Free Charles Manson Behind Bars by Mark Hewitt Page B

threshold, he began to share with me some of the childhood experiences that made him the person he became. I wasn’t always sure whether he was telling me the truth, however. I have always had a tough time accepting at face value what anyone said. By that time in my life, I had concluded that most people tell lies most of the time. The truth will get you in trouble. It is better to shade the truth, or make up stories and facts that are useful. I know I’m not alone. In jail, a story is as likely to be as phony as a three dollar bill as it is to be an accurate accounting of events. With good reason, all people who have done time in prison tend not to trust others. If you take people at their word, the prison system would have to be full of innocent, wrongfully convicted, people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or happened to be on the receiving end of some police or political vendetta. Charlie, however, seemed very sincere when he shared with me. He spoke from the heart, and I could tell that it was painful for him to describe his early years. He demanded the truth from me and was never satisfied with partial truths or manufactured facts. In time, I learned to accept as truth the things he told me, and to reciprocate an honest presentation of reality.
    Charlie was born in 1934, under the same sign as me: the Scorpio. He arrived in Ohio to an irresponsible, unmarried girl who had just turned 16. Neither Charlie nor his mother ever knew for certain who his father was, though his mom suspected a certain encounter was responsible for him. In Charlie’s words, “everyone in town was doing my mother.” Much of his first few years were spent at the home of the parent’s of Charlie’s mother. Charlie’s mom was not one to be tied down so the two moved frequently. He acquired a couple of half-sisters later in life.
    Charlie had some happy memories of his days in Virginia, one of the many places that he called home. Nothing is left of his childhood residence, he told me. It had been demolished so that a large dam could be erected. “You used to be able to drop in a fishing line and pull out all sorts of fish,” he lamented to me. “You could see deer walking in the area. Now, everyone says that it’s all gone. The dam is more important because it makes money and fills the rich people’s pockets, rich people who don’t even live in Virginia. All they want to do is build dams, kill the deer, dry up the creeks, pollute the air, dump chemicals and run all the small people out of town.”
    His grandfather being a veteran of WWI, Charlie enjoyed playing with the medals, knives, and guns that were stored in a locked box in the attic. He had two uncles that he remembered from his early years: one who died in prison of tuberculosis and another who worked for the railroad. Charlie vividly recalled visits he made with his mother to see his incarcerated uncle. On one occasion, he observed his uncle working at something in the toilet of his cell. At the time, Charlie concluded that the man was attempting to escape. Only years later did he realize that his uncle was washing his clothes in the time-honored tradition of plugging up the cell latrine, putting soap in the toilet bowl, and scrubbing (often followed by a cleaning of the whole cell with the same soapy water). Charlie laughed and laughed when he recalled his early misunderstanding.
    In addition to these uncles by blood, Charlie was introduced to many, many other men, always called, “Uncle John,” whom he later concluded were prostitution “Johns.” Frequently, Charlie was told to play in the yard, even if it was cold, even if was dark, so that his mother could have time alone in with the current “Uncle John.” It was confusing and alienating for young Charlie. The one person who provided any sort of consistency in his life frequently rejected and abandoned him.
    The men came and went in Charlie’s early life. Some stayed for a few days or