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It was a chill wind that tossed the orphanage oaks in October of 1955. Autumn came early that year to Fort Worth. From the northwest, as always. Down from Canada. Across the panhandle and through Palo Duro Canyon. The wind followed the Brazos and Trinity rivers down onto the lower plains, browning the landscape. Out on the playground, sparrows sailed sideways, and the grass grew stiff and yellow beneath the dead Sycamore that creaked and swayed its naked out-stretched limbs.

These first seven months at the Home had been stormier times than I'd ever known at Aunt Carrie's or even with my mother. The Little Boys' matron, Mama Gross, had a will of iron, and each of the countless beatings I had watched deepened my resolve to avoid trouble.

Once Robert Hoot got it for not making his bed right. Hoot was a thin, quiet boy, with straight brown hair, buck teeth, and big brown eyes with long lashes. We were both ten years old, but Robert seemed much younger. His jeans hung loosely on his bony hips, and he carried an inhaler for asthma. He was prone to wetting the bed, and had to wash his sheets nearly every morning.

Hoot had only been there a few days when the beating came. It was a sunny Saturday morning, near the big gray study table at the front of the dormitory, where Mama Gross kept the board handy. Robert was cringing near a row of lockers as she came toward him. He backed away, wailing, “No, Mama Gross! I didn't mean to! Please, Mama Gross! No!” Everyone stopped to watch, and some of us moved behind the table as though it would somehow shield us.

“Come over here!” said the gray-haired, thin-lipped woman through gritted teeth. “Bend over, and grab those ankles!”

Robert crouched several feet away with his hands on his rump, crying, pleading, “PLEASE, Mama Gross! I won't do it again!” Her viciousness made my stomach churn.

My initiation was yet to come, but my luck had held so far, and I started fifth grade at Tandy Elementary with my spirit intact. At any time there could have been twenty 'Homer' boys at the school, and we were easily distinguished by our clothes. Our T-shirts came just in two styles of either solid blue or yellow or multicolored horizontal stripes. Our jeans were Wranglers, not Levis like everyone else, and we had matching blue denim jackets for cold weather.

Tandy Elementary was built in the same WPA style as the Home -- red brick trimmed in cream-colored limestone. Just inside the sunny south doorway, was a large hall feeding the main floor classrooms.

I first met Mrs. Farley at the outer door of the cloakroom, where she stood ushering us in, smiling, helping with hats or lunches. The room smelled of hair tonic, mayonnaise, peanut butter, apples, bananas. With a cheerful, “Good morning!” she brushed the hair out of my eyes, and I floated into the cloakroom. That cozy little room was a chamber of transition where we left anything that would distract from the learning we would receive on the other side of the wall.

Mrs. Farley's room in the northwest corner of the building had a wall of ceiling-high windows overlooking the playground. The shades were always up; so oceans of light came through, but no direct sun.

It was a hardwood floor, and our black iron-framed desks were mounted on wooden rails facing the gray slate chalk board. Across the wall above the board on a green background were giant white letters in cursive script. My seat was on the front row next to the windows at my left, and I could almost reach out and touch Mrs. Farley's desk. Mrs. Farley's class was a large room, a warm room, a sanctuary for learning. A place I could come every day and feel safe.

Fayrene Farley was soft, compassionate, and pretty. With fine light brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, she reminded me of my mother, only more slightly-built, with delicate hands, and her face didn't have the puffiness. We were bought and paid for with kindness. When we were noisy, instead of raising her voice, Mrs. Farley would simply stand quietly at the front of the room with her arms crossed, and the ruckus would stop. I wanted especially to excel in penmanship, and I diligently practiced the cursive capital 'F.' Her name had two of them.

Mrs. Farley made an adventure of medieval history. I never tired of drawing castles with moats around them or dreaming about Robin Hood or the Great Crusades and King Richard the Lion-hearted. She would read from Adam of the Road, a large book with exciting pictures of castles and knights and ladies. I looked forward to the end of lunch recess, when I could listen to her clear soft voice while picturing the story in my head.

Mrs. Farley played Tchaikovsky on the phonograph and accompanied our singing on the autoharp. She discovered my natural ear for pitch and rhythm and sent me home one day with a viola, courtesy of the school. Mama Gross said, “You'll do no such thing! Take that back to school, and leave it there!” Still, the walls of the music room rang often with the vital energy of our songs: America, Kilmer's Trees and Botany Bay.

As tree shadows lengthened and the days grew shorter, classroom decorations went from Halloween witches and ghosts to Thanksgiving pumpkins and pilgrims, and then to Santa Claus and mistletoe. My stay at the Home had grown to nearly nine months, but I wasn't conscious of time. Each day simply melted into the next as the memory of my former life faded, and I adjusted to the rigid routine.

At six o'clock, radiators clanking and hissing, we'd be up for chores. Breakfast at seven. Walk to school in the cold. Classes 'til two-thirty. Walk straight home. Play until four-thirty. Supper at five. Studies from six until eight; lights out at nine. On Saturday, chores and a movie. On Sunday, church from ten until noon and again from six until eight.

Except on visitation days, I would often spend much of Sunday afternoons reading. I had exhausted everything worthwhile in the big green bookcase behind Mama Gross's desk and began rereading my favorites. Sundays were otherwise consumed by church-going, which fit neatly into my world view because of the strong religious foundation formed in me by my Great-aunt Carrie. Besides regular services at College Avenue Baptist church, I had often attended two weeks of Vacation Bible School during summers at Auntie's. I was used to saying prayers every night and had gotten awards for memorizing scripture. God was my anchor in a mixed-up world. I believed that He punished sinners and protected the righteous. Whenever I had a bad thought or said a bad word I silently prayed for forgiveness.

I had grown used to the regimented atmosphere, which had at first seemed so strange and cold. The rhythm of daily life in the Home was in me, along with a hungry sense of longing. With my mother, abandonment had been routine, but at least there had been a hug now and then and words of fondness. And there had always been Aunt Carrie, who -- except for my sister -- had provided most of the love I had known. Now, I saw Anne just at meals or when we would pass each other in the hallways of the Home or at school. We couldn't romp and play as we had for so many years. Those loving play times together were gone, enlarging a hole that was filling with loss and uncertainty.

In a distorted way, my relationship with Mama Gross was good. I was diligent and capable in my studies and cheerful and thorough in my chores, always doing the bit extra. I wanted praise but also to avoid trouble. Instinctively, I knew superior job performance was insurance against the board. But Mama Gross was not one to meet my craving for recognition.

I was fussing with my tie one Sunday morning, when Mama Gross suddenly marched me into the bathroom, where she addressed me in private. “Listen! You're German-headed, just like my husband was, and I'm going to take you down a notch every chance I get. Just like I did to him!” Then she turned and walked out. I couldn't understand why she would go to the trouble to take me into the bathroom just to say that. She was so cool about it. I suppose what she meant was that my spirit had not been broken. Was it a warning? I didn't have a clue, but the answer would soon come.

The winter of 1955 had also come early, on the heels of the early fall, and it was a white Christmas, rare in this part of the country. School was out, and I went outside to stomp in the powdery snow that barely covered the grass. I stood alone among the oak trees, smelling snow for the first time and watching cars move slowly down Lancaster to the muffled clinking of tire chains. Later, I watched from the windows as the white magic turned to brown slush and the music of the chains increased. The administrators tried to clear the Home for the week of Christmas. People were found who would take a kid if actual relatives weren't available. I don't really remember where I spent that Christmas, but if I remember the snow it must have been at the Home. Mrs. Crow was on duty looking after the few of us who remained from the two boys' dormitories. We collected snow in tin pots, and she made vanilla ice cream.

Our dormitory had its own donated tree, a natural pine whose scent filled the room, and a large white-flocked tree stood in the reception area near the main entrance. I remember sitting alone in that darkened room on a chrome and tan Naugahyde couch, swinging my legs, smelling the scent of pine, staring at that large white flocked tree with its magic red lights and listening to the distant jingle of tire chains.

A few days after the snow, a girl with blond pigtails came up to Mrs. Farley's desk with a fountain pen. She'd gotten a new one at Christmas, and her mother had said for the teacher to give the old one away. When Mrs. Farley asked, my hand was first into the air. She handed it with a smile. I was ecstatic! The pen was a simple cartridge type with a shiny chrome cap and a clear plastic body tinted blue that showed the level of ink inside. To me it was a special present from Mrs. Farley, an instant treasure; so with my trophy gleaming from my shirt pocket I strutted home that sunny afternoon, unaware of the trouble ahead.

At four-thirty Mama Gross stood at her usual post at the top of the stoop near the Little Girls' fire escape and blew the whistle for us to come in. Full of joy I bounded up the stairs to the concrete platform where she stood with her thick ankles stuffed into heavy black granny shoes. Like a hawk she spotted the pen, snatching it. “Where did you get this?” she snapped.

“My teacher gave it to me,” I said with pride.

She rapped me on the head with her whistle. Confused, I rubbed my scalp, my brain struggling to understand.

“Now don't lie to me!” she said. "Where did you get it? Tell me the truth and you won't get a whipping." Glaring through her glasses, she towered over me with her hands on her hips and her feet spread wide.

"My teacher, Mrs. Farley, she gave it to me because a girl...."

“Get in there!” she snapped, brushing me into the hallway. After ushering the rest of the boys into the dormitory she continued the questioning in the hall. Her jaw jutted, and her teeth were clenched as she stabbed the air with a finger.

“Now listen here! You must tell the truth! Tell me where you got the pen and you won't be punished. You stole it, didn't you?”

A sick feeling was building in my stomach. No one had ever accused me of stealing. Aunt Carrie had taught me stealing was wrong, and it was just as wrong, a sin, to lie; it was in the Bible. So when Mama Gross said to tell the truth, I did, thinking justice would be automatic. But it wasn't working, and it didn't make any sense! I could lie and say I had stolen the pen; that was what she really wanted to hear. Summoning my courage, I said, “Mrs. Farley gave it to me! You can call her and ask her!”

Now she was raging, “Alright, if that's the way you want it! I'll show YOU what happens to little thieves!” She stormed into her apartment and returned with the dreaded board. “Bend over! Grab those ankles!”

I froze in shock, my chest pounding. How could this be happening? Resigned, shaking, I slowly, silently took the wide stance I had so often seen others take and bent forward, closing my fingers around my ankles, waiting.

That first stroke was so painful and strong. I stumbled forward.

“Bend over!” she bellowed.

I slowly resumed the position, and the second and third strokes came before I could think. Never had I felt such pain, and it seemed to double with every stroke! The tears flowed as much from the injustice, though, as the pain, and I wondered how many licks there would be. I didn't know my delay had only prolonged the agony; didn't know about the numbness that would rescue me. So after three more licks I stood up again, backing away, crying, pleading, rubbing my rump as I'd seen Robert do.

“You keep getting up and I'll just give you more!” she bellowed. “Now, get over here and bend over!”

So again I retook the position, desperately wanting it to end. Afraid to face the pain, but afraid not to -- that endless, hot, unbearable, pain! But then came the numbness, the sweet, silken surprise of a virgin beating. The board didn't hurt when it struck any more, and I didn't flinch any more when it came. She was wasting her energy now, and she knew it. The dead meat under those jeans wasn't mine. She couldn't hurt me now; so she stopped.

Breathing heavily, Mama Gross moved toward her room, pointing the nose of the board at the dormitory entrance. “Get in there!... Get cleaned up... for supper!”

The soul rape was over, and I was still standing. My initiation was complete. No longer would I view the world through the eyes of a child. I understood how Robert had felt, and my relationship with the other boys shifted to a new plane.

The bomb that went off in my head that day blew open the closet where I'd hung for so many years the shreds of my religious faith. And the fog began to lift, that numbing mist which had shielded my mind from these memories of youth.