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.