A laugh-out-loud, totally hilarious and nostalgic storytelling of the weird tales and seemingly unbelievable, unimaginable, and far-fetched but otherwise real-life trials and tribulations of growing up in the 1950s and 1960s.

This is a story about my own 18-plus years' imprisonment in a body with a brain whose prefrontal cortex refused to mature, and the corresponding outrageous events and adventures I was lucky to overcome. The Nockizeemi Kid was born in Richmond, Virginia in 1949. He was most fortunate to have experienced a 1950s' childhood in an idyllic neighborhood surrounded by a variety of unique, peculiar and interesting kids.

My younger brother would attempt to follow in my footsteps with mixed results. He followed me into various sporting endeavors, public schools, and our college fraternity. I'd like to think I was a good role model, but at times when I wasn't around, he too often found himself led astray by the Nockizeemi Kid into stupid endeavors and precarious predicaments. --His older brother

Near Disaster on the Rails
A disheveled, grizzled hobo emerged from under the trestle to provide his own manner of encouragement. The mixed odor of urine and sweat was barely detectable over the aromatic hydrocarbons of coal tar from the creosote. Unlike a tramp, who works only when forced, and a bum, who does not work at all, a hobo is a traveling worker. I don't recall if he was carrying a bindle. While I was negotiating the ladder, the hobo had pulled out a wad of money, some of which he offered to my brother and Montgomery. He also removed a glass eye he was proud of and offered to let the boys handle it. Wisely, they shunned both offers and joined me at the ladder. . . .

The Principal
When I reached the lobby of the principal's office, J.B. and Roy Lee were already there, sitting on a couch. I was directed to sit down beside them and wait for Mr. Principle to come out. Though often looking somewhat disheveled in a chocolate brown Sears-Roebuck suit and stained out-of-style tie, Mr. Principle had a formidable aura. He was a big man with a toothbrush moustache, gigantic ears, and Albert-Einstein-like unruly gray hair who wore thick Coke bottle glasses, named after the thick bottoms of Coca-Cola contour bottles. They made his eyeballs appear to be the size of golf balls with pupils the size of black marbles. I'm sure he wore them due to poor eyesight, but they also served to intimidate the little children.

Not unexpectedly, J.B. seemed pretty calm, but I was apprehensive. I perceived Mr. Principle's shadowy image through the Florentine glass of his mahogany office door as he reached for the brass door knob. He looked furious as he waddled into the lobby, towering over us and holding an ACME yardstick in his beefy right hand. Was he going to beat us? I knew from stories told by my grandmother that teachers used to smack their students' outstretched palms with a 12-inch wooden ruler as punishment for misbehaving.

I don't recall whether Mr. Principle said anything initially, but he began shaking the yardstick violently up and down, until it began undulating like the Tacoma Narrows Bridge before its collapse in 1940. I also believe I detected some spittle coming from the corners of his mouth. In hindsight, he must have been close to being apoplectic. I noticed immediately that he was uncoordinated and flabby. In the next moment, the yardstick snapped in half. . . .