Life History of Marcel F. Lauper
(Right to the Solar Plexus)
JULY the 2nd, 1978: This dictation is an addendum to my Life Story, which story I have written earlier this year, having been motivated in that effort by my sister, Viola, along with my son, John. [The title of this section is his own suggestion.]
My brothers, John and Felix owned a pair of boxing gloves, maybe they first belonged to Serge; anyway, we had these gloves at our Sugarville farm house. With them, I learned to spar at a very early age. When 12 years old, I became a Boy Scout, and the first activity with this group was a series of boxing bouts. I was pitted against some young chap whose identity I cannot recall. I soon socked him in the stomach (solar plexus), and down he vent, unable to breathe for many seconds. I thought I might have killed the kid and tearfully told Chester Cheels, the scoutmaster; “I'm sorry, I'm sorry". This brought a reply from either the scoutmaster or his assistant; "No, you are not sorry. That is why you got into the ring and hit him, and you did a good job.
My next encounter took place on the road by the Sugarville Ward House where Furlis Housekeeper was shoveling a load of sand. Cloyd Miller was there --'horsing' around, and had already incurred the displeasure of Furlis, having received a shovel full of sand on his back. Then Cloyd ruffled M.F.L. I took him on. Fists flew but not for long. I caught Cloyd in the pit of the stomach (the solar plexus), and down he went with his wind gone. He became a better 'Indian' after that. (Another Cloyd anecdote will follow this series of punching encounters).
During my high school days at Delta, the three smallest boys of our student body, 500 members, were Cleo Wicker, Ed Knight, and Marcel Lauper. Cleo was my fan; but Ed wanted to 'Lord' it over me. He made the fatal mistake, one day, of making light of my red hair (0 how I wish I had it now).... along with my freckles. Incidentally, these two items of my complexion were usually the cause of my scraps. Following the comment by Ed, he and Marc went at it. Soon M.F.L's fist hit Ed's midriff and down he went. After he moaned and groaned for some time upon the ground, he caught his breath again; got up, and tried to take up where he left off. By now his friends restrained him, and I was champ!
While a Servicemen doing basic training at boot camp, Sheppard Field, Texas, my antagonist was in the form of a rather tall, athletic looking fellow. From all outward appearances he far outclassed little Marcel, at least physically. He made the inflammatory remarks and quickly we were the center of an imaginary ring, hitting like two Jack Dempseys. Again I found the solar plexus (it was becoming a habit by now), and down he went. After the big guy laid moaning and groaning for a while, he too got up and attempted a comeback. His friends feared for his well being after such a poor beginning, and they pulled him away. I thought it just as well they did, realizing I might not have come off with a second lucky punch. So, like Rocky in the movie, I did not pursue the fighting game. Needless to say, I received more than my share of respect from the fellows after that.
Next incident took place at Pampa Air Force Base Weather Station. It was far into the night, with only one other person in the Operations Building, as far as I knew. This person was behind the next counter in the Operations Dept., of this partition-divided building. This fellow seemed bored and hurting for some excitement; and he said, in my judgment, those wrong words and about me. I hustled out from my section of the building to the corridor and invited him to come out. My 'dukes' were up. He came out, all six feet, and 200 lbs. of him! He could have squished me. He clenched his fists, raised in the attitude of a fighter, and then stepped back, dropped his arms to his side and said in a most pitiful and meaningful tone; "It's no use; I've been reading Dale Carnegie's HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE, and still, everybody I meet wants to whip my _____ (rear end). I still think it was pathetic about his public relations condition but I am surely glad he didn't beat me up, and that we became good friends.
So, the only times I got whipped was by my own brothers, Ralph and Dennis. Dennis, one day, learned that he could out-wrestle me (all that bread and milk he'd consumed resulted in him out-pounding me. One day I attempted to bully him in the usual way and he got me down; then, he didn't know what to do with me. He was kinda apprehensive that if he released me I might get up and wallop him for putting me down in the first place. Anyway, this became a new era and I was careful to not dutch-rub him again. However, it was some time after that before Dennis and Ralph could handle me with the boxing gloves; but the day did arrive and has remained ever since. I was having a friendly boxing bout with Ralph just before my departure for the mission field. He struck me on the right jaw and the bones on my left side hurt badly for the next two (2) years. He hadn't intended to hit me quite so hard but by this time in his life his medium punch was equal to the kick of a small horse. It hurt, and hurt a lot. Now I have long passed the day when I would seriously take on my son with the boxing gloves.