Each year, we love to do something to honor Owen in the month of May. In the past, we have done special blogs, photo edits, and lists, typically on his birthday and the day of his passing. Since this is a milestone year, we felt it would be interesting to celebrate the moments along Owen’s life through photos. Throughout the month (and into June) we will be featuring a special photo, along with some stories & videos to celebrate some of our best Owen memories.

A Story of Young Owen
Credit: Diana Hart (Under the Mat, published 2001 – pages 49-51)
Please see the bottom of this post for information about the novel.

Owen was an awesome marble player and always accumulated a bagful. At lunchtime while we waited for my dad or Dean or Bret to pick us up, we’d shoot marbles in the powdery playground dirt.
One day, three grade 10 boys – Ken, Scott and Martin – approached us. They were privileged kids who looked down on us. Scott, the ringleader, called out, “Hey, it’s the Hart farts.” Martin joined in. “Little bastards. Their brother Bret is in my homeroom. The teacher says he’s retarded.”
Then Ken began a singsong chant, “Tar-doe. Tar-doe. Tar-doe.” Martin laughed, “The other day, she threw a book at him and told him he’d never amount to nothing.” Ken was close enough now to kick some dirt at us. “Lowlifes. Have you seen their shitmobile?”

Only Scott hung back. “I dunno, Bret is kinda tough.” Ken spit on the ground beside me. “Bullshit! Wrestling is fake. Everybody knows that, even the rummies who spend their weekends at the Pavilion.” He narrowed his eyes at us. “Hey, Hart Farts?”
Martin leaned in close to Owen. “Hart farts, nice clothes. Where’d you get them? Green Acres? What’re you waiting for? The shitmobile?” Owen swallowed hard, but ignored the taunts and kept focused on the marbles. I felt my eyes stinging, but pretended to concentrate on the circle in the ground Owen had made with his index finger. Ken leaned in and grabbed up the whole sack. “Gimmie your marbles.”
He kicked dirt at Owen and tossed the marbles in the air. Owen stood up, wiping the dirt from his eyes. Ken patted on the head. “Hey a cat’s eye! Thanks, Hart fart.”

Although Owen only came up to his waist, he stood toe-to-toe with Ken and growled menacingly. “Give it back.” Ken laughed and shoved Owen roughly and started making his way past him. Head down like an enraged bull, Owen leg-dived and threw Ken into a headlock. The other two jumped on Owen using him as a kicking bag. Owen managed to land a kick and Ken stumbled. He held Owen’s head back with one hand, debating what to do. He snarled, then began slapping him with his free hand.

Though none of his blows were landing, Owen continued to flail away at Ken. Martin and Scott were laughing. I was on my feet and kicking at Ken’s shins. “Let go!” I shouted. “Gimmie back my marbles!” Owen screamed. Ken shoved Owen so hard he tumbled to the ground, taking me with him. The three boys ran off laughing, tossing our marbles into the field as they left.

When Bret arrived at the school to pick us up, he could tell something was wrong with Owen. He was usually not so subdued. We were conditioned not to whine or tell on people, but Bret got it out of him.
The next morning just before noon hour, Bret’s 1965 gold Brougham Cadillac came to an abrupt hault in the school ground parking lot. He waited outside his Caddy as we tentatively readied our marbles in the dirt. Ken and his buddies were headed our way and Owen made eye contact with Bret indicating they were the bullies.
As soon as Ken came within 10 feet of us, Bret started toward them. His tee-shirt sleeves were tight over his impressive biceps as they pumped through the air. He was on them as quick as a cat. He held all three tight in his grip. With one arm he caught Ken’s neck in the crook of his elbow while he twisted Ken’s arm up behind him at a painful angle. All three fussed and swore at him. “Ow! Let me go!” Ken demanded. Bret smiled. “I heard you like to play marbles.”

“Let me go.” Ken sounded a little less sure of himself. Frightened, his buddies backed off. Bret twisted Ken’s arm up a little higher. “I think you have something to say to my little brother and sister here.” Now Ken was almost crying. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Owen piped up, “You should say sorry to Bret too, for calling our car a shitmobile.” Bret’s face grew dark. “What?”
Owen nodded. “He called your car a shitmobile.” Bret goose-stepped Ken over to the Cadillac and pushed Ken down in front of the bug-covered headlights. “Kiss it,” was all he said. Ken was almost passing out from the pain. “No way.” Bret twisted Ken’s arm up so high it looked like it would break. His voice was quiet. “I’m not asking again.” “C’mon. No!” Ken pleaded.

Bret made a quick, sharp move and I heard a terrible cracking noise accompanied by Ken’s scream. Then I watched a slow smile spread across Bret’s face and I heard Ken kiss the grill.

*Note about Novel: Under the Mat received widespread criticism shortly after its publication for both factual inaccuracies and critical commentary towards many Hart family members. The controversy, and subsequent lawsuit led to it being pulled from bookstores and publication in 2002. We have fact checked this story, as much as we were able to, and it was not to our knowledge one of the contested portions of the book. Diana Hart has admitted there were some failures within the writing of this novel, and she has since written fiction novels that do mention this book in her author bio.