Previously Published Elsewhere―CHAPTER 5: "Counting Down The Yardstick"

Serialized over the next several weeks

The Toe Headed Boy
Small Rural Town
Late 1800’s

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If this is your first time here, I strongly suggest you begin at the beginning.

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RECAP: number of years ago, I had a psychic, named Ruth Berger (RIP), whom I visited three or four times in a few years. She was very much in tune with me, and I “felt” her abilities. Even if you do not believe in people’s psychic abilities, our meetings taught me a lot about life, living, and loving.

One time, she offered sessions dealing with “Past Life Regressions,” which were run by a friend of hers who was quite good at conducting this type of psychic adventure. I signed up for one. In our session, as we looked at some of my past lives, I revisited five existences.

Normally, I was a little sceptical at first, but after the experience I became a believer. In no way could I have made up the stories that I told, while in deep meditation (or under hypnosis). To be honest, I amazed myself.

Many years later, I decided to tell these stories in a self-published book, which I titled “Counting Down The Yardstick: A Memoir of Past Lives”. I have decided to share them with you over the next several Wednesdays, chapter at a time, beginning with an introduction to the process the facilitator used for the readings.

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Written August 2013, Revised January 2015, Revised again March 2019, Published in July 2020

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Dedicated to

Gregory’s dad, Edward (RIP 1997)
Gregory’s mom, Helen (RIP 2001)
My dad, Louis (RIP 2005)
My mom, Adeline (RIP 2010)
Gregory’s brother, Alan (RIP 2014)
My Husband, Soul Mate, Partner, Love, & Best Friend, Gregory, (RIP 2015)
Gegory’s brother, Mark (2017)
My sister, Libbe (RIP 2020)
My brother-in-law, George (RIP 2025)
Pets Broadway, Hoover, Mariah, and Emma, and

Counting Down the Yardstick — Table of Contents

1. The After Life - Before
2. Baker: Renaissance Italian Hill Town - 1600‘s
3. Nun: French Reign of Terror - 1793/94
4: Carny Worker: Traveling Midway Show - Early 1800’s
5. Toe Headed Boy: Small Rural Town - Late 1800’s
6. Farmer’s Wife: Rural Ohio Farm - Early 1900’
7. Renaissance Man: Midwest - Since 1945Chapter 1
8, The After Life - Before

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Here then is

CHAPTER 5

The Toe Headed Boy
Small Rural Town
Late 1800’s

BY: Michael A. Horvich

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My name is Tommy, and I am, or was, seven years old. My town was small, and I think I knew almost every person who lived there, and I think they all knew me.

When I visited the general store in town on an errand for my mother, the owner always gave me sugar-covered lemon sucking drops in a little bag. I used to think that the drops were covered in flavorful sand, but Johnny, my older brother, told me I was wrong.

This time, I buried the bag deep in my pocket so I wouldn’t have to share any with him, like last time when he ended up eating most of the drops himself.

I liked Johnny well enough, but as an older brother, he sometimes tortured me with his teasing. I would always laugh to show him I didn’t care. But I did care!

Sometimes he would hit me, and I would hit him back, but never in front of dad, or dad would yell at us, “Stop fighting, or I will show you what fighting can be!”

Mom’s response was always, “Now boys …”

Often Johnny didn’t have any time for me at all because he liked to be with his friends, so I was alone a lot. Sometimes we would play in the house, and now and then we would go on walks. We liked going on long walks and would bring a bag lunch with us: a cheese or bologna sandwich, a bag of chips, and something to drink.

Our house was on the edge of town. On our walks, in not too much time, we would find ourselves out of town and in the middle of nowhere. We would walk down the dirt road surrounded by row after row of corn growing on both sides.

On hot days, we would take off our T-shirts and wrap them around our waist. The sun on my back felt warm and loving. Once in a while, when we were out too long, we got sunburned, and Mom painted us with vinegar mixed with water to ease the sting.

The sun beating on my blond hair made my head glow like it was a lightbulb. The heat felt good and gave my hair a certain smell that said, “Summer!”

By the end of summer, the corn was so high we could not see over it and would play “hide and seek” among the stalks. The person who was “it” would stand at the two-lane road intersection of Route M and #1, hand on the wooden power line utility pole, and shout “STOP” after slowly counting to 25 while the other person jumped the fence and ran to hide in the field. Johnny would always find me, but I could never find him!

On one of our walks, we usually walked the same way every time, when we reached the intersection, we noticed that someone had dumped an old refrigerator next to the pole. The white enamel was rusted in places, but everything else seemed like it would work. The plug and wire were carefully wrapped up and hung on the back, the legs were all in place and sturdy, and the door worked.

For a while, we enjoyed throwing rocks at the closed door, seeing who could score without missing. Then we tried to see how hard we could swing the door shut and have it still lock. Sometimes it would lock, and other times it would bounce open with a bang or swing wide open, hitting the fence.

Johnny suggested, it a prank on me, that I get in the refrigerator to see what made the door swing open so strongly. I climbed in, fitting inside snugly but comfortably.

Before I knew it, everything went black as Johnny carefully closed the door, making sure it locked. This didn’t scare me because he had done worse things to me in the past. It was all part of the games we played, or at least the ones he played with me.

I am not sure how long he left me there. I do remember, as I slowly began to feel woozy and tired, that I was frightened about what mom would say when I was late home for dinner. She would be angry at me.

They say death is a lot like sleep. One dreams, and the night seems to go on forever. They are right.

Can I forgive Johnny for my death?

Of course, I can. I love him, and I know he didn’t do it on purpose. He was at least as surprised at my death as I was.

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Interestingly, somehow I knew during the past life regression that in my current life, that Johnny turned out to be my life partner, my husband of 41 years!

To this day, I am always in touch with the “Little Boy” who lives within me. For the longest time, even as an adult, when asked what age I felt, I would say nine years old.

That is where my little boy remained until I reached my 40’s, when he turned into a teenager. At that point, I think I decided that “my little boy inside” would always be with me, would remain ageless, and never grow older.

I never let anyone, anything, anytime, or anyplace make me feel like an adult or older person unless I choose to. I still wonder at circuses, literally get lost at flea market sales, and love to eat penny candy: Red Twizzlers, Tootsie Rolls, Peeps, Smarties, Mary Janes, and Root Beer Barrels.

I love to laugh and to get silly. I love telling jokes and laughing when I hear a good one. “Knock Knocks” are my favorites. Riddles are fun to solve.

And I love toys. Nowadays, I do not play with them as much as arrange and curate them in a vessel (box or bowl) or on a shelf.

There is something so magical about small things. When I say “small things,” I do not necessarily mean miniatures. For example, small chairs are miniature chairs, but a collection of over two hundred game piece movers of different materials, textures, colors, and shapes, are all small but are not miniatures.

When I collect, if I can get an item in each color, for example, a rainbow assortment of marbles, I am happy.

Also, I like to collect in 3s. And if I can get a small, medium, and large one of an item, I am ecstatic. I have a celadon Asian female figurine, whose facial features, as cast, are mostly worn off, in three different sizes. Same identical figurine but three different sizes. And I love that the facial features are mainly worn off.

A lifelong ambition took place when I donated over 105 collections of small things to the Chicago Children’s Museum on Navy Pier and in 2011 for a permanent exhibit called “Michael’s Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures.”

When one is a collector, does one ever stop? I don’t think so. While tens of thousands, maybe millions of little things went to the museum, my condo continues to fill itself (seemingly with little effort on my own.) I call it “Michael’s Museum: Evanston Campus Condo Collections”.

Maybe since my childhood in this Tow Headed life was so short, it has caused me to want to hold onto those child-like feelings.

Perhaps his death added to my claustrophobia, my fear of being trapped in small places.

The fear extends to the possibility of being trapped in any closed space, like an airplane or elevator. I will get on an elevator anyway, but if I am not familiar with the elevator, my heartbeat increases. I have learned to classify elevators as “Friendly” or “Unfriendly.”

Friendly ones are the ones I use a lot, like in my condo building. I know the elevators are well-maintained, and I am used to the subtle movements and noises they make. When I go on vacation, I take a Xanax to help me fly. That quiets down my anxiety.

I feel that one of the reasons I am so well adjusted in my current life is because I have been able to keep a balance between childhood and adulthood. So, the little boy lives on. Long Live the Little Boy!

What impressed me most about the little boy was how his main fear while dying was that his mom would be angry with him. Also, he had no fear or claustrophobic reaction being shut in the refrigerator as compared to how I would react today!