink. While I was there, this surrealistic world blend itself into the sterile surroundings with a smooth folding that would go seemingly unnoticed by the rest of the world. The one time that it did not come was like one of the days that were left back in memory. I was put in a diaper. This was not a happy time for me. I never in my memories ever wore a diaper. I did not care for these ladies in white. They were always so much superior to you. I didn't feel like a patient, I felt like an inmate. This last characterization I would not afford an equivalent to until I started working in a correctional facility in 1987. It wasn't as sterile, it wasn't as lonely, but it was segregated. The difference was that I had my window to the dairy and my world built on the counterpane of my bed. I remember first reading the poem, "The Land of Counterpane", and felt it like it was a window to the magic world that attended me in that hospital.

But there were times ... times that I could not go to that world of warmth and comfort. The boy in the next bed would receive treatment for his burns. This little boy would lie quietly and wait for it to begin, so would I. The ladies in white and a man in a long white coat would come into the room and position themselves around this boys bed. There would be a trolley like the one with the containers of the many coloured awful tasting objects would come on. This was not laden with foul tasting things. Instead it bore implements that would make the boy scream during their application. I would never say anything about this, but I grew to have a natural distrust of anyone dressed in white. After it was over and everyone had withdrawn, the young boy would climb down from his bed and come to play with the toys in my crib. I would let no one touch these things or disturb my land of counterpane except him. I could not even limit what he would play with. Anything that he wanted was just fine with me. I have never seen this boy since, but I remember him as though it was yesterday. That was over 50 years ago. To this day I wonder if it was his trial that triggered and held my cognizance. I remember the dark hair, the deep eyes that seemed to hold the knowledge of horror. Most of all I remember his smile as he would retreat to his bed with the treasure that he had just borrowed from my fictitious realm. Even to this day it pleases me to think that I gave him just a little peace. At the time, he didn't seem to have much of that.

Chapter Two

THE FRINGES

It seems to me to be millennia away, but at the same time it is ingrained in my blood to the depth of my very DNA. To a person that has no understanding to what the fringes are or has taken the time to read the cursory definition in the introduction, then I will try to put it into a context that will give it life.

The day started like every other day in history or before for that matter. The special part of today was that it was Saturday. It was a day of rest for every one that is except a precious few that were on a mission. On the edge of town, in the back yard of one of the constituents, there was a small band busy in what seemed to be an endeavour that would justify its industry. The band was a group of young boys busily pounding nails into boards and parts of a playhouse that was erected in their back yard. As happens with so many people of this age, the work was becoming more work like and less play like to start causing a loss of interest in the plan at hand.

"Why are we doing this?" Was an inquiry from one young fellow.

"Just in case." Was the uncommitted answer.

"In case of what?" Persistence now.

"Well ... In case we are attacked by savage Indians or something."

Now to a group of children that were located somewhere in New York City or in any major centre that didn't share this ethnic group, there might have been some media influence that might justify this, but with this group, every person of it was in some degree or other related to the example. The ethnicity of our group ranged from very light to very dark. Most of us were a varying degree of mixture from one end of the spectrum to the other.

"No ... I don't think so," I said. I just couldn't picture Grandpa in war paint and feathers.

"Well shit ... I don't know! What if ... what if ... what if the crazy old hooker over there attacks us, what then, eh?" He gazed triumphantly at the doubt on our faces as our gazes moved across the small field to where SHE lived in a smallish clapboard house on the edge of the forest fence. Well, now this was a horse of a different colour. With this new threat, we once again bent to the job at hand with renewed fervour. Of coarse, as everything, this job too came to an end. We all stood back and eyed our fortress with a critical air. Our detail to security was complete. There were nails bent over to act as a locking device, there was an old hasp that was discarded for lord only knows what reason, and there was an old lock that didn't need a key anymore to open it. We all scurried inside the fortress and took up our posts as earlier planned. Now, all we had to do was wait. And wait. And wait some more. It finally dawned on us that SHE wasn't coming. The only one that was enjoying this was the youngest in the group as he sat in a corner with his hands over his eye's giggling and saying, "Is she here yet?" over and over again. This made the author of this escapade just a tad angry.

He was an easy individual to follow, as he seemed to know a lot more than any 1st or 2nd grader than we knew. He could even get the nun's to allow him out of school early. I remember the first day of school when we first seen what the inside of a school looked like. Everyone was awestruck, except him. He sat in the desk in front of me and to this day I think that this fact alone has caused a colouring of my life if not only my early scholastic career. He turned to me and said, "Would you like to see the old nun piss herself?"

"No! No I wouldn't. And neither would you. Now just turn around and wait for Sister to come back."

He continued to smile and redirected his attention to the front of the room. He then slid from his seat and dashed madly to the front of the room. With utter abandon he scooped up a piece of chalk and began to scribble fiercely on the black board. As I watched the scene unfold, I began to recognize the artwork unfolding to a pair of anatomically correct stick men of both genders. As he completed this masterpiece, he unceremoniously tossed down the chalk and tore headlong back to his seat. While waiting for the sister to return, he sat with the most pleasant smile that I had seen him wear. When Sister So and So returned, she looked at the board and without so much as a sideways glance, she said, "Johnny, first you erase these things ... then you can go explain to Father Principal just what it was you thought you were doing." He then turned to me and said, "See you tomorrow morning." I didn't see him till the following day. When I did he told me that he had just gone home. "Why did I have to bother with that?"

"Because he's the principal, you jerk!" I shot at him. He looked at me as though I had just landed from some other planet.

"So What? What does that mean to me?"

I really didn't have an answer for him at that time, and as a matter of fact, I'm not too sure I do now. That was the last I heard of it. He wasn't struck by lightning, a wrathful angel didn't purge him, I didn't see him break out in boils or anything out of the Old Testament, and so I think that he got away with it.

This was just a slight character sketch of this young man. He had a knack for getting into trouble of this kind and everyone associated with the caper gets their butt kicked and he comes out smelling like a rose.

This occasion seemed to me to be starting up like any of the rest. He stood up and said, "Alright, everyone outside." We all jumped up and fairly ran to the outside of our fortress. He then stood in front of us and yelled, "Ok, everyone tell her she's a whore!" I, at this point didn't really see the need of this. We all knew She was. She knew she was. I really didn't see the need to tell the world. They all probably knew anyway. The small fellow who was giggling said, "Why? Doesn't she know yet?"

"Just yell," he repeated. So we all started yelling and calling all the bad names we knew. After we had ran our energy down to the hoarse point, we all were rewarded with a crow cawing out its protest at our racket. We stood there, discouraged.

At that point Johnny ran into his house shouting, "I'll be right back. Don't move!!!" Don't move. Just what did he think was going to happen if we did. The little giggler did just that. He flapped his arms, stuck out his tongue, and danced in circles making rude noises with his lips. We all had to smile at this. He was the youngest in our group and the rest of us always felt that we had to kind of look after him. Not that he was any trouble; we all just felt that we should look out for him. He wasn't old enough for school yet and he was very easy to like. He always had hair down to his shoulders and this was in the 50's yet. Hippies weren't introduced to the world at that time, but it never seemed out of place on him. His hair was black as a ravens' wing and just as shinny. It would have been a crime to cut it anyway.

Just a moment later, Johnny emerged from the house. Under his arm was a Grebe shoebox, and on his face was a look of triumph. As he came down the steps of his house, he looked at our expectant faces with that silly smile that we were all getting to know so well. Just what the hell was he up to now? He walked into our fortress and with all the ceremony that his small heathen heart could muster, laid his latest scheme on the small table inside. Without a word we all waited for Johnny to open the box. Without further ado, he slid off the top and exposed to us a thing of such rapturous beauty that all of our jaws went slack in sheer wonder and admiration. There it was, the Super Deluxe Whammo catapult slingshot.

"My brother ordered it out of the back of a Superman comic," Was his only comment. We all knew that if a weapon of this magnitude ever fell to unfriendly world powers, it could very well spell the end of the free world as we all know it. Thank god that Superman was only sold in the free world.

With a reverence that was due to the afore mentioned item, he lifted from its place of rest. What a beauty! Surgical rubber, stainless steel, and a patent leather pouch that was custom made for the ball bearings that were in the matching patent leather bag that was for a source of ammunition. Without much more ceremony, he removed several ball bearings from the bag and walked out to the back of our fort. With ease born of practice he loaded the pouch, took aim, and let fly. All hearts stood still as the projectile neared its mark. From our positions, we all heard the resounding plink on her front door. `Plink?' What the hell was that? `Plink!' As we all looked at each other in wonder, we were rewarded with the door opening and a mass of tousled, dark, curly hair with a disgruntled face underneath stuck itself out the door with a look from side to side as to discover the source of the irritation. It was as quickly withdrawn when no one turned up. Everyone sagged in disappointment as the door closed.

"Well, hot shot?" I shot at him as the echo faded. "What now?"

"Where are the kids from there right now?" he asked thoughtfully.

"I seen them both go to the show with their aunty. Which is where I should be right now instead of here," Another kid added with a shot. Not seeming to pay any attention to the baiting, Johnny reloaded, stepped forward and fired. What happened after that has been burned into my mind with a clarity that still haunts me to this day. With a deafening crash, the large window in the front of the house shattered and crashed inwards. We all stood there stunned in the silent seconds that prevailed just following. What happened next none of us prepared for. The door flew open and this terrifying creature came hurtling out as if shot by a gun. For a few terrible seconds we all stood riveted there as our immature minds tried to comprehend what was coming across this small field at us. What we perceived was a mass of dark curly hair atop a mask of immeasurable fury, enshrouded in a purple bathrobe, and shod with large furry green slippers. As this monstrosity came at us with leaps and bounds, leaping through the tall grass to make better headway with her arms thrown out to the sides as if to sweep us all up in her horrific grasp, seemed to electrify the self preservation instinct in all of us. I turned one way to watch the cause of this dilemma in full flight up the stairs of his house. The Deluxe Whammo catapult slingshot with its precious ammunition lay abandoned in the dust. With a quick look around, I noticed that I was the only one that was left standing there to defend our fort. Without much thought to the situation, I decided my staying wasn't necessary. I too joined in the headlong flight of admitted defeat. My short legs carried me unerringly to my back door and dove headlong behind my fathers' favorite chair in our living room. I peered out from the relative safety of my fathers' chair and out of the window that exposed the front street.

"Davie?"

Oh god no, my mother.

"Davie, is that you?"

"Uh ... yah Mom."

"What are you doing back there?" She asked.

Just at that moment as in answer to a call, the angry hooker was striding down the street still screaming obscenities at the top of her voice.

Seizing an opportunity to somehow escape the total truth and in the end the punishment that was sure to follow, I said, "Yah, and when I seen her coming I was scared and ran home right away." My Mother gave me one of those looks that mothers all over the world know when they want to see if your lying or not. She glanced away back out the direction that the inflamed woman had gone.

"I guess I'd be afraid too, especially if I did something to upset her."

Oh My God! She knew! How'd she do that anyway? Just as I was about to blurt out a confession, she said, "Well it's time for lunch now anyway. By the time you wash up and eat she should be gone home again."

As I chewed slowly through my bologna sandwich, I started to think of the morning and the long-term ramifications that that mornings events would bring.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Life In The Fringesby David de Tremaudan Copyright © 2011 by David de Tremaudan. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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