Smart as a Peanut

‘You boys playin’ like your gonna go down to Cuba and fight the Russkies? asked Mr Young.
‘Yeah, we’ll show ‘em!” said my buddy Scotty.
Mr Young lived on Hamilton Street around the corner from me and next door to Scotty. He was one of the neighborhood dads; his daughter Jill was one of the girls who sometimes hung out with us. She was ‘okay’ for a girl anyway. Her dad seemed older than our dads. He had a slight build with a small mustache and was gray and balding. Our dads had not reached that advanced age of decline.
Mr Young worked for the city of Geneva and sometimes, if we were lucky, we would see him driving the city street sweeper. He was always friendly to us, giving us a wave as he drove the sweeper down the street.

It was Sunday afternoon in late October 1962. Scotty was my neighborhood pal and we were playing ‘Army’ once again. This involved wearing an old Army helmet that Scotty owned and a couple of toy rifles that we secured to our belts. Of course Scotty, whose dad had been in the Marines, had a real army helmet and a real combat belt. At least he claimed they were real. I had no way of knowing and I guess it didn’t matter anyway.
We were bundled up since the weather had turned cold. As we trudged through the elm leaves scattered on the lawns and sidewalks, we ducked frequently behind the trees and bushes. We were pretending to hide from the imaginary enemies we envisioned. We were weary soldiers in the fields of France, fighting the hated enemy.

That was how it was done on TV, we thought. We had gained plenty of experience in doing this from watching the television series ‘Combat’ and old war movies that were on Sunday afternoons on Channel 2.
Sergeant Saunders was the leader of his brave group of soldiers in those Combat episodes. Scotty and I would take turns being either the Sarge or ‘Caje’, one of his brave and loyal men.

We had heard that President Kennedy was going to announce some sort of ‘blockade’ around Cuba. The week before, some of the older guys (the sixth graders) were talking about it at school. They said that it was like a big fence made up of boats.
“Cuba,” one of them said, “was a little island in the ocean somewhere by Florida.”
“Why we (the United States) could drop 3 atom bombs on them and wipe ‘em out,” said Ronnie, one of the older boys. “And it would be over and done with!”
Sounds like something a grown-up would say, I thought.

That September, after Labor Day, I had just started the fifth grade at Fourth Street School. Typically, there were two fifth grade classes and two sixth grade classes. But this year, at Fourth Street, there weren’t enough students for two complete classes of fifth and sixth grades.
My fifth grade class shared a room with the sixth grade class. They even bussed kids in from Geneva’s east side to add more children.
Ronnie was one of the sixth graders in my mixed class and as we all knew, those guys were older and wiser than any of us fifth graders.

That Monday, I took my usual route to school; I walked down North Sixth Street turned the corner onto Hamilton Street and stood in Scotty’s driveway, under his maple tree, hollering for him to come out.
Meanwhile, two other buddies, Jerry and Willie showed up. They were brothers who lived on the one-way section of North Sixth.
Jerry was my age and while his brother Willie was younger, Willie was tougher and stronger than him and about the same size. Willie also used more swear words and got in more trouble than any of us kids.
“Did you hear the President last night?” asked Jerry. “There’s gonna be a blockade of all the ships goin’ to Cuba!” “My dad says there’ll be all kinds of ships out there!” (Jerry and Willie’s dad had been a Navy guy).
Just then, Scotty arrived, hustling out of his house with a knit cap covering his orangish red hair. Overhearing the talk of the Navy, he added, “Yeah, well my dad says there’ll be plenty of Marines on those boats, ‘cause the sailors won’t know what to do!”
I felt bereft of anything worthwhile to add to this conversation. My dad was an Army guy and all he had said about the situation was, “those sonsabitches!”

“Those are ships, not boats, dumbass!” said Willie to Scotty. A minor shoving match broke out between the two. We ignored them and walked down North Fifth Street past the vacant lot toward school.

As we reached Peyton Street, we saw Kurt, a bigger fifth grader pushing Wayne, or Peanut, as he was known to us. This was becoming a daily occurrence between Kurt and Peanut.
Wayne was a short studious boy who carried a briefcase to school everyday. We called him ‘Peanut’ because of his short stature. It wasn’t a name of derision but more of a name that more aptly fit him.

Kurt was the class bully and often picked on the smaller or younger kids. He was a year older than any of us and was in our fifth grade class only because he had flunked last year and was now repeating it. Peanut was his daily object to terrorize, inflicting various types of torment on the smaller boy.
This time, he was in the act of bullying and didn’t hear or see the leap that Scotty made, landing on top of him.
“Hey!” screamed Kurt. “Get off me!”
“Then leave him alone,” said Scotty quietly.
Scotty was only in the fourth grade; he should’ve been in fifth but had been held back because of an eye problem. He wore glasses and you wouldn’t think that he could be a tough kid. Kurt knew better. Scotty was as big as a fifth grader, but much stronger.
Like most bullies, Kurt was a coward. He got off of Peanut and ran off.
“I’ll get you guys!’ he yelled. Willie returned the verbal volley using a few choice swear words, much to all of our chagrin. I bet Peanut never heard those words, I thought.

“You okay, Wayne,” asked Scotty.
‘Yes, thank you Scott,” said Peanut, addressing Scotty rather formally while brushing off the leaves from his jacket and wiping his glasses. “I would have to run into Kurt, what with this cold weather and the missile crisis.

Peanut’s more studious leanings allowed him to talk in a much more grown-up manner; he was more informed and worried than we were about Cuba and missiles.
“Oh, Cuba’s nothin’ but a little island. We could drop three atom bombs on them and they’d be finished,” I said, parroting Ronnie’s words from last week.
“What?” squeaked Peanut. “Do you know what that could mean? There’s Russians down there delivering missiles by boat. And there’s Russians setting up those missiles. If we bombed them, it could start World War Three!” he explained, breathlessly, gulping at the same time. “Besides that, there would be lotsa people killed down there and then maybe the fallout would spread up here! We would all be doomed!”
Geez, Wayne, er, Peanut knows a lot more about this stuff. I thought. I should be quiet and not sound so dumb.

“Yeah, well we’ll fix those sonsabitches!” swore Willie, delighting in seeing Wayne’s shocked look at the use of swear words.
Geez, I thought, I just told Willie what my dad said and he’s already using those words before I got the chance!

“Hey you guys, ptff,” said Yorkie as we approached the playground of the school. Yorkie was another school buddy. He was over-liquefied; by this; meaning he had the bad habit of spitting saliva as he talked. Scotty and I once saw a small frozen puddle and remarked that Yorkie had probably made it while doing a lot of talking.
“One of you guys using swear words around here? Ptff.”
We had to be careful; Yorkie was a school safety patrol. He wore a white braided belt crossway over his burly chest. It went well with his pale skin and blonde crew cut, I thought.
I was becoming a connoisseur of classic clothing wear; what with my brown, shiny, matted over corduroy pants and matching green shirt.

Even though, Yorkie was one of our school pals, he was sworn to uphold the school rules. The reward for being a school safety patrol was attending a Cubs game on a school day, at the end of the school year. Swearing could get someone ‘reported’. That meant seeing the Principal, Mr. Bye, and having whatever justice might be meted out.
“That was me,” said Willie. “I wasn’t on school grounds; so it doesn’t count.”
“Yeah, well I heard it on school grounds, ptff” replied Yorkie.
Before we could indulge ourselves on the particulars of this question of sound, location and the physics thereof, the school bell rang.
“Just be careful, Willard (that was Willie’s real name) ptff,” ordered Yorkie. “Or else, I’ll have to report ya, ptff.”

We marched into Fourth Street School under the eyes of the various teachers keeping order among the sundry ages of the student body. The old familiar smell of crayons, sharpened pencils and mimeographed papers flowed over us like an ocean wave. There was Miss Pierce, our old fourth grade teacher; she was our favorite. She smiled, waving to us.

I remembered the time in her fourth grade class when the zipper of my old corduroy pants was stuck open. Miss Pierce quietly gave me some safety pins to close the offending gap. She was cool! Scotty was lucky to have her for a teacher, I thought.
“Long time no see,” said Scotty as he split from our group and walked into his fourth grade classroom. Scotty said that every day as he went into his classroom. I wonder what that means, I thought.
Willie scampered into the same classroom as Scotty, while Jerry and I trudged up the flight of stairs, hanging on to the slick wood railing. We each went to our individual fifth grade classes on the third floor of the school. I didn’t envy Jerry; he shared his class with Kurt, the bully.

As I walked into class, I noticed my teacher, Mr. Ellmaker, writing on the blackboard. In the back of the room, were three of my fifth grade classmates talking with a sixth grader.
They were standing near the small sink and a few cabinets that were used during the science experiments. Our classroom had once been the science room in the earlier days of Fourth Street School. This was when classes were smaller; and there was enough time to perform science experiments. Even though there were only enough children for one and a half sixth and fifth grade classes, there were more students in the lower grades resulting in more classrooms taken up by their over-population.

“Hey, John, hey John,” whispered Pete, one of the sixth graders, “smell this stuff.” He held out a small bottle.
I was known throughout the class and even at home for sniffing most things. I had seen my dog Sam and even one of our cats do this. It seemed like a good practice to develop, I thought.
Holding the bottle, I unscrewed its cap and brought it near to my nose. But, ever since I had developed this keen sense of smelling abilities, I slowly sniffed the air as I brought the bottle near.
Ammonia! Whew! I quickly capped the bottle and set it down; I recognized the strong scent of cleaning ammonia. They were playing joke. I remembered the smell of ammonia from sniffing a bottle of it at Willie and Jerry’s house. The memory was not pleasant and it had taught me to be much more careful when learning about stuff through their scents.

“Sorry John,” said Tito rather glumly. He was one of the fifth graders. “We thought it would be funny.”
“Yeah, we didn’t know it smelled that bad,” added Gary and Robbie, the other two fifth graders.
“Yeah, well it was dumb.” That was all I could muster up.
“Ha, ha, I thought it was funny!” replied Pete. “Boy! Were your eyes watering! Or were you crying?” Crying! Woe to the boy caught crying – one of the ultimate embarrassments – you might as well walk around in your underwear. It was just not permitted for older boys like us (in public anyway).

Pete wasn’t a bully; he was just using his big boy, older boy status to show who was in charge. In the grade school hierarchy, the older students could be expected to inflict their brand of domination upon the younger population. There were exceptions of course; my pal Scotty whose physical attributes cancelled out this unevenness or with Peanut, whose intelligence and demeanor usually didn’t lend itself to feats of supremacy (other than bullies, like Kurt, of course). On the other hand, getting even could be expected.

As more students filed in, Mr. Ellmaker called the class to order.
“Okay, everyone sit down and be quiet, there are a few announcements before we start assignments.”
I sat down at my desk across from Cindy and behind Dennis, two of the bussed kids from the east side. Cindy was a short blonde haired girl with a turned up nose. She was very smart.
Dennis, on the other hand was a class clown; not paying attention and not getting very good grades thus far into the school year. But he made us laugh.

As the class became quiet, Mr. Ellmaker made the announcements:
“There are two notes of importance that Mr. Bye wants to make clear to all of you:

First, there will be a Halloween party for the kindergarten and first and second grades this Friday at 11:00. Mr. Bye does not want anyone from the other classes interfering (that was code for leave the little kids alone).

Second, the school board and the PTA will have a plan for nuclear preparedness that will be given to all of you. You will be given this plan at the end of today’s class. You will need to take it home to your parents.”

We looked at each other quizzically. “What’s that, nulecler preparingness?” asked Dennis to no one in particular, completely pronouncing the term wrong. Sometimes Dennis talked quickly, mixing his letters.

“It’s Nuclear Preparedness!” snapped Cindy impatiently.
“Yeah, duh, Dennis,” added Ronnie.
‘Duh’ was a popular catchphrase for anything sounding stupid, seeming stupid, smelling stupid or for anyone who was just plain dumb. We all used it, much to our parent’s and other grown-ups’ dislike. Therefore, we used it whenever we could.
I didn’t think it was a dumb question, I thought.

“Nuclear preparedness,” explained Mr. Ellmaker “means planning for a possible nuclear attack.”
“You mean like if an A Bomb was dropped?” interrupted Rex. He was one of the sixth graders and had blurted out the question while his hand was raised.
“Yes, exactly,” replied Mr. Ellmaker. “Because of the situation in Cuba and the naval blockade that we are forming, there is a possibility of a nuclear attack by Russia from an air base in Cuba or somewhere else. That means that they could drop atom bombs on the United States. We need to be prepared if that happens.”

The class started buzzing. Everyone was talking about what their parents or parent in the case of Gary and what they were saying about the president’s Sunday night speech.
Geez, I thought, all I know is what my dad said, “those sonsabitches!” I sure couldn’t say that in class!

Mr. Ellmaker called the class back to order: “Class, quiet!” He looked at us intently, “When I was in the Army, we faced all sorts of situations that required preparedness.”
I groaned inwardly; here we go again; he’ll be talking about World War Two forever.

Mr. Ellmaker was a veteran of World War Two. When we first started class in September, he regaled the class of his many experiences of the war. Even though, my mom said he looked like some early television character named ‘Mr. Peepers’.

His war tales all seemed very interesting, especially to Rex, who even brought in a book that his dad had of the Pacific war front. But this was now late October, and I for one had grown tired of this stuff. None of his material was of much use in playing ‘Army’ with Scotty. Watching Combat offered more situational plotting. Besides some of his stories sounded familiar, like from one of the old war movies we watched, I thought.

But then Mr. Ellmaker started talking about what might happen if an A Bomb were dropped. Interesting stuff! Melted cars and streetlights! Wow! Man, would that be cool to see!

Then he explained that we would go into a shelter, “If you were caught outside during a blast,” he explained, “If you survived, you might have to take off your clothes, throw them away, shower and then put on fresh ones.”

“Gross! Not me!” exclaimed Dennis. I’m not takin no shower!” Dennis, I noted was not the epitome of cleanliness. He reminded me a little bit of DJ, one of the neighborhood kids who went to Catholic school. Same grime on his neck, I observed and almost the same odor (more like bacon though).

“Well it’s either that or maybe getting contamination from radiation and getting sick from not washing it off,” reasoned Mr. Ellmaker. “Anyway, you would be ordered to do it,” he added.
The day went on. We walked home for lunch, watched Bozo’s Circus and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; then returned to school. At the end of the day, we were handed neatly folded, stapled sheets of information that were to be given to our parents. Of course we read them.

‘Tuesday, at precisely 11:00, all of the Geneva grade schools will be conducting a test for nuclear preparedness. This will involve the following: All third fourth, fifth and sixth grade students living within a ten-block radius of their school shall be dismissed at 11:00. They are to go directly home and note the time of their arrival. They should do this quickly and without delaying for any circumstance. They shall remain there for their lunch and then return to school for their afternoon classes. Upon returning to school, the time they arrived at their home shall be then given to their instructor. If for any reason, the student is not able to perform this, their parent or guardian should write a note to be given to the student’s instructor noting as such.’

The rest of the letter was a bunch of parental stuff that wasn’t very interesting. But what about this ‘As such’? What does that mean? Is this some sort of race? Questions, questions, I had questions. Lucky for our group, we had Peanut.

“Hey, Peanut, what’s this all about?” I asked.
“It’s Nuclear Preparedness,” explained Peanut.
“Well why are we doing this race to get home stuff though?” asked Scotty.

“The school board wants to see how fast it takes us to get home,” explained Peanut. “Then, they will decide who will have to stay at school and who they will allow to run home if there is a nuclear attack – if they drop the Bomb,” he explained logically. “You can tell by how they’re saying ten block radius and only allowing third, fourth, fifth and sixth graders to make the run.”

“Holy cow,” exclaimed Jerry. “That means that they have a certain amount of time they’re gonna give us. If we take too long, we won’t be allowed to go home; we’ll have to stay at school!”
We all looked at each other. Who wanted to do that? Stay at school?

“Well I can get home faster than any of you buttfarts,” yelled Willie.
A race to get home began. Leaving Peanut at the corner of North Fourth Street and Peyton, we raced home shouting and pushing each other. Of course, Willie and Scotty were ahead immediately, with Jerry trailing me. I split from the group at North Fifth and Peyton and continued running down Peyton to North Sixth straight into our old house and up the stairs with Sam and Queenie, our two dogs, on my tail. The other three raced down North Fifth to Hamilton. I don’t remember who got home first; I suspect it was Scotty.

Tuesday came as it always did; homework done the night before; the same walk to school. But it was different. Our parents had read the note from school and instructed us accordingly and with a sense of seriousness. My sister Joyce reminded me in the morning again after my mom had said something to me. Mom looked grim-faced.

“Don’t forget,” said Joyce, sensing our mom’s discomfort, “You’re supposed to come right home as fast as you can! Don’t fool around, this is important. Follow the rules!”
She was always saying stuff like that. She was a stickler for those things, worried that we were going to turn out like rotten apples, I guess.
“Don’t worry, we had a race yesterday,” I told her.

Linking up with my school pals, we walked to school, talking about the upcoming race home.
“I made it home in about a minute!” boasted Willie, obviously exaggerating his claim.
“Oh, baloney, I got home first and it was around three minutes,” said Scotty That’s more believable, I thought.
“Well, I got home fast enough, but Sam bit me. So I don’t remember,” I said, thinking back to the race up the stairs. “I forgot to check the time.”

“Yeah, well your dog is crazy, I saw him bite your bike once! And then some bees” replied Willie. He was right, Sam did gnaw on my sister’s bike once and he did snap at some bees that were trying to eat his food. Heck, I might have done that too.
“Well, maybe he should bite you, ya little pissant!” I told Willie, noting that Yorkie was far enough away to not hear me.

At morning recess, we saw Kurt limping.

“Wonder what happened to him,” I whispered to Jerry.
“I heard him say that he stepped on a piece of glass at the Dump yesterday,” said Jerry. “The glass went right through his tenna-shoes and cut his foot!” (Tenna-shoes were our word for gym-shoes or Keds).

“Lockjaw!” I gasped, Kurt’s gonna get lockjaw!”
‘Lockjaw’ was the threat our parents used on us to keep us out of the Fox River, the town dump, abandoned houses and the old Wheeler Lumber Yard on State Street. ‘You’ll get lockjaw if you step on a rusty nail,” they said. “you’ll get lockjaw if you (fill in the place where they didn’t want you to go – parents were like that – but it seemed more true when we got our tetanus shots for fifth grade physicals - Old Doctor Barnes said it was for lockjaw!)

We imagined Kurt walking around town with his mouth permanently open in a disfigured smirk much like those pig-faced people in a Twilight Zone episode we saw a few years before. Man! Wouldn’t that be awful but the right justice done to the bully, I thought to myself.
“Yeah,” said Willie, and I bet he didn’t tell his old man ‘cause he would catch hell!” Willie is probably right, I thought. It was likely that any of us would catch hell from our dads if we showed up with a cut foot from hanging out at the dump.

As 11:00 neared, the classroom was alive with anticipation. Mr. Ellmaker read the instructions that had been sent home to our parents.

“Remember,” he said, “this is not a race. Just get home as quickly as you can, eat your lunch and then return at the usual time. Be sure you or your mom or dad takes note of the time you arrive at home and write it on a slip of paper. Bring that back to me. I’ll note it down here.”

As we hustled home, none of us spoke a word. We were like the soldiers in Combat, performing our duty to our country. We took off like a flash, forgetting everything Mr. Ellmaker or any other teacher might have told us.

On our walk back to school after lunch, we saw a red-faced Kurt limping down Peyton Street toward school. He almost looked like he had been crying. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders.

At the end of the day, more notes were given to us to take home to our parents:

It has been decided that some students who live within the ten-block radius have not been able to make it home in the time allotment considered to be within the ‘safe time’ of nuclear preparedness. Therefore, those students shall be required to remain with the other students who have been designated to remain at the school in the event of an emergency situation. However, parents may make arrangements for their child to stay at another student’s home or other safe area if they so desire. Please make the arrangements and notify the school by this Wednesday, October 24 afternoon.

“Gosh, who would you ask to take home? Cindy?” asked Jerry. Jerry always seemed to look at girls differently, I thought. What a traitor!
“No, maybe Scotty or Tito,” I replied. “No girls, there’s enough of ‘em at my house already!”

As Wednesday came and went, I noticed Peanut walking over to Kurt that afternoon, during recess.
Oh man, Peanut’s asking for trouble, I thought. But before I could say something to Scotty or Jerry, Kurt had limped hurriedly away.

Thursday morning, Pete got himself sent to the Principal’s office; he had asked Cathy, one of the sixth grade girls to sniff the bottle of ammonia.

“Hey Cathy, I bet you can’t tell what this stuff is,” he said, offering her the bottle.
Cathy was a short brown-haired girl, considered by our group of pals to be a goody-goody. Once, when we were in the Geneva Theater for a matinee movie, she reprimanded us like a mom.

“You bad boys, you shouldn’t say that!” she blustered. We had been watching an Aladdin movie where the girl in the movie was wearing a belly dancer outfit. Seeing her outfit, we had made a few rude remarks, while Willie had said a few swear words for added effect especially for the girls sitting in front of us. Unbeknownst to us it was Cathy, and her two girlfriends who were in the seats in front of us. She heard us talking about the girl in the ungentlemanly-like manner and had saw fit to turn around and shake her finger and scold us.

So, it was with a sense of guilty pleasure that I felt, when I walked into the classroom to see Cathy holding the bottle to her nose and taking a good sniff.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she wailed. “My nose, my eyes!” she screamed. Tears were flowing from her eyes almost immediately as she ran into the hallway coughing.

“What happened?” demanded Mr. Ellmaker.
“Uh, I asked Cathy if she wanted to smell this bottle,” stammered Pete.
“Okay,” he snapped, “then you go down to Mr. Bye’s office and stay there until I come down to see you!”
Wow! Mr. Ellmaker’s really mad! I thought.

Cathy returned to class later that morning, red-faced and red-eyed. Pete returned that afternoon with a very sober look on his face. At some point, he was ordered to apologize to Cathy.

He was also required to stay after school for two weeks for book holding and blackboard nose punishments. That’s what we surmised anyway.

The blackboard nose punishment wasn’t too bad. You just had to be sure you didn’t drink too many liquids the day of the punishment. It involved the teacher drawing a circle on the blackboard. Into this you pressed your nose, keeping it there for the next half hour.

It was the book holding punishment that was dreaded. The teacher gave the prisoner two books, one for each hand. He was required to hold a book in each hand with arms outstretched, away from his body for periods up to ten minutes. It doesn’t seem long until you’ve done it.

Friday morning, Mr. Ellmaker told the class how our ambassador to the United Nations, Adlai Stevenson had stood up a made a speech Thursday night at the United Nations. He spoke directly to the Russians and confronted them about the missiles. Mr Ellmaker said that he was a very brave and smart man. He said that he had used his intelligence to combat the enemy. We thought it was odd that Mr. Ellmaker, the man telling war stories would say such a thing.

But the strangest occurrence was Friday morning; Peanut and Kurt were walking to school together, talking, and Kurt was smiling! He even waved to us!
We looked at each other in amazement; what was next?

Later that morning, I asked Peanut about the strange goings-on: “What, are you and Kurt friends now Peanut? How’d that happen?”
Peanut told me the story: Wednesday morning, he came in late for school; he had slipped and torn his pants. His mother wrote him a note to give to Mr Bye to excuse him for being late.
While he walking to the office, he heard Kurt’s voice in Mr Bye’s office. “Kurt sounded like he was crying. Mr Bye was saying to Kurt that his time in making it home was too long. He would have to stay at school. Kurt yelled and said he was scared of what might happen.”

“Huh! Kurt was crying?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Peanut calmly. “Then he ran out of Mr Bye’s office to the washroom. I guess he didn’t even see me.”

“So when I went home for lunch,” continued Peanut, “I asked my mom if it would be all right if Kurt could come to our house if there was an emergency.”

“What! Are you nuts?” I shouted. “Why he’ll beat you up.”
“No he won’t,” said Peanut assuredly, “I told him I would tell everyone that I saw him crying and heard him say he was scared.”

“So your mom said it was okay then? And what did Kurt say?” I was peppering Peanut with too many questions.

“My mom said it was okay. She called Kurt’s house and they said it was okay with them. So at recess, I asked Kurt. I told him I asked my mom and she said okay and she asked his mom.”

My head was spinning. This little goof is gonna get beat up or is smarter than I thought he was!

“My mom said to bring Kurt home after school so she could talk to him. That’s when I told him I knew what happened in Mr Bye’s office. After he talked to my mom, he didn’t act as mean – he only punched me once and he said I could hit him back.”

“Man, Peanut, your like Adlai Stevenson at Fourth Street School,’ I said with a look of admiration.
“Well,” said Peanut, “I may be short, but that doesn’t mean I’m a dumbass!”
“Wait ‘till I tell the guys, I thought, they’ll never believe me. Peanut said a swear word and he’s palling around with Kurt.

Peanut’s fifth grade year at Fourth Street School was afterwards much less stressful. He had used his brain to solve his problem. Kurt never bothered him that year. As a matter of fact, we didn’t see Kurt at Fourth Street the following year, for the sixth grade. Apparently, he had got into some other trouble and didn’t return

By Monday, the crisis (as Peanut termed it) was over. Our parents breathed a sigh of relief. In class, Mr. Ellmaker told us how our president, President Kennedy had told Mr. Krushchev of Russia that he would agree to certain terms. He said that the Russians would dismantle the missile bases that they had erected in Cuba. ‘We had won!” he said. “Just like we did when I was in World War Two.”
I sighed, here we go again. Then, Mr. Ellmaker started telling the tale of the Battle of the Bulge.

Meanwhile, at afternoon recess, Loren, one of the fifth graders from Jerry’s class was telling us the story of Dennis and the milk races. Loren, along with Dennis, was one of the students bussed in from Geneva’s east side. He was a skinny pale blonde haired boy who talked rapidly, almost nervously.

During those grade school years in Geneva, someone, maybe some social scientist, determined that grade school kids were not receiving their daily amount of milk. Therefore, for a penny, students could receive a short half pint of fresh milk that was delivered to the hallway, outside the classroom door for consumption at morning recess. Some kids brought three cents and received three half pints. Some kids said their milk was free. Apparently their milk was subsidized. Some of us just poured the milk down the drinking fountains when the teachers weren’t looking.

The time Loren was referring was when he and Dennis were in the same fourth grade class at Harrison Street, Geneva’s only east side school. When recess time neared, the milk was brought in and delivered to each student. Earlier in the year, they had started a game of milk races – a race to see who could drink their milk the fastest. Dennis had matched himself up with a student named Mitchell.

Bang! The race began. Dennis downed three half pints in half the time Mitchell downed two. Dennis had won! Or so it seemed.

Since Dennis was the class clown, the class cutup, his teacher had put him in the front row, directly in front of her desk with only a short gap between the two desks. This was to keep Dennis under control. I suppose in modern times, Dennis would have been given Ritalin or some other calming drug.

Returning from recess, the class settled down to the teacher’s instructions. Dennis began to feel strange; he raised his hand. The teacher, deep into grading papers apparently did not notice his hand or chose to ignore him; he was the class clown afterall. Dennis began vigorously waving his arm. Just as his teacher noticed him Dennis put his hand to his mouth in a funnel shape, as if to call her quietly. Instead a stream of projectile vomit was emitted from his mouth, spraying her desk and the graded papers. Undoubtedly due to the amount of swallowed air and milk, the pressurized contents had left his stomach just as quickly as they had entered.

Yorkie guffawed, spitting saliva as he heard this wonderful tale of puke and teachers. As a matter of fact, we all laughed heartily.

“Wow, ptff, I wish I coulda been there!” said Yorkie earnestly. We all nodded in agreement. It must’ve been a sight to see. We should’ve been there.

Peanut smiled and agreed.

Curse of the Black Walnut

There was a prank often played in our neighborhood, it was called Doorbell Ditching; this involved sneaking up to someone’s house (usually a sometime friend but more often, a sometime enemy) and either knocking on their door furiously or if they were better off than you, ringing their doorbell.

After quietly arriving at their front door and performing the prank, you and, of course your best pal would hide in a good viewing spot to see the outcome of your mischief.
Sometimes, if it was Earl or DJ’s house, it might be their old man who came to the door, and who, in a fit of characteristic verbosity, would spew forth some choice swear words; And if we were lucky, we might even hear some of those words that were forbidden to say at any time in the company of older sisters (or little brothers) let alone an adult.

Other times, if it were Earl or DJ’s house, their mom would come out. Then we were more paralyzed by fear. Their mom was a short, plump woman with an eagle eye (probably because of her vast experience with large groups of kids – she had twelve or sixteen – I guess). She would spot us hiding in the bushesand then with a commanding voice, she would point her finger directly at the bush in which we hid behind and proclaim, “John, Scott, get out of our yard!” “Go blow!” that was the best she could serve up. We thought, it was undoubtedly because her husband had already made use of all the swear words for the day that they were allowed by Catholic law (none of us were well schooled in Catholic principles).

But when she came out to tell us to ‘Go Blow’, her accompanying brood would follow her out onto their porch, hanging onto the rails, chanting, “John and Scotty, go blow, go blow.” Worse yet, Earl and DJ would follow us as we ran, screaming “go blow’ in between mouthfuls of whatever they had manage to scrounge from their kitchen during the time their mother was distracted. Lucky for us, we were average kids while they were overweight. We could outdistance them in a matter of minutes leaving them to their more favorite occupation; eating whatever they had in their chubby fists.

Scotty was my best neighborhood buddy. He and his sister Lorie were orange haired kids who lived around the corner from us on Hamilton Street. Scotty was shorter but much tougher than me. I had seen him take on a schoolyard bully without so much as the wink of an eye. He was good pal to have in times of need.

His dad was in the process of building a modern house out of brick and concrete while they lived in the older part of the house on the same lot. It was an interesting process for boys our age (eleven years old or so); we could watch men and machines at work on the house and step on a rusty nail at the same time.

While my dad had a size 40 waist and drank lots of beer, Scotty’s dad was fit; he had been in the marines and played football, Scotty once explained to me.

He not only drank beer, but also mixed liquor drinks. We knew that because when his friends would come over for ‘relaxation’, they would sit in his unfinished patio or driveway smoking cigarettes and plastic tipped cigars that they tossed into the graveled portion of the drive. They would puff away while drinking beverages made from one of the various large bottles clustered around the kitchen counter. Once we had poured a drink from one of the large bottles and found it sweet, yet bitter tasting. Unbeknownst to us, we had tasted a mixer, not the true alcohol from a liquor bottle.

During one of his dad’s ‘relaxation’ episodes, we decided that we would be like the big boys: earlier in the day, we had collected the discarded cigar and cigarette butts from Scotty’s drive. We poured a small cup shaped Tupperware container half full of liquid from one of the brown bottles sitting 0n Scotty’s kitchen counter.

Later that afternoon, we sat under the back porch of my old house on Sixth Street lighting up the worn out plastic tipped cigar butts and sipping the brown bottle liquid from the Tupperware container.

It tasted good for only a moment; because it seemed much quicker, that our bellies were soon on fire. Besides that, the cigars tasted terrible, much like soot or dirt with a smoky aftertaste.
As we coughed and wretched, we suddenly heard voices from at least two people walking quietly along the side of the house. They quickly faded out, but then we heard knocking on my front door. ‘Doorbell ditchers!’ we thought.

My sister’s voice rang out (which one, I couldn’t tell – I had five of ‘em - sometimes they all sounded alike – especially when they were mad – like the time I squirted my sister Jean with the garden hose – when she came out on the front porch, hair in rollers – she sounded like my sister Jessie – Jean chased me around the house, caught me and dug her long fingernails into my arm).

My sister’s voice rang out, “you bad, bad boys! Get out of here! Just go home!” ‘Geez,’ I thought, ‘I could think of better words to scream. Girls don’t know anything!’
But it was my sister Joanne! And, the two voices of the doorbell ditchers were those of Earl and DJ.
In the neighborhood, Joanne was known as JoJo. She was a few years younger than me. JoJo had short brown hair and hardly ever wore a dress - she was a tomboy back then. She could run, jump and play baseball just as well as any of the neighborhood boys and because she was a girl, she couldn’t be beat up – there was a gentleman’s code afterall - fighting girls anyway.

Earl and DJ knew that. When they saw that it was JoJo, they were terror-stricken; horrified by what might be meted out from a well-positioned kick of her strong little legs.

JoJo chased them around the old house; Earl and DJ running as fast as their chunky legs could carry them. They had tossed aside their bits of food (later, we found cold wiener bits on the front porch and the remainder on the sidewalk).

As Scotty and I emerged from the back porch, we gazed at JoJo chasing Earl and DJ towards their house. Trotting back as quickly as she had left, JoJo spotted us; “What are you guys doing?” she asked. “Just hanging out,” I said. “Did you catch them?”
“Almost,” she said. “They ran into their house and then I heard their dad hollering at them. So I left,” she said nonchalantly. ‘She didn’t even care about their old man,’ I thought to myself.
“Hey, what smells?” She looked at Scotty’s hand; he quickly hid it behind his back.
“Hey, that’s a cigar!” Were you guys smoking them?”
“Yeah, so what,” I said.
“I should tell," she replied.

JoJo wasn’t a tattletale and I knew she wouldn’t anyway. Besides, I think she was really mad that she didn’t get the chance to try one herself.
“Yeah, well remember that I didn’t tell when you took Sam for a walk and he puked in front of the BF Goodrich store downtown.”

I was recalling the time when JoJo took Sam, our manic boxer, for a walk by herself. Sam was almost uncontrollable for me and for a smaller person like her; he literally dragged her to wherever he wished.

The time in question was when she had take Sam for a walk one early morning in downtown Geneva, the Sunday after Swedish Days (back in the early 60’s, Swedish Days ended on Saturday afternoon). Sam had dragged JoJo from garbage can to garbage can; eating bits of hotdogs, popcorn and whatever else might be left over from the previous day’s parade.

In the process, he had knocked over several waste containers and then had relieved his stomach of its contents in front of the BF Goodrich store on the corner of North Second Street and State Street. I had come along on my bike after doing a paper route for a vacationing paperboy and saw the mess. Biting her lip to keep from crying, JoJo was beside herself.

“What happened?” As if I couldn’t figure out the scenario in front of me. Still I wanted to hear from her, the story.
“I took Sam for a walk and he started eating junk,” she wailed, pointing to the trail of devastated trashcans Sam had left in his wake. “Then he got sick!” “How am I gonna clean this up?” “Which?” I asked. “That mess,” pointing my hand in the direction of the destruction, “Or this? (the vomit).
“All of it!” Apparently JoJo was more civic-minded than me.
“Get on the back of my bike,” I said quietly. “Unhook Sam’s leash and we’ll make him chase us home.”
“What about the mess?”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then it will be a town mystery,” I said darkly (I was still into reading Hardy Boys books). “Okay?”
“Okay,” she said wiping her nose.

Thinking back to that time, JoJo weighed the balance of tit for tat. I think she also thought that I might reveal to Scotty that she might have teared up. The disgrace!
The doorbell ditching went on through most of that summer. We would forget about doing it for weeks and then remember it as if it were something new.

The final straw occurred in August, a few weeks before the start of school. Scotty and I were watching an afternoon Sox game at his house. We heard his dog Deuce barking and looked out the window, only to see Earl and DJ scurrying back through the break in the wooden fence of his yard.
“I bet they were gonna doorbell ditch me,” said Scotty.
Later that week, Scotty and I had ridden our bikes to the Geneva Pool on Western Avenue near the train tracks.
Afterwards, saying good-bye to Scotty at the corner of Hamilton and North Sixth Street, I rode the short half block home.
There, standing outside on our front porch was my dad and JoJo. She was getting hollered at for not latching the front door. Sam and our other dog, a brown mongrel named Queenie had gotten loose.

The two dogs had learned the trick of jumping on the front door handle while pushing against the door. Over the summer we had unknowingly trained them in this bad habit by teasing Queenie about getting squirrels. She was an absolute squirrel crazed mutt, chasing and treeing any neighborhood squirrel she heard or saw. Simply by saying “squirrel or get the squirrels Queenie!” would throw the hound into frenzy. Of course, we did this as often as we could remember.

Affixing his attention on me, my dad said, “John, I want you and Joanne to get on your bikes and start looking for those two damn dogs!”
“I got my paper route to do!” I whined.
“Do it after you find those dogs!”
I should’ve known better; he used the word ‘damn’ and said Joanne instead of JoJo; he was more angry than usual.

Just then the phone rang.
“Daddy,” yelled someone from inside the house, “it’s the police, they want to talk to you!”
Our eyes grew wide. “Geez, ya think they’re calling about Sam and the puking?” asked JoJo.
I hunched my shoulders.

He came back out, red-faced about to explode. “Ride your bikes down to the State Bank, those two damn dogs are down there!”
The State Bank of Geneva was on the corner of Third and State Streets; a corner that held one of the few stoplights in town.

As we rode down to the bank, I asked JoJo how she had left the door unlatched.
“Doorbell ditchers,” she said. “It was Earl and DJ. I chased them down the street and kicked DJ in his butt. Earl got in the house too soon. His mom came out and yelled something at me and I stuck out my tongue.”
‘Man she’s brave,’ I thought.

“My ankle is sore from it too. I heard the front door slam and saw Sam and Queenie running down Hamilton Street. That’s how they got loose.”
“Well, I’ll get them back,” I said, referring to Earl and DJ.
“I’m helping,” she added.

By the time we reached the State Bank, a large crowd had formed. Traffic was backed up.
Sam and Queenie were racing around the intersection, completely stopping traffic. Two squad cars with their lights flashing were stopped in the street. The two officers were attempting to round up the two dogs without any success.

As an officer would approach, Sam would splay his front legs while Queenie would run circles around him, barking in the process. Just as the cop would get close enough, Sam would quickly jump up and almost hop away. This was typical Sam rough housing. As Sam and the cop would perform this feat over and over, the crowd would roar in laughter.

I whispered to JoJo, “If we can catch Sam, Queenie will follow him. You get the leashes ready!”
Willie, one of our neighborhood pals had heard of commotion and rode up to me. Willie was eating an ice cream drumstick watching the fun. “Ya think Sam will bite somebody?’ he said hopefully. Willie needed more drama to suit him.

“Willie, give me your ice cream for a minute. I’ll give it back to you.”
Willie handed me the drumstick.
“Here Sam, here Sam,” I called out extending the drumstick towards Sam.
“Hey, don’t give your dog my ice cream!” yelled Willie.
“Don’t worry, Willie, I won’t.”

Sam approached, sniffing at the ice cream cone. As he snapped at the cone, I slid the choke chain collar over his head, dropping the drumstick onto the street. Sam quickly gobbled down the cold treat. Queenie followed Sam to the treat. JoJo quickly snapped the leash onto her collar.
Both dogs were caught!
“Hey, my ice cream!’ cried Willie.
I gave Willie a dime that I had been saving to buy Milk Duds for the next time at the pool. “Here, sorry about your ice cream, Willie.”
“Okay, thanks.” Willie was already eying Nelson’s store – the penny candy shop.
“You kids, keep those dogs home,” commanded one of the officers. “And on a leash,” added his counterpart.

“This is as bad as last June when we had to clean up those knocked over garbage cans and that mess some drunk made on Second Street.”
Sam was beginning to make hacking noises; JoJo looked at me nervously and sniffled. I shook my head and looked down at my shoes in hopes of gaining pity.
“Just get those dogs outa here,” said the older of the two officers, noticing JoJo’s look of consternation.

Realizing how foolish they appeared, they cut their orders to us short. Telling the small crowd to move on, they began directing the snarled traffic through the intersection.
Walking our bikes and the two dogs home, we plotted our plan of revenge on Earl and DJ.
It was a simple idea; we enlisted the help of JoJo’s girlfriend, Bobbi. She lived across the street from Earl and DJ and had several older sisters.

Bobbi’s mom was an attractive lady (in the eyes of the boys our age – she was up there in good looks alongside Dinah Shore and Doris Day – even the fourth grade teacher at Fourth Street School, Miss Pierce - maybe it was her blonde hair). She was also a very good cook. Consequently, her husband had a huge belly.

Whenever she was baking pies or cakes or cooking fried chicken, a wonderful aroma would waft through our neighborhood. Enticed by this, Earl and DJ would often stop by Bobbi’s house to beg for a sampling of the desserts or any other fare being prepared.
We asked Bobbi to tell Earl and DJ that she would give them some chicken legs her mom had cooked if they would doorbell ditch her friend JoJo’s house as a joke. This was too easy, "of course they would," they said snickering – easy eats.

Meanwhile JoJo and I would have Sam and Queenie waiting under our front porch to give chase. Scotty would be waiting next door.
The perfect day came. Bobbi’s mom had cooked fried chicken the day before. Bobbi brought out three chicken legs that she gave to Earl and DJ. The two piggy boys ran over to our old house on Sixth Street and knocked hard on our front door and took off running. We unsnapped the dogs’ leashes.

“Get the Squirrels Queenie!” I yelled.
Queenie took off running looking for the squirrels. Sam followed her in quick pursuit. Sam quickly sniffed the air, smelling fried chicken, dirty underwear and pork rinds (pork rinds and dirty underwear were DJ’s own odor).
Off he ran in search of the tantalizing scent. Queenie forgot about the squirrels and joined Sam in hunt. JoJo and I followed the dogs.

Seeing the two dogs and JoJo and I in hot pursuit, Earl and DJ raced towards their house, clutching the chicken legs in their greasy hands.
“Yeow!” Yelled Earl. He had run into Scotty, who had stepped out from the lilac bushes. He fell to the ground. Scotty jumped on him,
Before Scotty could make a good wrestling move, Earl slipped from his grasp, his greasy skin benefiting him apparently.

Jumping up, Earl reversed direction and took off running, behind DJ by a few yards.
Now, both the lard-laden brothers were being chased by our two dogs, Sam and Queenie, Scotty, JoJo and I. ‘This will end soon,’ I thought. Into Ernie’s garage, our old man neighbor who lived across the street, ran Earl and DJ..

Crash! Earl had run into the black walnut drying rack Ernie had constructed. It was two full size screen windows mounted onto sawhorses. Into this rack, Ernie had placed the latest batch of black walnuts he had collected a few weeks before. Black walnuts and their rotted husks scattered onto the garage floor.
Earl dropped his chicken leg; Sam quickly gobbled it up. Looking expectantly at DJ, Sam licked his chops.

“You better give those to him,” I warned. “Or else.”
“I won’t!” said DJ defiantly, stepping close to Earl.
As he did this Scotty tripped him. DJ slipped on the floor, dropping the two drumsticks he held and knocking his porky brother Earl down on top of him. More black walnuts fell out of Ernie’s drying rack. Sam and Queenie chewed on the dropped chicken legs.
JoJo walked over to DJ and kicked him in the butt. Then for good measure, she kicked Earl in his butt.

“Ow, ouch,” grunted the two boys.
“Now quit doorbell ditching our house!” she said in her best tough girl sounding voice.
Earl and DJ got up, their jeans and dirty tee shirts covered in the oil that dripped onto the garage floor from Ernie’s old Ford. Worst was the brown stains on their face and arms from the rotted black walnut husks they had fallen into.
Just then, Ernie appeared. “What are you kids doing in here?” he asked crossly. We looked at each other.

“Oh we were looking at your black walnuts,” said JoJo, “and Earl and DJ slipped on the floor,” she said not untruthfully.
Ernie’s face softened seeing JoJo. “Well you boys have made a mess of yourselves. And that black walnut stain won’t come out all too easy. Just clean up the mess and I won’t say anything to yer folks. JoJo you can try some of these walnuts while you hold onto the dogs and the boys clean up their mess.”

Earl and DJ heaved a sigh of relief (as did Scotty and I).
The four of us cleaned up the mess. Scotty and I allowed Earl and DJ to pick up the rotted black walnuts (they were already walnut stained anyway).
Later, we walked home. “You stink!” JoJo told DJ. Even Sam wanted nothing to do with him. It was the smell of black walnuts.

The two stained slob brothers walked home. As they approached their house, they turned around and yelled “go blow!” Then they quickly ran up the steps of their front porch and into their house. We looked at each other and then smiled as we heard their old man yelling, “Jesus Christ! What the hell! Got Dammit!”

We had our revenge.

Of Roast Beef and Green Beans

The fifth grade was an enlightening time for some of us. We realized that we were no longer little kids; we were the next in line to be at the top of the heap in grade school pecking order. We might even be able to swagger a bit as we walked down the halls of Fourth Street School. We weren’t the various rabble of third or fourth graders (K through second were still babies to us). We were the big boys, we were cool.

On the other hand, it meant more responsibilities, homework and taking baths more often than once a week. It even meant having a job.
I got my paper route sometime during my fifth grade school year. Got, because, I cannot remember how I became employed as a paperboy. In Geneva getting a paper route often meant inheriting the route from an older brother. Maybe there was a shortage of older brothers? I’m not sure.

This meant no more lingering at the playground after school. No more coming home to watch the Three Stooges on WGN. No, it meant responsibility.
I was making money (twelve dollars a month); I was entering the realm of fiscal judgment. Should I buy candy? Should I stop at the Open Pantry on First Street, buy a bottled malt shake, sit on the curb, drink it, go back in, buy another, repeat the process over and over until either my money ran out or I made myself nauseous? After a few episodes of this reckless spending, commonsense set in plus my dad’s insistence that I open a bank account.

During those days, we lived in the old house on North Sixth Street, one block down from the Jewel on State Street where Sav Way Liquors now stands. The old house was a half block down from the one-way part of North Sixth Street. Any car that went the wrong way down that street would be called out by any number of the neighborhood kids. “One Way!” we would holler at the top of our lungs. As if they paid any attention to us kids.

The old house was a typical white painted prairie style four square design; screened half front porch, four bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and living room (parlor) and dining room down. Best of all, it had what seemed to be a long back yard. It butted up against a fenced in overgrown field of weeds where the Diversey Foundry stored its wooden castings. Past there were the train tracks and the Foundry itself.

The fence didn’t deter us, we dug small, indiscreet trenches under the fence so that we could wiggle under it and explore the field beyond. Plus, it allowed us to spy on Earl and DJ, the impulsively out of control neighborhood slob brothers and their family.
Earl and DJ were the oldest of twelve kids living in the corner house two doors down from us. Both boys were overweight, with bellies encapsulated by torn tee shirts protruding over their dirty jeans. At ten years old, Earl was the oldest. He was always fidgeting, glancing around wild-eyed. Followed by him was DJ, age nine. He had an air about him, much like the combined smell of dirty underwear and pork rinds.

Both boys loved to eat. Sometimes we would see them racing through the neighborhood clutching a chicken leg in their fist, happily gobbling away. Other times they might ride their bikes while balancing and eating a watermelon wedge.
On any weekend we could hear their old man hollering at his passel of offspring. He was always good for using a varied assortment of swear words. Punctuated by Got Dammits and Jesus Christs, Earl or DJ would catch hell for the umpteenth time.

My neighborhood pals and I hardly ever hung out with Earl or DJ or any of their family. They went to the Catholic school; they had their own circle of friends, and besides that, there were so many kids in their family (12 or 14 at last count) that the younger ones seemed to be like invading ants at a picnic anytime we wanted to hang out. Even worse, they always got themselves and us in some sort of trouble. It must have been their Catholic upbringing that didn’t allow for mischief in school, I suppose. Their pent up energy would erupt after school when nuns and priests were nowhere to reprimand them.

When we moved to the old house, our dad had us younger kids dig up and level the portion of the back yard near the Foundry’s fence. ‘This was going to be for the garden”, he said. I cannot remember how many toy wagon dirt loads we dug up and hauled to parts of the yard, filling in the various holes and low spots in the lawn.

Dad’s garden extended towards the house as far as the white mulberry tree in the middle of the backyard. The tree really did have white mulberries; not good for eating, but the birds loved them. Near this tree, Dad set up the grill, a picnic table and several lawn chairs and even a hammock. From this vantage point, sitting in his lawn chair, with a beer in one hand, he could direct us; as if he were a country squire or a plantation owner, overseeing his land holdings. Waving his hand, he would say, “You missed those weeds over there!” And, with an exasperated look. ‘Those rows aren’t even straight, maybe you should put on your glasses!”
“Who the heck cared if the rows of seeds were straight”, I grumbled under my breath. “Geez, in a month, the vegetables grow up and you won’t be able to tell anyway.”
This was his outdoor relaxation headquarters; a music program or the Cubs games on the radio, the grill roasting a choice bit of meat on the rotisserie and the ever-present beer.

Beer.

Yep, there was really no getting around it, my dad loved beer. Or maybe he just like putting away a 12 pack a night. Either way, when Dad came home from work, he expected to have dinner on the table and a cold one, and not always in that order.

Dinner.

On weekdays, dinner usually consisted of a pot roast or a chicken, boiled potatoes, a bowl of lettuce with Italian dressing and maybe another vegetable. Back then, there were 6 kids living at home. My oldest sister Judi had moved out or got married, guys my age didn’t pay attention to that stuff anyway and baby sister Jeri was a few years down the road from being born.
There we would sit at the dining room table awaiting the pot roast or chicken. Dad, sitting like a king at the head of the table, while Mom would sit at the other end after she and the girls had served. It was a cheap meal for 6 hungry kids. I’m sure we ate other foods, but pot roast or chicken always seemed to be what was set on the table.

The boiled potatoes came steaming in a large bowl. No butter allowed.
Butter! That was a luxury anyway. We had Jewel margarine to take its place. Still, we were not allowed to even put that on our boiled potatoes either. Only salt and pepper were allowed.
But weekends were different, especially summer! Our dad would fire up that old rusty clam shaped grill with the little half-hood on it. Attached to the hood was a small rotisserie motor. This was used to turn the beef roast- usually a rump roast – a good sized one too. Other times, it might be a chicken or even some type of pork.

The roast would slowly turn over the hot coals of the grill. Mom would sometimes put a pan under the roast to catch the drippings; other times the drippings would just drip on to the hot fire, making a sizzling sound and giving off a puff of smoke. The aroma was tantalizing and delicious. Our mouths would water just waiting for dinner.
It was one of those Friday evenings in mid June; I had come home from my paper route, tired from battling a dog and then a couple kids on the route.

There was Doc Hanson’s dog, Sheila, who was very protective of her neighborhood. Doc Hanson was one of my customers, living on Marion Court. He subscribed to the Chicago American. His dog, Sheila, a brown shepherd mix, was always allowed to run loose. Sheila was a terror for anyone on a bike, nipping at your feet while chasing you down the street.

After finally getting away from Sheila, I ran directly into the apple slinging tandem of Ward and his buddy, Jeff. Jeff was from Batavia and would sometimes hang out in Geneva with Ward. He was the shorter of the two, in need of a haircut and had a slight build while Ward was bulky and wore a crew cut. The two wore silly grins and were always looking for someone to sneak up on and heave a snowball, apple or any other handy item. I had run into the two of them off and on during the winter and spring and now summer. We had various wars, throwing green apples and buckeye chestnuts at each other. I never started a war, but I didn’t hesitate to get off my bike and return fire.

Arriving at home, I parked my bike and then noticed that Warren one of Dad’s work buddies had stopped over for a few beers. Warren was a short little man. He wore overly large glasses that sat upon a very red nose. Warren was very fond of his beer and Salem cigarettes. Of course, my dad smoke unfiltered Pall Malls (more manly) and was also just as fond of the combination of nicotine and alcohol.

There they were, sitting out in the backyard; Dad was regaling Warren with stories about his gardening prowess. “Look at that garden, no weeds and those rows are as straight as I could make ‘em”, said Dad. “Huh?” I thought, “You could make ‘em?” “And look how fast those green beans are growing!’ “I bet they’re growing an inch a day!” he blubbered.
“John, go get some sticks, I want you to mark the height of those green beans”, ordered Dad. “What?” I whined. “I want you to pick up some sticks out of the lilac bushes and break them into 1 foot pieces. Then push them into the ground next to each green bean plant. Make sure the top of the stick is even with each green bean plant. We’ll see how much they grow over night.” He said with a growl. “Doesn’t this kid understand anything?” He was probably thinking.
“John”, slobbered Warren to my dad (John was also my dad’s name), “I bet you ten bucks those beans don’t grow an inch by Sunday afternoon”’ “You’re on!” Said my dad, with a look of a riverboat gambler seeing an easy mark.
On the other hand, I think Warren envisioned a Sunday afternoon of free beer and quick 10 spot.
I knew Warren’s kids. Warren’s daughter, Jennifer was a pleasant enough girl, as girls go, but his son Jeff was that rotten apple throwing Jeff of the Jeff and Ward duo. He was no friend on my paper route.

Now, Warren was a ‘Batavia Swede’ as my Dad liked to say. I have no idea what that meant. Dad was a pureblooded Dane and Mom said the Danes were arrogant jackasses. Maybe Dad just felt he knew better than Warren. Dad often played poker in the American Legion basement over on Second Street, with Warren and some of the Geneva cops. Maybe he knew an easy mark.
Under the watchful eyes of Warren and the constructive criticism of my dad, I went out to the garden with my sticks. Cussing under my breath, I pushed them into the soil even with the top of each green bean plant.

That Saturday morning, Dad went out to the garden to check on their progress; no growth! In a panic, he yelled to me to get the garden hose and set up the sprinkler. “Maybe they need a little encouragement,” he said. “I want you to water those bean plants.” “Whenever the ground looks dry, water them some more” said my dad. “Keep an eye on them today.”
“Oh cripes” I thought. ‘I havta baby sit green bean plants?” I had envisioned a Saturday afternoon of maybe a baseball game before doing my paper route.

So, all of that Saturday, I loyally watered the damn green bean plants.
That evening, my dad walked out to the garden, gazing sadly at the fickle things. “I’m out 10 bucks”, I heard him whisper.
Later that night, I took matters into my own hands. I quietly crept out to the garden and pushed the green bean measuring sticks down, into the ground at least an inch.

After having watered the bean plants all day, I had left on my paper route. Warren’s son Jeff had caught me on my left ear with a rotten apple while I was delivering the Chicago Daily News to Mrs. Chapple’s house on South Fifth Street. Maybe Warren would come by that afternoon, see the prodigious growth, and then holler at him after losing ten bucks to my dad. My revenge on Jeff would find its way through his dad I hoped.

Sunday morning came, cool and breezy.
Apparently Dad had no stomach for gauging the traitorous bean plants. He awaited Warren’s afternoon arrival without giving even a nod towards the garden.
The old grill was fired up. Mom came out with a large beef roast. Dad sadly put it on the rotisserie and started the motor.

To drown out his sorrow, Dad had a few Hamms and then lay down in his hammock; he was a beaten man. Listening to WGSB’s Internationale Musicale on the radio, he was soon snoring.
About an hour later, I suddenly heard our dog, Sam yip. Sam was our pet boxer; we kept him chained up in the backyard because he was well known in the neighborhood for running amok, biting smaller dogs and causing general chaos. Glancing out my bedroom window, I saw Earl, the older Slob brother standing in the backyard near the fence. His brother DJ was trying to wriggle under it, catching his shirt in the process.
“Hey” I screamed out my window. “What are you guys doing?”
As I bounded down the stairs, I marveled at how many steps I could skip without falling. Out the back door I ran, past Sam who had pulled his collar loose from the chain and was trying to match me stride for stride.

By this time Earl and DJ were standing next to the grill, intently watching the meat turn on the rotisserie. ‘Wow!” “That really smells good!” said Earl, rubbing his belly, but casting a weary eye at Sam. “Hey” I said, “What are you guys doing here?” “Oh, we snuck into the field under the fence from our backyard” he said. “We could smell something cooking and decided to come over to see what it was.”

Before I could say another word, DJ was lightly touching the rotating roast beef, allowing the fat to drip onto his dirty fingers. He quickly put his fingers into his mouth, licking the fat from the grubby digits. “Gee, this taste good,” he grunted.
“Stop that,” I yelled. Sam began to bark.
“Shut up Sam!” I hollered.
“Oh he does that whenever your mom put something on the grill,” said Earl.
“What?” I said incredulously.

“We have a fort up in one of those wooden things in the field.” Said Earl. “We can spy on you from there.” (Apparently we weren’t the only ones sneaking under the fence and spying, I thought to myself. Some secret hideout.) “DJ comes over and likes to lick the fat off of the meat “ “Sometimes he just stick his fingers in the little aluminum pan, if its in there” said Earl innocently , as if this was as commonplace as eating watermelon on a bike. Which for him, it was, I guess.

I pushed DJ away from the grill. “Hey” he cried. “What are you doing?” “Get your rotten little fingers off my food!” I commanded. “And go home and eat out of a slop bucket you little pig.”
“Leave my little brother alone!” shouted Earl, shoving me back.
A minor fight ensued. Fights between boys our age involved a lot of pushing and shoving, hardly ever any punches thrown and a few wrestling holds that we might have learned from one of the various Three Stooges shorts involving Curley as a wrestler.

This time, though, it was two against one with DJ piling on top of me atop Earl. That was until Sam got involved. Sam must have thought it was great fun nipping at the fat little jelly rolls on DJ’s butt. ‘Ouch!” yelled DJ. “Get your crazy dog away from me.” Sam began chasing DJ around the yard undoubtedly getting a good whiff of dirty underwear, pork rinds and beef fat smeared fingers. Either he thought DJ might be an early dinner or something to roll in.

“Yow!” yelled DJ. Earl and I stopped our struggle and watched Sam chase DJ towards the hammock where my Dad was sleeping. Before DJ could stop, Sam jumped, knocking the fat little boy into the table with the radio and the open beer. Just as the announcer Rolf Smith introduced the next song, the radio volume increased while the Hamms splashed onto my dad’s size 40 belly, awaking him instantly.

Above the din of the barking Sam, screaming DJ and the song on the International Musicale, my dad roared, “What the hell are you kids doing?” “Shut up Sam” he hollered. Sam stopped in mid bark.

“Sonofabitch!” he growled. “Who did this?”
“Uh, Sam?” accused DJ.
“And what the hell are you kids doing over here?” Dad was beginning to sound like their old man.
Before they could even answer, Earl and DJ ran down the side yard, crashing into the bikes parked near the lilac bushes.
“Oof” cried Earl, as his gut took a direct hit from a handlebar. DJ tumbled on top of Earl, banging his chin on my sister’s bike seat and losing a ragged gym shoe in the process.
Without another sound the two brothers stood up and rocketed out of the yard, not even stopping to pick up the shoe.

“John” “clean up this mess.” Darn, I thought, I’m gonna get grounded. “Your groun-“ Dad stopped in mid-sentence. Someone was walking up the sidewalk into the backyard.
“John?” said Warren. Warren had arrived to collect on the bet and enjoy a few beers. “How’s those green beans doing?”

“Shit!” said my dad. Let’s have a beer Warren.”
“No, no” “I want to see those beans and then collect my 10 buckaroos” said Warren gleefully.
“Oh” The two men strode out to the garden.

In the bright sunshine, I watched as first Warren’s and then my dad’s eyes popped out. “Holy shit!” “Those beans have grown more than 2 inches since Friday night” howled Warren. “Got Dammit!” “Jesus Christ!” Now, he sounds just like Earl and DJ’s dad, I thought.

“Well, here’s your ten bucks” said Warren looking very disconsolate.
Not another word was said about the spilt Hamms, being grounded or the rest of the Earl and DJ affair. All was forgiven; my dad had won a bet. I even got to go to the Derby, my dad’s watering hole later that week.

But, that’s another story.