Youth Gone Wild. Robert "Bob" Sorensen

      The Beginning

      June 25, 1961, a beautiful baby girl is born. She is named Karen. She is the firstborn child of Emil (Bud) and Joan Sorensen. She is perfect in every way—beautiful light-brown hair, dark-blue eyes, and soft white skin. The young couple, married two years prior, cannot be happier. All they’ve thought of, all they’ve talked about since taking their wedding vows was to start a family. How could you possibly ask for a better start?

      Joan, the only daughter of Joseph and Adelaide Gabrick, was born and raised in a small Central Illinois town called Toluca. She has an older brother (Joseph) and a younger brother (James). They are all very close. Because she is the only girl in the family, she is constantly doted on; one might even say spoiled. She is pretty, intelligent, and extremely personable. She would go on to graduate from High School as the valedictorian of her class of sixteen. Upon graduation, she would move to the big city (Chicago) to make her mark in the world. She would become a secretary, be active in local/national politics, and frequent the jazz clubs on the weekend. Somewhere in the near future, she would meet my father, go through a relatively short courting/engagement period, and get married. From that point on, she would become known to my father as his “country girl.”

      Emil, one of three sons of Emil and Sue Sorensen, was born and raised in the Chicagoland area. He has an older brother (George) and an identical twin brother (Don). George was a big burly kid who grew up defending his twin brothers. He was their protector. If anybody messed with either of them, George would kick ass and take names later. The twins were small frail boys. Starting at an early age, my grandmother would dress them up in identical outfits; many of which were quite feminine in nature. Many a times, people would comment on what cute girls they were. Thank God for Uncle George. The beautiful thing about being a twin was always having someone to be there as you go through all the stages of life—grade school, high school. They were both drafted into the Army at the same time. They both were stationed at the same army base (thank God they never saw any action). They were both discharged at the same time, going off to college (University of Illinois) on the GI Bill, earning degrees in architecture. They applied for the same job (drafter) at the same employer, working the same set hours in the same office area. The die was set at birth and would continue through the death of my Uncle Don. Emil, shortly after establishing himself in the workforce, he met my mother, fell in love, and got married. My mother found her “city boy.”

      My parents set up house in a two-flat on the northwest side of the city, which they called Mackley’s Mansion. A small two-bedroom apartment across the street from St. Ladislaus School (where I would eventually attend school) and Chopin Park (the site of many of my future escapades). One of those bedrooms was painted a beautiful light-pink with a ballet dancer border.

      Upon Karen’s arrival from the hospital, she would spend her first two months in a cradle next to my parents’ bed. After those two months were over, she would transition into this beautiful girl’s bedroom—pink sheets/comforter, pretty stuffed animals of all kinds, a baby duck and lamb mobile hanging above the crib. A perfect environment for this pretty little girl to begin her life. My parents were so proud of Karen—the girl of their dreams. My father went out and bought an 8 mm camera to capture every moment of Karen’s development. In addition to that, my parents would take her to a photo studio every ninety days to get professional pictures taken of her to gladly share with all their friends and family. Life was good.

      Tuesday, November 6, 1962, Election Day, a four-pound, two-ounce baby boy is born at St. Anne’s Hospital in Chicago, Illinois. He is eight weeks premature and is immediately moved into an incubator in the ICU, where he will spend the next two months of his life. He is very small. He is very frail. At a point very early on, a priest is brought in to issue the last rites to this tiny boy. No one is sure if he is going to survive or not. The baby’s name is Robert, the firstborn son of Emil and Joan. What a way for me to enter this earth. A far cry from my sister’s entrance. Instead of going home to a beautiful blue nursery, I am lying in a box, under a heat lamp, with a respirator helping me to breathe. Sterile white walls. Unfamiliar faces coming and going. Which one is my mother? No time for bonding with your mother when you’re fighting for your survival. Insult to injury. The doctors tell my mother the reason I was prematurely born is a direct result of her smoking cigarettes throughout her pregnancy.

      Back in the ’50s and ’60s, smoking was the thing to do. Doctors went on radio and television to tell people how good and healthy smoking was for you. Tell that to my mother as she raises my head with her finger. Tell that to me as I fight for my life—my lungs, my nerves, my eyes not fully developed. After several months of touch and go, I am now healthy enough to be released from the hospital. In anticipation of my arrival home, Karen is moved into a kid-sized bed in the corner of the room, making space in her old crib for yours truly. Everything remains the same—pink walls, pink sheets, ducks and lambs. Little did I know then that this would be a pattern followed by my mother for years to come. She was not prepared to raise a boy. She had not been exposed to this type of environment. That said, she was going to go with what she knew. She was going to raise her oldest son exactly the way she raised her oldest daughter. In a nutshell, I was screwed from the get-go—prematurely born, no time to bond with your mother early on in life, going to be raised like a little girl. God help me!

      *****

      Since my arrival on this planet, it became quite apparent, due to my premature birth, that I would not be the “perfect” child like my oldest sister Karen was. My nerves were not fully developed, making me a very hyperactive and sensitive child. I was crying, screaming, and active all the time. Morning, noon, and night. Sleep was nonexistent. My lungs were not fully developed, so I had a hard time breathing. In between my crying jags, I would be gasping for breath. My mother was at a loss, panicked all the time. I spent many hours in the bathroom with the hot water running (steam). The vaporizer ran in my room constantly. An industrial-sized jar of Vicks VapoRub sat next to the crib, applied generously day and night. In addition, my eye muscles were not fully developed, resulting in a lazy eye. I was a real mess of a child. This was not what my parents signed up for. Needless to say, the 8 mm camera did not come out often with me in the picture. Who wanted to take movies of a screaming, cross-eyed baby? For obvious reasons, we never did make it to the photo studio as well. You would never get me to stop crying and sit still enough to take a decent picture. No sense of wasting anyone’s time and money. Looking back, we have hours upon hours of movies of Karen and beautiful pictures of her from the photo studios. Me? An occasional picture of this wild child peeking out from under his pink blanket. What a mess. What a way to start out my life.

      Shortly after my arrival, my parents decided they needed more space to raise their growing family. We had outgrown our little apartment. As fortune might have it, my father was able to find and purchase a four-bedroom bungalow five houses north of our existing location. Two months later, the four of us moved into our new home on Roscoe Street. Perfect. Still across the street from Chopin Park. Walking distance from the school. As my parents