TV Radio Mirror (Jan - Jun 1963)

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P. Penney are the three stores that people back in our country live out of. "I remember we went down to Montgomery Ward and got Daddy a little radio. He wanted a little radio. We drove to Camp Barclay and Mother gave it to him. We only got to see him just before he left. So then he said to me. 'You know, you're the man while I'm gone.' " Those were the last words Wesley Ging ever said to his son. Jack Ging didn't know it. at the time. Only later — and not much later — the feeling of importance was to give way to a strange yearning, a strange sense of incompletion. a nagging feeling that, when his father died, he had missed out on something big. Years later, he found a name for what it was that there didn't seem to be enough of to go around. The word was love. Jack Ging has a brave and patriotic mother. When she was informed of her husband's death in action, she tried to live with her grief by plunging herself into the war effort on the home front. She bundled her little boy off to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she became a Harvey Girl. "I don't know if you remember the Harvey Girls," Jack smiles. "They made a movie about them. The Fred Harvey chain of hotels were on the railroad lines and. during the war, troop trains came through day and night. The Harvey Girls lived right in the Harvey House and waited on troop trains eighteen, nineteen hours a day. They'd sleep three hours a day. So Mother had to board me out." Without realizing the fateful parallel, Mrs. Daisy Ging echoed her dead husband when she first sent Jack to live in a house of strangers. "You've got to be big and live with these people," she said, "and if it's not good, then we'll try to find another place." It wasn't good, and they tried other places. Always the stranger Ten years was pretty young to be a man, but Jack Ging did his best not to be a disappointment to his departed father and his widowed mother. He never complained, but wherever he went, he knew he was the stranger. "I was always rather lonely," Jack puts it. "I would go to the other kids' houses and then I would have to leave to go to wherever I was being boarded. I would usually leave a family and think, 'God, they're going to go to bed together, and they get up together.' I used to be a little lonely that way." A little loneliness . . . covering up a lot of hunger . . . for love. It was not easy for a mother who had to board her son out while she worked. The pay was not commensurate with the work or with her devotion to work. Jack Ging kept in mind that, in his father's words, "You're the man while I'm gone." Being a man so young, he had it all over the other kids. Only he didn't ever seem to have a chance to lean, to depend, to have others do for him. Men did for themselves. Jack Ging, ten, was a man. Some kids knew they were loved because of what their parents did for them — or with them. All young Jack knew was that he was lonely, and somehow he had to make out. "As far back as I can remember. I had a job," Jack says. "Selling magazines. I used to sell the old Liberty magazine. I made my own allowance. I remember I bought my own bicycle. Mother got it for me for thirty-five dollars, and then I paid her back. My first bike. I bought it myself. It was a used one. too. "But I didn't buy it out of my magazine spending money. I had a newspaper route. I was about twelve. I guess. "Strangely enough, I made awfully good grades. My mother put me in Catholic school in Albuquerque, because when you kind of stray a bit that's the best place you could be. The sisters were good to me. and Mother used to pay me according to my grades. That's the only way I ever got any allowance at all. "And Sunday was always a day off. So we always spent all day Sunday together, and Sunday night. And when I gave her my report card, she'd always pay me. Even then it wasn't like other kids, they come home and maybe they get special favors at home if they make good grades. With me it was always kind of a financial deal, a business arrangement." The bright, dutiful little boy of a man couldn't very well be angry at his father for dying a hero's death in France, or at his mother for having the gumption to carry on by herself. A lot of energy — or was it anger? — built up, nevertheless. "I used to fight a lot," Jack says. thinking back to those troubled times. "I don't know if you remember, but everyone eighteen years or older was gone. They were in the Army. So the gangs then were sixteen-, fifteen-, fourteen-year-old guys." Jack was one of the fourteen-year-old guys bringing up the roaring rear — roaring against what, he didn't quite know. "In Albuquerque I got into three or four gang fights, bad ones," he recalls, "and I got put in jail a couple of times. I was going to get sent to detention home if I got in trouble any more. I remember one big fight we had at the Y.M.C.A. on First Street. You know, in the movies everytime you see Albuquerque, they go through an underpass saying, 'Welcome to Albuquerque.' The Y is right above the underpass.