Hello Readers,

Well, here it is, the end of April. I've been working on a chapter titled Theater of Terrors.

A trip to Door County is what I need, I think. Therefore, it's off to The County for half a week. We're even taking the Citroen for fun!

Though, I won't be at The House, I think my concentration will return. No thinking about the tangible realities of home, I suppose.

I hope that's it!

That being said, I'm adding a partial chapter titled Help Me Tom. I wrote it in March while working on my March Madness chapter (tentative title ).

Help Me Tom is a dinosaur of a chapter, going on for at least 20 pages or more. Yikes!

So, here it is. Hope you enjoy it.

Cheers,

John

Help Me Tom

Winter as every winter does, gradually eased, the days grew longer and warmer. My paper route became an easier job; no more heavy coat to wear, no more frozen and numb fingers and toes. I was able to find more time after delivering papers to hang out with my neighborhood buddies before it became dark.
Even though it was still late March, all of us began looking forward to the summer days of baseball and swimming at the pool.
Meanwhile, at Fourth Street School, both fifth grade classes were given the assignment to read one of the works of a famous American author. Afterwards, a written account of that same book would be required.
Most of us assumed that this was the teacher’s way of determining who actually read the required book versus those who read the jacket synopsis. That little trick was given to some of us by the older, more knowledgeable sixth grade boys.
Even worse, our teacher, Mr. Ellmaker told us we would be giving a short presentation to the class as part of the book report.
Huh? We looked at each other.
“What’s a presentation?” asked Gary to no one in particular. He was a blonde haired boy who sat across the aisle from me.
“I think it’s like an award or something,” I said, thinking back to the time in November when I received a transistor radio at the newspaperboy’s party. One of the adults there termed the awards as a “presentation”.
“It’s nothing like that at all!” snapped Cathy, a sixth grader.
Some of our classmates snickered.
Our class, with Mr. Ellmaker as the teacher, was a split class of fifth graders and sixth graders. Apparently, it was some adult’s thinking that since there were not enough fifth and sixth graders at Fourth Street School to make a second class of each, money could be saved by combining the two grades.
We (the fifth graders) would be taught our lessons while the sixth grade half would remain quiet studying. And vice versa; when the sixth graders were being instructed, we were to remain quiet and study.
That didn’t happen, of course. Being naturally curious and unruly kids, we interrupted the sixth grade instructions with questions or comments. The sixth graders did the same. Sometimes it was chaos.
As the school year progressed, even Mr. Ellmaker realized that this sort of teaching was fruitless; he began to involve all the students in most of his lessons. Many of which morphed into his typical World War Two war stories. But, as a consequence, some of us probably learned more and were better prepared for the sixth grade.
But a presentation?
“Well then what is it?” asked Tito, one of my fifth grade classmates.
His real name was Keith, but ever since the fourth grade, we had been calling him Tito. I think we had become enamored with the name, the previous year in fourth grade. We were discussing the country of Yugoslavia and its charismatic leader, Marshall Tito. Keith somehow became the recipient of our name beknightment.
“You have to get up in front of the class and read your book report,” explained Cathy. “We had to do the same thing last year. It was fun!”
Sure, fun maybe for her. She was smart and sure of herself. Girls always seemed to have that superior edge. We boys on the other hand excelled at causing commotion in class, all of it non-educational.
“Ohh.” Some of us groaned audibly.
Others heard her. The class was abuzz with whispering.
Undoubtedly, most of us were remembering back to the Puking Randy incident. We still talked about it whenever there was a hint of illness. It ranked right up there with Dennis and the Milk Races episode.
The Puking Randy event occurred when the sixth graders were giving their speeches on health and safety during the week before Christmas. One of the girls, Marilyn, had done her report to the class.
Usually, during these little speeches or presentations as Mr. Ellmaker apparently liked to term them, scant attention was paid, and especially with Christmas nearing, even less attention was a guarantee. Gazing out the window at the snow or dreaming about presents under the tree was a more important, relevant subject matter.
However, the theme of Marilyn’s was First Aid.
At first some of us began to drift away. But then Marilyn brought out her mom’s First Aid Kit. She took out bandages, an iodine bottle, and then splint making supplies.
Next, she started explaining what to do when one receives a laceration.
Laceration? What’s that? I asked myself.
As if reading my mind, Marilyn explained.
“A laceration is a really bad cut. You can bleed a lot. You can get one from a big knife or scissors cut or maybe in a car accident and you gash your head wide open.”
She went on graphically, “My little brother Jimmy once fell off his bike and cracked his head wide open. He bled all over the street and had to have stitches.”
This was good, interesting stuff!
“One time my dad stuck his finger in our lawnmower while it was running and cut off the top of his finger!” volunteered Dennis, a fifth grader.
He demonstrated what his Dad’s wounded appendage looked like afterwards, crooking his pinkie finger, “and there was blood everywhere! Even the grass was red!”
Some of us knew that Dennis was prone to exaggeration.
But maybe not this time!
Now the class was stirring!
Various accounts were given, most in grisly, bloody graphic detail. Bloody toes from stepping on broken glass, skinned knees from roller skating, bloody falls from bicycles, minor injuries all, but for one common denominator, blood and bloody cuts.
Pete even brought up his dad’s scar from a surgical procedure. “It must have bled a lot!” He assured all of us, even if he didn’t really see the procedure.
I even told the story of dropping a glass of milk, spilling the milk while the glass broke. “My dog Sam started licking up the milk and cut his tongue and mouth on the broken glass. Then he started to bleed and it mixed in with the white milk! It was gross!” I told the class.
I think even Mr. Ellmaker was going to add a story or two from the War until Randy raised his hand.
Randy was a thin pale fifth grader bussed over from the east side of Geneva.
“Yes Randy?” asked Mr. Ellmaker.
“I don’t feel so good,” he lamented.
Gosh, Randy looks greenish white, I observed.
Apparently, all the talk of blood and gore had made Randy sick to his stomach.
Suddenly, Randy turned and threw up on his desk, then slid like vanilla pudding down his chair.
“Geez!” yelled Ronnie. “That stinks!”
He was right, it did stink! It smelled like rotten milk from one of those leftover milk cartons that someone left in the cloakroom!
Some of the girls started to cough and gag, almost as if in sympathetic vomiting.
We stared at Randy, our mouths agape. We had seen puking before, but never someone fainting.
Wow!
“Mr. Ellmaker bounded over to Randy in what seemed to be two steps. Grabbing the sick boy, he laid him on the floor and on his side. Randy’s eyes fluttered open.
“Don’t worry boy, you’re okay.
John, Gary, Tito open some windows. Pete, go to Mrs. Erickson’s class and ask her to get the janitor. Cathy, get me some wet paper towels. The rest of the class, I want you to go into the hallway and wait for me. And be quiet.” His orders were swift and decisive.
Mr. Ellmaker put a wet paper towel on Randy’s head and another around his neck. He seemed better almost immediately.
Poor Randy! After the incident, he became better known throughout school as Puking Randy. The first and second graders shied away from him. The fourth graders talked about him behind his back. Some of the fifth and sixth grade boys would make vomiting sounds or gagging motions when he walked past.
Bruce, one of the sixth grade boys, chewed up two overly ripe bananas and spit them out in a pile in the snow next to the school entrance. It was called Mount Randy or Banana Randy Puke. At least until it melted.
Needless to say, none of us wanted to have what happened to Randy, happen to us. Oh, the embarrassment! It was one of those events that were burned into our young, demented, formative memories.
Of course we didn’t put two and two together; Marilyn gave the speech, she didn’t become ill. Randy became sick to his stomach from the talk of blood, not from being in front of the class. But it didn’t matter, we did not want to give a speech and throw up either giving it or listening to it.
Mr. Ellmaker explained the basics of the presentation:
We would have our choice of different books by American authors to choose from. He would post the list of books by the authors on the bulletin board next to his desk. By the end of the day, we were to tell him what book we chose. Near the end of the month, the book reports would be due. That’s when we would give our presentations. We would be graded on our reports and how well we did our speeches.
I looked around the class. From looks of anticipation on some to the outright horror of Dennis, our faces exhibited an assortment of juvenile emotions.
Amid the groans and whining, I sighed to myself. Just when it was getting warm out, he gives us this! And I gotta get up in front of class? I knew that some of my classmates would find great joy in embarrassing me. Maybe even making vomiting faces.
Walking home for lunch, I told one of my buddies, Jerry about the assignment.
“Yeah, we got the same thing, we gotta read a book and then write a report. It hasta be done and turned in at the end of the month. It should be easy!’ Jerry snapped his fingers as he added, “readin’ a book is nuthin.”
“Sure reading a book is easy. It’s the speech you gotta give afterwards,” I lamented. “That’s the big deal.”
“Speech? We don’t hafta give a speech,” said Jerry. “Mrs. McElroy said only old Ellmaker’s class is gonna do that.”
Jerry was in Mrs. McElroy’s class, the lucky! “Ya think someone might puke?” he asked hopefully.
I gave him a dark look. “Sonofbitch!” I swore quietly. Quietly, because we were getting close to home. I didn’t want my mom to hear me. Or anyone else who might tattle.
I moaned to my mom as she set out a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of me, “we gotta read a book, write a report on it and then talk about it in fronta class. Jerry’s class doesn’t hafta give a speech, only old man Ellmaker’s class!”
“John, you read all the time. The only difference this time is that you will need to read something that is required and then write a short explanation of what the book was about. It’s the same as when you tell me about the books you read. Except this time, you have to put what you say on paper.”
My mom was being too logical!
“But ma, I gotta give a speech. In fronta class. That’s different! What if I puke!”
“It’s no different than talking to your friends. That’s what you should pretend you’re doing. Talking about the book to your friends. You do that all the time. And you won’t vomit doing it,” she said calmly.
“Yeah, well, yeah, I guess so,” I grumbled.
Obviously, I wasn’t going to get any sympathy from my mom. She was probably in league with old man Ellmaker, I thought. I bet he told her all about it during those parent – teacher conferences they had. Sonofabitch!
“What did you say? Did you just say a bad word?”
Yikes, I had grumbled the word under my breath! Maybe she heard!
“Uh nuthin, just sumthin itches,” I scratched my shoulder blade furiously.
“It better have been that! I don’t want you using any swear words or you’ll end up like your Uncle Paul!”
My Uncle Paul was my dad’s brother. As children, we knew him as the uncle with the hook that replaced his amputated hand and his frequent use of swear words in his daily conversation. I didn’t know how he got the hook. Did my mom mean that somehow Uncle Paul got it as a result of using swear words?
I pondered that as I quietly ate my sandwich and watched Bozo’s Circus.
I looked at the clock, it was 12:30, I headed back to school.
Arriving, I noticed a large group of classmates clustered around the bulletin board when I returned to class for the afternoon session. On it was a list:

APPROVED BOOKS FOR FIFTH GRADE BOOK REPORT PROJECT

Just as Mr. Ellmaker had promised, he had placed a list of book titles to choose from for our book reports.
I quickly scanned the list. Darn! I didn’t see any book titles that I might have read previously.
No Hardy Boys. No Tom Corbett, Space Cadet!
Instead there were book titles such as Black Beauty, Johnny Tremain, and other unrecognizable names.
Gee, where are all the books I saw at the library or Robin’s Book Shop? Robin’s Book Shop was on South Third Street. I often stopped in there to purchase a Hardy Boys Mystery book.
Where were the Govan and West adventure books that the public library had?
Sonofabitch!
No, these books were all of the classics.
“John, John!” It was Brenda a sixth grade girl in my class. She was very smart and helped out in our school’s small library. We were friends, I supposed, because we shared a common bond; books and book reading.
“Tell Mr. Ellmaker, you’re going to read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer! You’ll like it, I promise.”
Near the bottom of the list, was the book Brenda mentioned. I looked over at her; she smiled and nodded her head.
I took a deep breath and went up to Mr. Ellmaker. “I’m going to read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Mr. Ellmaker.”
“Okay, John. There are only three of those books available. You got the last one. Remember, the written report is due the last week of April, just after Easter. You will need to give your presentation some time during that week.”
Then he added, looking at the calendar, “Since you’re last name begins with an N, it will probably be Wednesday, the 24th. Later this week, I’ll put the list up of the books chosen and the day when each of you will be doing your presentation.”
April 24th, I gulped, Doomsday!
I went over to the small stack of approved books and searched for Tom Sawyer. There it was, a book with a picture of a barefoot boy wearing a hat and old-fashioned clothes; The Adventures of Tom Sawyer read the title.
Hmm, the pictures on the front don’t look too bad, I thought. I grabbed the book and went to my desk, flipping through the pages as I walked.
Still, I had my doubts. Boy, Brenda better be right! I thought.
And so a few weeks passed. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was fascinating; so fascinating that I hurried home every day after doing my paper route to read it; I even stayed up past bedtime, reading the tome under the covers with a flashlight.
No, the title of this book did not lie; Tom really did have all sorts of adventures.
He snuck out late at night, smoked corncob pipes, got in trouble at school, he even ran away from home with his best friends.
They made a raft and went sailing on the river. He even explored and got trapped in a cave. All were great tales of fun and excitement. I read the book so quickly that I finished it before the Easter holiday. This kid Tom was a brave lad!
I imagined myself exploring caves, fishing and rafting on the Fox River. It was wishful thinking I supposed. I had a fishing pole but no raft. Besides, where was a cave nearby?
I recited the best parts of the book to my pal Scotty. I told him about the raft and how Tom, Joe Harper and Huckleberry Finn had built it with logs and flat pieces of wood. How they ran away from home and sailed on the river. How they camped out and caught fish; even cooking them!
Scotty’s eyes lit up when he heard about how the raft was built.
His dad was building a new house next to their old home. He was well acquainted with building materials and tools.
“We could build a raft, John! There’s some logs in the field behind Earl and DJ’s place. I know where I can get a piece of plywood. I could ‘borrow” my dad’s hammer and saw,” he said excitedly.
“Yeah, but how are we gonna keep it together,” I replied, not quite fathoming Scotty’s idea or raft building in general.
“We can get the bent nails that are laying on the ground next to my old house. We can use them to hammer the board to the logs!” He was right. While attaching siding to join the old house to the new portion, Scotty’s dad and his friends had imbibed with a few drinks. Consequently, they had lost quite a few nails and had given themselves some sore fingers and thumbs in the process. We did learn, however, some new swear word phrases as a benefit of being helpers. Now we also knew where to get our nails. We layed out our plans for building our raft.
The next day was Good Friday. We did not have school. This was the day when we were supposed to attend church services at noon. Even many of the stores and shops in Geneva closed at noon to allow their employees to attend Good Friday church services. For whatever reason, Scotty and I learned that we were not going to be made to go to church. We had the entire day off!
In the meantime, Scotty and I had scrounged up an old coffee can full of bent and rusty nails. That was easy enough. Getting the plywood sheet would take a bit more maneuvering.
It was behind his dog, Deuce’s doghouse. Deuce was a large, mutant looking Doberman pinscher. The dog had strangely bent ears that made him appear to have horns like a devil. He barked manically and thought it great fun to crouch and jump on us or any other person who happened not to be an adult. There was no real biting involved, only a lot of nipping and scratching from his frothing mouth and long, untrimmed nails. As a matter of fact, Scotty had numerous scratches from his battles with Deuce in his attempts to “feed and water the pooch,” as his dad like to term it.
The doghouse was in a corner of Scotty’s back yard, but in clear view of his house, the kitchen in particular. We would have to distract Scotty’s mom while one of us his fought off Deuce, while dragging the plywood board out from behind the doghouse.
The plan was simple: Scotty would be in his back yard while I would go to his front door and knock, asking for him. His mom would come to the door. In the meantime Scotty would quickly run behind Deuce’s house before the hound knew what was happening, grab the plywood and heave it over the fence into his neighbor Ernie’s yard. He would then run up to the house and be ready for his mom’s call to him. Yes, we were masters of deception!
But for one thing, Scotty’s sister Lorie answered the door, not his Mom.
What to do! Scotty was depending on me.
“Uh, hi Lorie, is Scott here?” I asked nervously, the gears and wheels churning in my head. How to get his mother’s attention!
“Hi John, I think Scotty’s in back,” said Lorie. “I’ll get him.”
“No wait, could I have a glass of water?” I asked.
“I guess,” she sighed.
We went into the kitchen
Oh hi John,” said Scotty’s mom.
Deuce was barking furiously in the background.
“Why what’s the matter,” she peered at me strangely. I was trembling.

continued......