This is my story of how I was bought up in an orphanage and was able to use what the nuns taught me to advance and excel in my life.

Before I get started with this story, I need to explain why I feel the need to write it. My grandmother, uncles, father, sisters, brother and cousins always seem to have the ability to tell a story which always entertained. None of them ever set down to the task of recording these stories for the family or others. I also have that ability. I have noticed that for the most part, no matter how uninteresting I think the subject, when I tell it, those listening seem to enjoy it. For that purpose and the purpose of information for my family, I write this. In addition, I have no animosity and or hard feelings towards anyone, not family, nuns or those who I opposed while helping others. In telling some of these stories during the years, I have had friends tell me they are wrought with self-pity. I admit, in writing this book, that it does deal with self-pity, self-doubt, humor, bitterness and depression. I ask for no sympathy nor offer any excuses. I write this for family and anyone who can benefit from it. As those mentioned in the later part of this book to my friends thanks, to the heartless people who went out of their way to cause others grief, the Lord will deal with you. I would not give up one iota of the experience from my encounters with any of these people including my father. Doing so would deny the tools (the hardships) the Lord gave me to excel at helping others.

The year was 1942 when the death of our mother changed our lives forever. It was not until I was 48 would I find out how she had died. Mom was pregnant with what would have been her sixth child. She would use a coat hanger to abort the pregnancy and died of complications. The only reason that I was finally told was because of my fear. For all those years dad and the rest of the family had said mom had died of leukemia. The fear I speak of that finally brought forth the truth was genetics. I was speaking to Grandmother Ollie Sumner, (Mom's mother) Uncle Clarence (Mom's brother) and Aunt Glodine, about how I was afraid that because leukemia is a blood disease the hereditary factor would cause one of my kids or one of my sister's or brother's kids to get it. Uncle Clarence and grandma both said "Hasn't anyone ever told you what really happen?" Th ey told me mom had died of complications from a self-abortion. I turned and looked at Marie and asked, "Is that true?" She responded, "Yes, I thought you knew already." Well anyway, as I said the loss of our mother changed our lives forever.

The loss of our mother and dad's inability to cope with this loss is how we ended up in an orphanage. I would find out years later that dad tried to find homes for us with members of our family but, no one could take the five of us because they had families of their own and dad had made a promise to mom he would keep us together. The Children's Protection Agency had threatened to remove us from dad's care. This threat made the choice easier on what would be done with us.

The orphanage is in Alton, Illinois and we came to call it Saint Joseph's Catholic Orphanage. I don't know how my sisters, brother and me came to call it that because we have been informed it was and is called Catholic Children's Home. Anyway it is located at 1400 State Street. This would become the home for us five Creath kids. Raymond was twelve, Marie was ten, Esther was eight, Phyllis was six, and I was three. The Nuns, who ran the orphanage, were very strict and dealt out punishment freely or so it seemed to me during my stay. I managed in my nine years there to get my fair share of the punishment. To say they dealt out punishment freely would be denying my ability to earn the punishment. Which I can say now, without any doubt, looking back it was one of the things at which I excelled. They would use a red razor strap for the purpose of the punishment. Of course in defense of the nuns, maybe that strap was for only the hardest of cases.

Our lives, after our mother's death but before the orphanage, were bad. The year was 1942, and things went to wrong in a hurry for our family. Dad blamed himself for the things that happen and tried to drink away his guilt. It wasn't until 2003 when I obtained mom's death certificate that I would know what he felt guilty about. He had let mom languish at home sick for a few weeks before taking her to the hospital. We were living in Granite City, Illinois on Myrtle Street. After mom's death dad made no real attempt to care for us and left the duties of the household to Marie. Between her and Esther, they skipped a lot of school to take care of Phyllis and me. Marie was nine years old and was not prepared for the task but valiantly tried to carry on as a mom would. Dad had opened a charge account at a little grocery store in the neighborhood. Marie did the shopping and her main purchase was canned hot tamales. We never thought anything was wrong with us eating canned hot tamales for supper every night. Marie thought everything was going good. She was doing her best and had no concept that anything was wrong, until one night when dad told her that he wanted her to fix something besides hot tamales. It broke her heart because she thought he was mad and ungrateful and in my way of thinking he was. Today Marie is a great cook, but we all still love those canned hot tamales. It is a reminder of our troubles together and we like them and always will. Meanwhile everything was coming apart around us.

Little by little, the furniture disappeared. Dad was drinking quite a bit and not taking care of things. We were without electricity, water or gas and would spend our nights huddled together for warmth. If it had not been for a caring neighbor, a policeman name Coco Martin, looking in on us and bringing us food from time to time we would have gone hungry most nights. The most vivid of recollections (by my sisters and brother) was Christmas Eve. They pulled our mattresses and an orange crate (the only items left in the house) up to the front window in hopes that dad would surprise us. However when he did not come home until three in the morning he was drunk and had five pounds of salted peanuts and a five-pound candy cane. He had bought some other presents but had left them at a drinking friend's house. Ray and Marie walked over to the drinking friend's house the next day to retrieve our Christmas presents. Things deteriorated to the point that someone from the welfare department showed up to talk to dad. He chased them off but realizing that they would be back, he made an effort to place us with relatives. Ray and Esther went with Uncle Cecil to live in Ava Illinois. Marie, Phyllis and I stayed with dad in West Granite with some friends of dad's. As I was only three, my recall was through the memories of my brother and sisters. The only real vivid memories any of them had was that Marie got yellow jaundice and dad stuck her up in the attic until it passed, because he was afraid it was contagious. Marie was terrified by the isolation. The stupidity of folks in those days overwhelmed any sympathy dad might have. I would find out later, he felt no sympathy, only that Marie was a problem he didn't want to deal with.

By early 1943 WW II had been going on for a little over a year. Dad would tell us years later that he had been drafted and had no choice but to serve. In 2001, I requested his separation papers and found he had enlisted. He was very good in the construction field and the Navy...