A Matter of Principle

“Russell, your mama just called. She said it was time for you to get on home.”

Aunt Reicey didn’t have to tell me twice as I’d just realized that Uncle ’Nell had just come in from work. I hadn’t heard him drive up, but if he was home that meant that Daddy was home, too. Yep, I thought, I’d better scoot!

With a quick ’bye to Jerry, I hopped on my bicycle and tore out toward home, just a short mile away, down the newly-paved Big Four Road, across Kirby Creek bridge, and turning up the sandy gravel lane leading to our house. I was about halfway up, almost to the old Hatten house, the only other house on our road, when I began to really feel the blazing, canicular heat of that late-summer afternoon. I was pedaling as hard as I could when I met Daddy’s truck coming down the road. As it approached me, I could see that the whole family was in it. Karen and baby Linda were in the cab with Daddy and Mama. Judy and Keith and John were back in bed of the pickup.

The whole family! Have mercy! Surely, they were coming for me. What was the urgency? Was I in trouble? I had been quick to leave when Mama called.

Daddy told me to put my bike in the ditch and hop in, that we’d get it on our way back. Before I could come up with any plausible scenarios for the fix I was obviously in, John shouted from the back of the truck that we were going swimming. Mama then explained that she had my cut-offs and that we were on our way to Red Creek for a swim and picnic supper at the City Bridge. My spirits immediately lifted.

What great fun we had, swimming in the refreshing cool clear water of Red Creek, playing in white sand as the sun inched lower in the sky, roasting weinies and marshmallows on an open fire built on the sandbar. And later, with the bar of soap Mama brought, we’d each had a creek bath before heading in. The sun was setting we when left the creek and it was dark-thirty as we made our way up the lane toward the house. We were all pleasantly tired after our delightful, impromptu excursion.

I was getting ready for bed when I remembered we’d forgotten to stop for my bike. When I reminded Daddy, he said, “Don’t worry about it, you can get it in the morning. Nobody’s going to bother that old thing during the night.”

It was on up in the morning the next day—another scorcher—when I decided to walk down to fetch it. Why hadn’t I asked Keith to ride me down on the handlebars of his bike? Wait, I knew the answer to that. I was smart enough to know what his smart-mouthed response would have been.

I was passing by the old Hatten house, recalling the family that used to live there and who had moved to town a year or so ago. I mostly remembered Glen, their only son that I knew of. He was Judy’s age, four years older than me and two years older than Keith. He was a classic Eddie Haskell type and could be quite obnoxious. He was also prone to fighting. Keith got the worst of his bullying. And even though I steered a wide berth around him whenever I could, I was not immune to his teasing. Bus rides to and from Home School could sometimes be hellish if Glen was in one of his all-too-frequent moods. I halfway expected to see him and his old dog come around the empty house as I walked by.

Safely past, I neared the spot where I’d ditched my bike. It should’ve been plainly visible, but I couldn’t see it. I searched the ditches and bushes on both sides of the road, but it wasn’t there. I didn’t spend long looking before I figured that Daddy probably tossed it in the back of the pickup on his way to work that morning. No big deal, the mystery would be all cleared up when he came back in.

When I mentioned the bicycle at lunch, Daddy said he hadn’t seen it, either when going out or when coming back in, but that I could ride back down with him as he went back to work and we’d both look one more time. But, again, that old bike wasn’t there. And, again, Daddy told me not to worry, saying that there was probably a good explanation for its disappearance and that it would turn up. I wanted to believe that, but I knew it was stolen; my dearest possession was gone.

I was 5 or 6 years old when I learned to ride a bicycle. It was on Judy’s bike, a hand-me-down coming from Aunt Wyvena. It was a full-size lady’s model with a step-through frame and almost as tall as I was. Though I couldn’t reach the pedals from a seated position, I could mount it from the porch steps and take off. Even without training wheels—an almost unheard thing of back then—it didn’t take me long before I was wheeling around our large yard, up and down the lane, and flying over the terraces in our pastures. A few months later, Keith got a brand new bike for Christmas, but he would seldom let me touch it. Big brothers! Sheesh!

Not long after I turned 8, Daddy surprised me with my cousin Mike’s old bicycle, a mid-sized boy’s model. I don’t know old it was—it may have been his older brother Wallace’s first. If that old thing had been a used car it would’ve had a couple of hundred thousand miles on it when Mike quit riding it. Though a bit unsightly—the seat was a bit ragged and the frame and fenders needed some paint—it was still in pretty good shape. I eventually got a new seat and repainted it two or three times and proceeded to put another quarter million clicks on it riding back and forth to Uncle ’Nell’s and Granddaddy’s and eventually all over upper Big Level. That old hand-me-down bike wasn’t anything special, but it was mine. I loved it from Day 1. And now it was gone.

That’s my 9-year-old self on my bicycle with my cousin Wallace, age 17, in the background on Flicka. I captured this grainy still image from one of Uncle ’Nell’s Super 8 home movies. He was filming his eldest son on his horse when I came photo-bombing through the frame on my bike.
(May 1963, the Burnell Lott residence, Big Level, Mississippi.)

Days, then weeks, then months passed by and there was little to be said about my missing bike. School was back in session and with homework, farm chores, and the shortened daylight hours of fall and winter there wasn’t much time for bike-riding anyhow. I didn’t ask for, nor did I get, a new bicycle for my 10th birthday in October or later that Christmas. Secretly, I was hoping for one of those wheelie bikes that were so popular back then—they had those cool high-rise chopper-style handlebars and those long banana seats. However, I knew better than to ask for anything that expensive. The truth was that I would’ve been perfectly happy to have my old bike back. But I didn’t see how that was going to happen.

Then in February or early March Daddy came in from work one day and after finishing a cup of coffee out on the porch swing—a daily late-afternoon ritual—announced to Mama that he would be back in a bit, that he needed to go see a man about a dog. Even at my tender age I knew that he wasn’t interested in another hunting dog and that his use of that age-old expression meant that he had something to take care of that he didn’t want to say in front of tender ears. Then, out of the blue, he said, “Russell, I need you to come with me.”  

Really? I thought. Me? Not Keith? What kind of help could I be? Those questions aside, I was more than ready to go. I’d find out soon enough.

We drove in silence a few miles over to Highway 26 and then turned onto a grassy road near where the Kirby crosses there. I’d never been up that road. It was more of a path really, like an old logging road. With woods all around, I knew it couldn’t go more than a half-mile or so. I was right about that, but I was completely puzzled about what kind of mission we were on.

We stopped the truck about 30 yards in front of a dilapidated 4-room frame house that sat at the end of the road amid a couple of rusted out vehicles, a few discarded appliances, and odds and ends of other junk. I was considerably spooked by the sight of the place.

We sat there a minute, still in silence, until an elderly man came out of the house and stood watching us. Daddy told me to wait in the truck, then he got out and walked up to the house. The two men shook hands and stood there talking for what felt like half an hour. From my perspective, this was no casual visit, this was a serious conversation.

Eventually, the elderly man went back to the house and appeared to speak to someone inside. Momentarily, a young boy, younger than I was, came around from the back of the house pushing the ugliest bicycle I’d ever seen. To use another old expression, it looked like it had been ridden hard and put up wet. From where I sat, it looked worse than that. I saw two flat tires, a busted seat, a bent fender, and that the chain was off the sprockets and all crudded up.

Daddy then motioned for me to come to him. What was going on here? Dang, I thought. No way, Dad. I certainly do miss my bike, but I sure don’t want someone else’s old broken-down junker.

As I walked up, Daddy asked me, “Son, is this your bicycle?” Only then did I realize that it actually was! I didn’t know what to think. I was aghast and saddened by its condition, but it was definitely mine. Who were these people? And why did they have my bike? I had questions and wanted answers. But the thing that mystified me the most— a mystery to me still today—was how Daddy came to discover the bike’s whereabouts after all these months.

Heading home with the bicycle in back of the pickup, Daddy explained. The elderly man was Glen Hatten’s uncle and the boy was the man’s grandson. Apparently Glen had gotten the bike while on a late-night spree out to his old place. He’d eventually brought it over to his uncle’s house and gave it to his young cousin.

What gall? The whole thing just burned me up.

As we pulled up to our house, Daddy had one more thing to say: “You know son, we can fix that old thing up. It’ll probably cost more than it’s worth. But it’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing. You understand that, don’t you?” With a “Yes, sir,” I acknowledged that I did. And with that we went in to supper.

The next day after school, I gave the bike a good scrubbing and oiled and reset the chain. Keith even helped me straighten the fenders. Not too bad, I thought. We were poking around the shed for the bicycle pump when Daddy drove up from work. In his hands were two new inner tubes and a new seat. He also had a couple of cans of spray paint.

He said, “I thought you might want to give it a new coat. How does red suit you?”     

Afterword

The one and only time I saw Glen following this incident was a couple of years later. It was at a Stone High football game down at Perk junior college, where all SHS home games were, and still are, held. Some of my buddies and I were standing on the top row of the stadium, leaning against the rail and looking at the commotion in the parking area below. A police car had just pulled up with lights flashing. Two officers hopped out, went inside the stadium and came back out with two obviously drunk young men in their grasp. I immediately recognized the most belligerent and most vocal of the intoxicated fellows as Glen Hatten. As one of the officers tried to get him in the backseat of the squad car, Glen shouted some obscenities and shoved the officer. As the officer tried again to get him in the car, Glen attempted to land a roundhouse punch. The officer simply dodged the wild swing which caused Glen to spin around. As a result, Glen lost his balance and fell face first onto the pavement, whereupon the officer handcuffed him, jerked him upright, and placed him in the squad car. Glen had dropped out of school at this point, and his twirling haymaker was an apt metaphor for his youthful downward spiral. To my eyes, it was a sad bit of karma for stealing my bike.

Note to Readers: I have no idea what may have become of Glen in the 55+ years since these events. It’s entirely possible, probable even, that he straightened himself up and has led a productive life. Maybe he went into the military and later married, raised a family, and held steady jobs. He may still be in the Wiggins area. Who knows, he might be a doting grandfather with little ones who look up to him. I sincerely hope that’s the case. If you have a Stone County connection and happen to know some of Glen’s story, I’d love to hear from you.

Update (1 Feb 2021): Since publishing this story a couple of days ago, I’ve discovered a few facts about Glenn Hatten’s later life. With a clue from David Edwards, a life-long Big Level resident and a friend from my youth, I was able to find Glenn’s obituary and those of some of his other family members. (Thanks, David.) Here are a few of the things I’ve gleaned from these genealogical records:

His name was Glenn (spelled with two ‘n’s) Murray Hatten. He was born in February of 1949, confirming that he was the same age as my sister Judy. He died in the year 2000 at the age of 51 in Saucier, MS and is buried there. He had four children, a daughter and three sons, all living in other states. His obituary does not mention a wife.

Glenn was the youngest of three children to Wilford and Lovice Hatten, both of whom predeceased him. Glenn’s sister, Brenda, who was almost 7 years older, died in 1998, in Wiggins. His brother, Robert (Bob), was 3 years older and was a long-time resident of Covington, LA. Bob died in May of 2020, less than a year ago. I only vaguely remember these other members of Glenn’s family.

The uncle in my story, was Billy Hatten, Glenn's dad’s younger brother. I was surprised to learn that this man was my daddy's age. (Okay, so he wasn't as elderly as I remembered.) That being the case, the young boy with my bicycle was most probably Billy’s son and not a grandson. Billy died in 2016 and his obituary named two sons, Floyd Hatten of Perkinston and Raymond Hatten of Wiggins. I don’t know which one, if either, was the young boy in my recollection of these events.

It was reported at his death that Glenn was “a long-time resident of the Gulf Coast.” However, his sister Brenda’s 1998 obituary, stated that Glenn resided in California. I don't know how long he may have lived there, but apparently he had moved back to Mississippi before his death.

Glenn’s obituary also noted that he was an army veteran. I was greatly pleased to read this fact, as I was looking for some bit of evidence that he’d survived his rough-and-tumble adolescence and achieved some balance in his life. I have to believe that may have happened during his time in the military.

Thank you for your service Glenn Murray Hatten.

Words to Ponder

ca·nic·u·lar (adj): pertaining to the Dog Star, Sirius, or to the dog days, that period between early July and early September when hot, sultry weather occurs in the northern hemisphere. (It shares the same root as the word canine.)
www.merriam-webster.com

dog days: Historically, the period following the heliacal rising of the star system Sirius, which Hellenistic astrology connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck.
en.wikipedia.com

Song of the Day

“Broken Bicycles” by Tom Waits
(From One From the Heart, the soundtrack album
for Francis Ford Coppola’s 1982 film of the same name.)

BONUS TRACK

“Bad Boys (Theme From Cops)” by Inner Circle (Bad to the Bone, 1992)