Nuel emmons biography of mahatma

So there I was in the same household that my mom had run away from six years earlier. Strict discipline, grace before each meal and long prayer sessions before going to bed at night. I believed and practiced all that my grandmother taught. So much so that I became the nuel emmons biography of mahatma of the neighborhood. I remember him telling me to stop crying at everything and start acting like a man or he was going to start dressing me and treating me like a little girl.

I was embarrassed and ashamed. The other kids teased me so much I went into a rage and started fighting everyone. Turning the other cheek, as Grandma had always wanted me to do, was forgotten. Joanne and Bill were good people and tried to do right by me. Their treatment of me was fine. I got my ass-kickings when I deserved them and my rewards when I did something right.

I was trained in proper manners and taught to wash my face, comb my hair, brush my teeth and believe in and respect God—like any other kid. Ha ha ha. One year shortly after Christmas, I got even with some of those kids who were laughing at me. I had spent Christmas with my grandparents. My only present for the year was a hairbrush. A Superman hairbrush.

I never did fly and to this day that was the only lie that my grandmother ever told me. The kids in the neighborhood rubbed things in even more by showing me all their presents. They had toys of all kinds: wagons, trains, cowboy hats and chaps. I stacked up some wood and threw the toys on top and started a fire. The kids were mad—some cried, others threatened me, and their parents called the sheriff.

I was seven years old. Mom was released from Moundsville when I was about eight. The day she came home is still one of the happiest days of my life. I think she missed me as much as I missed her. For the next few days we were inseparable. I was her son and she was my mom and we were both proud of each other. I loved it! I guess my mom did, too.

But a twenty-three-year-old girl needs more than an eight-year-old son to complete her world. If Mom had some catching up in her life to do before she went to prison, she was really behind now. It was some trip living with Mom. We moved around a lot and I missed a lot of school and blew a lot of what my aunt and uncle had been trying to teach me. Mom and I definitely did not live a routine life, yet I dug every minute of it.

I only wished I knew if the next day was going to find me with her or pawned off on someone else. My stays with Uncle Jess would vary. Uncle Jess lived in a log cabin elevated several feet off the ground by poles. Jess was hillbilly from his heart, with beard, bare feet, bib overalls, moonshine, hound dogs and coon hunting. Family could do no wrong, and Jess would protect them no matter what.

But if one of the family gave him any back talk it was their ass, because he was king. He had four daughters. They were pretty things as mountain girls go; I saw Jess bring out the shotgun more than once to send guys running down the road. The girls might sneak around, but when Jess was there to say something, they jumped. Uncle Jess himself died on his land rather than let someone take him away from it.

The law came down on Jess and his moonshine still, but Jess foxed their asses. He blew up the still—and himself. To return to the story, before being sentenced to Moundsville, Mom had become a pretty street-wise girl, but she really learned all the ropes doing her time. She even added a new dimension to her sex life. Of course, back then gays were still in the closet so Mom was pretty discreet when it came to making it with another broad.

With her gameness and prison education, she had all the answers and could hustle with the best of them. Consequently, we might leave a place in a hurry. Help me get our things packed. We gotta get outta here. Mom told him to cool it a couple of times. He was still on the floor when she left. The next couple of years saw us in Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio, West Virginia and probably a couple more states and who knows how many cities.

One night I was awakened by the sound of their booze-leadened voices arguing. My mother, in one of her finer performances, was pleading hardship. She told the judge what a struggle life was and that she was unable to afford a proper home for me. The shock was still a day away. I felt all right while being registered in the school office, but when all the papers were completed things started going wacky in my head and stomach.

By the time I was escorted to the dormitory I would live in for the next ten months, I felt sick. Tears ran down my cheeks, my legs were so rubbery I could hardly walk. Some invisible force was crushing my chest and stealing my life away from me. I loved my mother! I wanted her! Why is it this way? Come and get me, just let me live with you.

Nuel emmons biography of mahatma

I have never felt that lonely since. I just wanted to be with her, live with her, under any conditions. Not in some school locked away from everything. The Catholic brothers who ran the school were good enough to me, but they were stern in their discipline. The answer to any infraction of the rules was a leather strap, or wood paddle, and lost privileges.

Since I had a problem with wetting the bed, it seemed like I was getting more than my share of whippings for something I had no control over. I was easy pickings for those who were inclined to be bullies. Gibault was not considered a reform school, but aside from the religious teachings it operated in a similar manner. And though guys there were not necessarily juvenile delinquents, they did share the same resentments against parents, the law and confinement as those in reform schools.

It never happened to me there, but I saw kids forced into homosexual acts. I was told about all kinds of ways to beat the law, and I learned how to keep my feelings to myself, because if you care too much about a part of your life and personal habits, others will take advantage of it and ridicule you. Gibault taught me friends can be cruel and enemies dangerous.

Mom would come to see me sometimes, but not all that often. I was starting to grow and was definitely older in mind. I felt I could be a big help to her if she would take me home. It all sounded great and I was eager to start living the life we talked about. My mom said so. I waited and waited. Sick of Gibault and tired of waiting, I ran away.

I thought I could show her how grown up I was and how I could help her. There was no guilt trip in my mind about running away; I was sure my mom would throw her arms around me, as glad to see me as I was to be there with her. Everything would be all right. God, was I dreaming! I suppose its what you like to read, everyone is different.

Ive always been interested in psychology anyway. I thought Taming the Beast was a good read. Terms and Conditions of Use Contact form If you do not agree, please immediately exit the service. We have called him a devil and quarantined him behind such labels as "the most dangerous man alive. This astonishing book lays bare the life and the mind of a man whose acts have left us horrified.

His story provides an enormous amount of new information about his life and how it led to the Tate-LaBianca murders, and reminds us of the complexity of the human condition. Born in the middle of the Depression to an unmarried fifteen-year-old, Manson lived through a bewildering succession of changing homes and substitute parents, until his mother finally asked the state authorities to assume his care when he was twelve.

Regimented and often brutalized in juvenile homes, Manson became immersed in a life of petty theft, pimping, jail terms, and court appearances that culminated in seven years of prison.