I originally posted this story three years ago. It has always been one of my favorites. With a lot of encouragement and help from my good friend Mark Mortland, I have decided to publish it on Kindle. I reworked the story to hopefully improve it and give the characters a little more depth. Rest assured, I will be posting the story in its entirety here. I know some of you have read the story already, but I hope the enhancements will make it worth reading again. For those who have not read it yet, I hope you enjoy the new and improved, "The Journal". Thank you all in advance for your continued support. - Lee
Chapter 1
Mike Jennings: This is My Life
It was the end of April in 1972; I was finishing school in three weeks. I will finally be in high school this fall. I just had to last four more years in this awful town of Westburg, Tennessee, then I can get the hell out of here. I didn’t know where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do, but I knew I was not going to spend the rest of my life in this God-forsaken place. Westburg was just like a lot of other small towns in the hills of Tennessee, one main street, a post office and three bars. There were around 1500 people, and the nearest “city” was over an hour away. Of course, we had a grocery store, a gas station, hardware store, cafe and even a small clothing store. At least we could get the necessities. More than half of the people living in Westburg worked at the Thornhill Mill. The mill took wood chips from sawmills in the area and turned them into pulp that would be processed into paper. If you didn’t work at the mill, you worked at a business that somehow was dependent upon the mill for survival. My family was no exception.
My dad was the head accountant at the Thornhill Mill; he had started there in 1956 as a clerk and had worked his way up to department head. Dad was just like a lot of the other men in Westburg. He spent his days at work, his evenings reading the newspaper and every Thursday night he was bowling on his weekly league. He smoked two packs of Winstons a day and generally looked miserable, rarely smiling. He was taught that it was his job to provide for his family, and he did. We always had a roof over our heads, clothes on our back and food on the table. I was raised to never question him, and his word was law around our house. He wasn’t physically abusive, but both me and my older brother, Steve, had received our share of spankings as we grew up. I wish I could say that they weren’t deserved, but…I can’t. I know he loved us and just wanted us to turn out to be responsible men, but he also believed in the old, “spare the rod, spoil the child” adage.
My mom was a housewife, just like most every other woman in town. She rarely stood up to dad and let him make most major decisions, again just like most of the other women in town. She kept our house clean and always had dinner on the table when dad got home from work. Our clothes were always clean and pressed so we would all look presentable. It was just within the last couple of years that I saw her wear a pair of pants, and not a dress. Dad grumbled something about “damn women’s lib crap”. She only wore pants around the house and was always in a dress when she went out, even if it was just to the grocery store. I think that was the compromise her and dad had arrived at. It had always been easier to talk to mom whenever I had a problem. She would always break any bad news to dad, so neither Steve nor I had to. I guess her soft, caring demeanor helped offset dad’s rough edges.
Steve had just turned 16 and was your typical teenager. We were close and told each other everything, he was the big brother that most of my friends wished for. He was on pace to be over 6’ tall, had mom’s eyes and dad’s nose. I wasn’t going to be quite as tall, and other than the glasses that I wore, it was clear that we were brothers.
Mom and dad had moved here shortly after they were married so dad could take the job at the mill. Steve and I were both born here and have lived in the same house our entire lives. We lived about a mile outside of town on Mulberry Road, there were 5 other houses that were spaced about a quarter of a mile apart on that road. Our house was at the end of the road just before it turned into more of a path that only area farmers would drive on to get to their fields.
We had a typical country house with a large front porch, complete with a swing and a couple of rocking chairs. Inside was a large eat-in kitchen that led to a more formal dining room and a living room. The second floor had three bedrooms and a bathroom. It was nothing fancy, but it was very practical and served our family’s needs.
Outside the house was a single car garage, that housed my mom’s white Country Squire station wagon, complete with woodgrain sides. Dad’s blue Ford Galaxy 500 sedan sat outside when he was home. Behind the house was a large garden area where we grew fruit and vegetables for canning every summer.
There was a large grove of trees behind the garden that served as a playground for me and Steve, as we grew up. We would spend hours playing in those trees, letting our imaginations run wild and going on all types of adventures. We would play cowboys, cops and robbers and we even found an old log to turn into a pirate ship. Steve was now a junior in high school, and I had just turned 14 last month, so our adventures had come to an end in pursuit of more age-appropriate activities. I would still go out in those woods for hikes or to just find a quiet place to sit and read a good book.
Steve was a good student, but he was a better athlete. He had already lettered in football, basketball and track before he was a junior. His favorite sport was basketball, which made my dad very happy. Dad had also been a good basketball player in his high school days. He was sure that Steve was the best player ever and knew that every college in three states would be lining up to recruit him to play for them. I guess dad, like a lot of other fathers of this time, were still reliving their lost youth vicariously through their sons. Whenever Steve tells dad not to get his hopes up, there may be better players out there. Dad would go into one of his rants, telling him to work hard and practice so that you can get out of this town. Steve had confided in me more than once, that he couldn’t care less about playing basketball in college, he would rather just concentrate on his studies to get out of Westburg. I was nowhere near as good of an athlete as Steve, and I always felt that dad thought his only chance to live out his playing sports beyond high school fantasy, was going to have to go through Steve.
One evening as we were all sitting down for supper, dad was in one of his, I hate my job and this town, moods. I just stayed quiet and tried to stay out of his way so that I didn’t aggravate him any further. Steve either didn’t pick up on dad’s mood or didn’t care and he started talking about getting a summer job so that he could buy a car, now that he had his driver’s license.
I thought dad was going to choke on his food, “Hell no! You need to practice basketball this summer. I talked to your coach, and he told me that he would keep the gym open all summer for those who wanted extra practice. If you are going to stand out to those recruiters, you need to stay sharp on the court. You can’t do that by carrying groceries to some old lady’s car.”
Steve said, “But dad, a few of the other…”
Dad cut him off, “I don’t care what the others are doing. I want you to concentrate on your game. I hear there are a lot of college recruiters coming to smaller schools this year to find players.”
Steve just sighed.
Mom always acted as a buffer between us and dad when he got in this kind of mood. She quicky changed the subject, “Mike, how was your day at school?”
Dad just pushed his plate away, lit up a cigarette and opened the newspaper in front of his face.
I smiled, pleased that I was allowed to contribute to the conversation at the dinner table.
I said, “It was good, we are studying civil rights this chapter. Our teacher told us that Franklin Thornhill, the founder of mill where dad works, was one of the first businessmen that worked to integrate his mill back in the 20’s.”
Mom smiled, “Well, that’s great Mike.”
Dad just grunted and blew out a plume of smoke, “Old Man Thornhill didn’t give a damn about integration, he just wanted cheap labor to run his mill. He bought six old rundown houses, slapped a coat of paint on them and then drove to Memphis and Nashville. He found the worst part of town and told the unemployed blacks that he had a job for them, and he would even provide a place for them to live. Once he got them to move here, he paid them half what he paid everyone else and generously deducted their rent from their paychecks. Those families barely had enough pay left to feed themselves.”
I said, “But our teacher showed us a newspaper article that was about the mill getting an award back in 1962 for being one of the first integrated businesses in Tennessee.”
Dad snarled, “That was Thornhill’s kid’s doing. After Jr took over running the mill in 1960, he had a buddy that wrote for the paper. He convinced him to do a fluff piece to make the Thornhills look good. Hell, they are still paying all the black employees less than they pay everyone else. The Thornhills don’t do anything to help anybody but themselves.”
I just quit talking about it and helped mom clear the table, I knew better than to rile up dad any more than I already had.
Mike’s Worst Day
I was getting excited for the school year to end; we were down to our last week of classes. I was waiting for Steve to come out of the school; we usually walked home together.
He came outside and said, “You’re on your own today squirt. My buddy, Chuck got a new car, we’re going to go for drive. Tell mom I’ll be home in time for supper.”
I nodded, “Ok.”
Since I was walking alone, I took a detour to the library. I had just finished the book I was reading and wanted to get a couple more books to read over the weekend. I wasn’t paying attention to the time and as I walked up our driveway, I panicked when I saw that dad was already home from work. I was sure I was in trouble for being late.
I came through the door and saw mom sitting at the kitchen table crying and dad beside her with his hands over his face. Mom saw me and cried even harder as she started to hug me.
I asked, “Mom, dad, what’s wrong?”
Dad said, “Mike, your brother was in a car accident. The car rolled into a ditch, he was pinned and well, he didn’t make it.”
I looked at mom and asked, “Steve is dead?”
Mom sobbed louder as she shook her head yes.
The next few days were a blur, I was excused from classes, people were stopping by the house and then we had the funeral. Mom and dad were like zombies; they just sat and stared not saying or doing anything. A couple of days after the funeral dad went back to work. I tried to stay out of his way and not say anything to upset him. I was just sure that he wished that I had been the one to die in that car wreck, and not Steve. Mom was just going through the motions, she would do her housework, and cook our meals, but she quit doing anything that she had previously enjoyed.
Once the school year ended, I started spending more time in the trees out back, just to stay out of their way. It also helped me cope with losing my brother. I would sit on that old log we had used for our pirate ship and think back to all the talks that Steve and I had on that log. I could tell Steve anything, well, almost anything. I was still trying to work up the courage to talk to him about girls. I was starting to worry that I was not attracted to girls, and that I was starting to admire the boys in my class instead. Now I would never get the chance to ask for his advice, and I know I would never be able to talk about this with mom. God forbid if I ever broached the subject with dad, I had never heard him say a kind word about “those damn queers and fags”.
Mike, Murph and Bug
I came out of the woods when I saw my two best friends, Murph and Bug, walking down the road in front of our house. Murph was Greg Murphy and Bug was Joe Collins. Bug got his nickname in the second grade after someone dared him to eat a bug at recess, and he did.
Murph was a little taller than me and was already starting to attract the girls. He was becoming an athlete, excelling in football. He had a great smile and beautiful blue eyes to go with his blond hair. Your stereotypical all-American jock.
Bug was actually a goofy looking kid. He was tall for his age, had big ears that stuck straight out and bright red hair. He was so skinny that when he wasn’t wearing a shirt, you could count every one of his ribs. When he walked, he plodded along on two of the biggest feet I had ever seen. I know his folks had to take him to the city to buy his shoes since the local store didn’t have his size. Of the three of us, Bug wasn’t the brightest, or even the second brightest, but he was a good friend.
Murph said, “Hey Mike, what are you doing?”
I replied, “I was just reading a book up in the trees, what are you guys up to?”
Bug said, “We were just headed down to Miller’s Pond to go swimming, you want to come along?”
I smiled, “Sure, that sounds fun.”
Miller’s Pond was a large pond that all the locals would go fishing or swimming in. Nobody ever knew who really owned it, since there was no one in the area named Miller, we just all used it. We got to the pond, kicked off our shoes and pulled off our shirts, we were all wearing cutoff jeans. We all dove into the pond. We swam for about an hour, then we crawled out of the water and sat on a rock in the sun to dry off. We were trying to decide if we should go for another swim when I suggested that we go exploring in the trees instead. We headed up further into the trees, as we got about halfway between the pond and my house, we came across an area that looked like an old house foundation. There was just a row of bricks in the shape of a small house. They seemed to be charred, as if the house had burned down years ago. Just as we were about to continue our walk, I looked further into the trees about 100 yards to the rear of the old house foundation.
I said, “Hey guys, look over there.”
Bug asked, “What is it?”
Murph said, “Come on, it looks like an old shed, let’s go check it out.”
We walked up to the shed; it looked like it had been sitting vacant for years. The windows were all broken out, the door had fallen off the hinges and we could see a few holes in the roof. We walked into the shed; there were a couple of old wooden crates and what appeared to be a few old empty tin cans thrown into one of the corners. We looked around and decided that the shed would make a cool clubhouse. We cleaned it up a bit and made plans to come back in the morning with some supplies to fix the shed up.
Over the next week, we kept cleaning and repairing. Bug brought a bag full of old blankets and pillows, Murph came with scraps of wood and a hammer and nails. I had a bag of snacks, chips and a couple of old lawn chairs that my dad had thrown into a trash pile. I had sneaked into my brother’s room and grabbed his transistor radio. I knew he wouldn’t mind, but if my parents caught me, they would be pissed. They had not touched anything in Steve’s room since he died, I even saw mom just sitting in his room crying from time to time.
We fixed the roof and door using wood scraps and swept the floors with an old broom that I brought. We set up the chairs and covered them with the blankets and pillows. We sat back enjoying our accomplishment.
Murph grinned and said, “I have the finishing touch for our clubhouse,” as he pulled out a plastic bag.
He opened it up to reveal about ten Playboy magazines.
Bug said, “Cool, give me one of those.”
Murph handed a few magazines each to Bug and me, we all started to turn the pages, wide eyed. After a few minutes, I looked at Murph, whose eyes were glued to the pages in front of him as he was rubbing his crotch. I turned to Bug; he was doing the same thing as Murph.
Murph said, “I don’t know about you guys, but these pictures are really turning me on.” We all agreed.
He looked at us and said, “Well, since it’s just us guys, I think I’ll jerk off a little.”
Before Bug or I answered, Murph stood up and dropped his shorts. My eyes went straight to his fully erect penis standing proud out of his thickening bush, a pair of plum sized balls tight against the base of his six-inch cock. My dick was only about half hard looking at the naked women in the Playboys, but it sprang to full attention when I got my first look at Murph standing there in all his glory. My mind raced as Murph sat back in his chair and started jacking his dick and resumed reading his playboy.
I turned to look at Bug, who was still staring at Murph.
As I was watching him look at Murph, he turned to me and shrugged, “What the hell, I think I’ll join him.”
He stood up and pulled his shorts down and my mouth hit the floor. It was the first time that I had seen Bug naked, since we were probably 5 or 6 and we took a bath together when he stayed at my house. Damn, his dick had to be six or seven inches long totally soft and as big around as one of those long flashlights used by the cops. Bug grabbed his cock and started stroking with both hands, they only covered about half of his monster.
Murph looked up from his magazine and said, “Holy shit Bug, that thing is obscene. How do you keep that in your pants?”
Bug just blushed “Well, I don’t know… I’m sorry… I just...”
Murph interrupted, “No need to be embarrassed Bug. Hell, you should be proud of that thing and move to Hollywood to do porn movies.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Bug’s cock as my shorts became so tight that I decided to join my friends and pulled my shorts down and started to jerk myself. I was your typical book worm type, I wore glasses and although I wasn’t as skinny as Bug, I wasn’t as developed as Murph. I only had about half as much hair around my crotch as Murph, but I was about the same girth and length. We all settled back down and went back to our magazines and jacking off. I, however, was not as interested in the girls on the pages as I was in my buddies’ dicks bouncing back and forth.
After we had finished and started to get dressed, we heard a car go by on the road and decided we needed to get home as it would soon be supper time. I told Bug and Murph to go ahead as my house was closer than theirs.
I said, “I’ll find a place to hide these magazines.”
They headed out the door as I wrapped the Playboys in a bag and started to look for a hiding place. I found a loose floorboard and pried one end up. As I was pushing the bag under the floor, I noticed another bag already in the space. I pulled it out and looked in the bag. Inside I found one of those old black and white composition notebooks and a well-worn pencil. I opened the cover and on the first page was written:
Personal Journal of Walter Hankins - May 15, 1922
To be Continued…
