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It's mid July, hot and steamy with plenty to do outside, keeping up with the weeds in the garden and our crop of cucumbers. The grass has slowed somewhat, though it still needs to be cut every week.
I've been working on two different chapters; one about an old school recess and gym game called Kick Soccer Baseball, the other chapter is about a Christmas pageant. With the weather like it is, I sometimes like to just sit outside and soak up the heat. But it is a hindrance in writing.
My Theater of Terrors chapter is done (I think). Of course, every one of these tales will need to be edited for errors and such. Theater of Terrors is no different. But, I thought it would be fun to add part of it to this blog.
Comments, good or otherwise are welcome and wanted.
Thanks again for reading!
John
“Hey John! John!” yelled Scotty as he jumped off of his red Schwinn. “Guess what my dad’s gonna let me do?”
Scotty was my best friend. We had been pals since the year before, when I moved to Geneva. Even though we were the same age, he was entering the fourth grade while I was going into fifth grade. Something about an eye problem in one of the earlier grades had kept him from being a classmate with the rest of the kids our age.
That summer before, in 1961, my family (seven kids: two boys and five girls) had moved to Geneva and settled into the house on North Sixth Street. Our dad was of Danish descent while Mom was from Italian and French -Swiss parentage. Their resulting brood of children was a blend; either pale haired, light skinned or dark headed, olive toned children. We were an example of the mixed cultural heritage of Geneva; Scandinavians and Italians with the French- Swiss thrown in for good measure.
Scotty’s sister, Lorie, who was two years older had quickly become friends with my older sister Jessie. They cackled on and on like two old hens every day.
“I think Frankie Valli is cute!” offered Lorie. “So do I!” Jessie would say.
“And guess what? Jean and Joyce showed me how to do the Twist!”
Jean and Joyce were two of my older sisters. Judi, the oldest sister was no longer in school. But both Jean and Joyce were students at Geneva High School, while Jessie would be attending Coultrap Junior High in the fall.
To show Lorie her version of the Twist, they fired up Jessie’s old RCA record player and listened to Chubby Checker singing the Twist. That was one of the records in the collection of popular 45s that her or one of my older sisters had bought.
A loud shuffling and squirming would commence as they danced the Twist to the song screeching from the turntable.
My little brother, Jeff and I would spy on them in wide-eyed wonderment as they furiously attempted to imitate the dancers they saw on American Bandstand. That was the television show they watched with my other sisters.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jessie would see us, grinning and snickering. Then shriek and scream “Mom! Make John and Jeff play somewhere else.”
We only did this because it seemed such a natural thing to do, irritate girls, that is, especially sisters.
Scotty’s sister quickly solved this harassment problem one afternoon, by dragging a loudly protesting, red-haired, bespectacled young boy with her to our house.
“Scott, this is John. John, this is my brother Scott. Now go play!” she ordered.
We looked at each other solemnly and nodded, like two old war vets or maybe just two woodchucks passing on our way to our dens.
But then, we started talking about guy stuff, stuff that girls didn’t care about, we thought.
“Who’s your favorite baseball player?” asked Scott.
“Luis Aparacio, of course,” I said, waiting for Scott to disagree. A Cubs fan, I bet. I thought to myself. He’ll say Ernie Banks.
“Yeah, he’s mine too. “Cause he’s with the White Sox,” explained Scott.
I nodded in agreement. Huh! This guy likes the White Sox! Even my dad was a Cubs guy.
Do ya like the Three Stooges?” I asked. The Three Stooges were on the television at 3:30 every afternoon on channel 9. To the dismay of our parents, it had become not to be missed entertainment, filling our impressionable heads with their silly gags and verbal comebacks.
“Yeah, especially Curley,” replied Scott.
In agreement again! Curley was the best Stooge, the underdog, always getting picked on by Moe and Larry, the other two Stooges.
“Dontcha hate it when they have Shemp on instead, or even one of those old Andy Clyde shows?” I commented.
“Yeah, that Shemp is goofy so is Andy Clyde.”
“Hey, wanna go out to my backyard. There’s a good old Mulberry tree that we could climb up and eat its berries,” I suggested.
“Okay!”
The Mulberry tree in question was a very large berry filled tree that had grown to maturity in the lilac hedge that separated our yard from the neighbor’s. At some point in its life, lightening had struck it, causing the tree to split and fall and then settle horizontally, about twenty feet above the ground and over the lilacs. It was loaded with the stain producing mulberries.
Sometimes, we would pick them in the morning for added sustenance on our breakfast, cereal or sometimes toast. Besides that, it was a perfect spot to sit and observe neighborhood life while indulging in the sweet treats.
We raced down the stairs and out to the tree, Scott yelling at the same time. “My real name is Scotty. Only my teachers and Lorie call me Scott. Sometimes my mom and dad too. I’m gonna be in the Third grade at Fourth Street this year. I shoulda been in Fourth but I got glasses and they said I needed to repeat ‘cause I couldn’t see everything.” Scotty breathlessly explained.
“Ya mean ya flunked Third grade?” I asked innocently as I clung to a branch while wiping off rotted mulberries from my dark brown hair. We were already a few yards up the woody plant.
Scotty’s face got red, “I got held back! I didn’t flunk! Don’t say flunk!” He was already above me staring down red-faced.
Hmm, evidently my poor choice of terminology regarding Scotty’s scholastic advancement or its lack thereof was a sore spot, I noted.
“Oh sure, sorry, holy cow!” I apologized quickly. I had picked up the term “Holy Cow” the winter before when visiting my cousin Harry, who lived in Evanston. Harry used it all the time.
“Well okay. What does Holy Cow mean?” asked Scotty, his face now back to a normal glow. “It’s not a swear word is it?”
“Nah. I think it’s the same as wow or gee whiz or even gosh,” I explained.
As we sat in the Mulberry tree, munching on ripe and semi-ripe berries, examining each one and commenting on their flavor like a pair of wine aficionados, two boys walked past, the smell of peanut butter emanating from their brown smeared faces and the large jar that they passed between them after copiously dipping their fingers.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“Earl and DJ,” whispered Scotty. “They live in the corner house. They’re pigs!”
Well that’s easy to tell, I thought. Their jeans were shiny and greasy and their tee shirts were grimy torn affairs.
“Are they your friends?” I asked.
Scotty shook his head, “nope, they go to St Pat’s, the Catholic school. I tried to be friends, but they would play tricks on me. So I beat them up.”
My eyes widened, “You beat them up?” I looked at Scotty in a different light. I guess he’s tougher than he seems, I thought.
“Yeah, I punched Earl in the belly once. He started crying. Then he ran home and told his Mom. I got in trouble.”
A violation of the kid code, I thought. You never told your parents about the fights you got in. Mostly because they were just a lot of wrestling and kicking, maybe even a punch or two. Nobody got hurt and usually you walked away still pals. Besides, tattling or telling your parents could be dangerous. More than likely you would get in trouble too. It wasn’t worth the bother.
“Gee whiz, just for a punch, they told?”
“Yeah, the little pigs. They even smell too,” he added wrinkling his nose as we watched Earl and DJ continue down the street, completely unaware of our discussion of their faults.
As that first summer went on, we hung out at the Geneva Pool, rode our bikes throughout the neighborhood. We played catch or baseball with Willie and Jerry, two brothers, close to our age living in the big house at the other end of Sixth Street.
We were inseparable pals, a comparison in contrasts of the kids in our small town of Geneva. Scotty, with his carrot colored red hair and pale skin was a direct opposite to my olive complexion and dark brown mop.
We played together through the fall, winter and spring and a second summer.
And now, here it was late August, a week before the new school year would start.
Our new school clothes were bought, tucked away in drawers and closets waiting, in anticipation of our first wearing. Whenever we peered into those drawers, it was a reminder of summer ending and the inevitable start of the new school year.
Our parents had warned us that these were “school clothes”, not to be played in. As if any of us would want to wear any of the scratchy new long sleeved shirts and long pants. Even the regular school shoes were too confining. It was our Keds or barefoot for us.
However, I noted that as Scotty rode up, he was wearing his new Keds, low tops, a style I had not seen before. They were his shoes for days when we had gym class, they were school shoes.
“Hi Scotty, how come you’re wearing your school clothes?” I asked pointing to his feet.
“Mom says I can wear them so long as I don’t get them dirty,” he replied hurriedly. “But guess what? My dad says I can run the lawn mower now that I’m in fourth grade!”
Scotty’s parents had a motorized, rotary lawnmower, while I was still pushing the reel type push mower at my house. It had no motor; it relied on human power.
I was envious. A motorized lawnmower! My dad explained to me that it was “good for me” to push the heavy lawnmower we had. Sure it was. If he had to push it around every week, I bet he would buy a mower with an engine, I thought.
“Man, that’s cool!” I gushed, mimicking one of my sister’s phrases. “When do ya get to use it?” I wanted to witness this latest phase in transition from little kid hood to older kid hood.
Little did I know that it would be the beginning of a lifetime of hours spent behind the swirling blade of that suburban nemesis, the power lawnmower.
“Saturday morning!” Was Scotty’s reply. “My dad says I can cut the grass in our front yard first. The backyard is full of rocks and Deuce.” Deuce was Scotty’s dog, a lop-eared Doberman Pinscher, unheeding of commands from kids.
“That’s tomorrow! I’ll come over right after I have breakfast,” I announced.
“Okay. You know what else? The show is gonna have a special matinee. Saturday. It’s supposed to be two monster movies and something else. Maybe we could go there after I cut the grass.”
The “show” was the Geneva Theater. During the summer, they often had Saturday matinees. They were double feature showings of various old movies and a cartoon or two. It was typically a rowdy afternoon of candy, popcorn and pop plus some movie watching if we were lucky. The movies were secondary to the gluttony of food and drink and the occasional harassment of girls that took place. It was great fun for twenty-five cents. Our parents never seemed to object. Probably it was a good chance for them to have some kid free time.
Saturday came. I told my mom that I was going over to watch Scotty cut his lawn. Then we were going to the show for the matinee. Would that be okay?
“Yes, but first, you will have to take out the Saturday trash. And when will you be cutting our grass?” She said pointedly.
“Aw gee whiz mom!” I whined. “Can’t I do it Sunday? Or when I get back?” I begged.
“Well, I know you won’t want to do it when you come home from the theater. You kids always stop off at Ron’s Pet Shop and dawdle there.”
That was true. Ron’s was next door to the show. It was a small pet shop selling tropical fish, goldfish and a varied assortment of small lizards and rodents.
It was a popular stopping off place after the movies got out. Sometimes, if we had any left over money, we might buy a goldfish to take home and keep in a large peanut butter jar or even a fish bowl, if we had one. Most of the time, though it was like visiting a small zoo. The smaller kids would press their noses up to the various glass-encased aquariums of fish and lizards or stick their fingers into the small cages of hamsters and other rodents. Ron, the ever patient proprietor, would quietly ask us to behave ourselves, noses off the glass and fingers out of the cages.
“What kind of movies are they having?” Asked my mom.
“Scotty says its monster movies and something else,” I informed her.
“Monster movies? Well then you’re not bringing Jeff or Joanne. I don’t want them coming home crying.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Whenever I took my little brother or sister, there was a good chance that some alleged infraction on my part would be innocently reported. Joanne (JoJo for short) was afraid of wolves, due to the various reports that my sister Jessie and I had given her (they were lurking on the outskirts of town, we told her, awaiting any little girl who ventured away from her home). Jeff, on the other hand was young enough to believe anything told him. This was our way of keeping the younger ones in line, I suppose.
One time in particular, we came home with Jeff scared and crying. I had started off telling Joanne about wolves. But her tomboy bravado kept her from showing any outward fear. Besides, she had stayed on the straight and narrow path, and in town.
But Jeff looked worried, his eyes darting about. We both noticed it and seized the opportunity to tell him about giant apes and gorillas lurking in the bushes of the house on the corner of Fourth and Hamilton Streets, just a half block away from the movie house. The movie we saw that day had been Konga, a film about a demented scientist and a chimpanzee (the title animal) that the scientist raised to an enormous size. The havoc caused by the oversized ape scared the wits out of poor little Jeff.
Jeff had duly reported the story of large apes during dinner. I was immediately chastised by both my mom and dad. Although I did notice my dad stifling a snort or two.
Nope, this time it would just be Scotty and myself. We would have a great time!
So, that Saturday morning, I filled up on a large bowl of Wheaties (Breakfast of Champions) and then headed straight over to Scotty’s to see the big event.
Sure enough, there he was, pushing the familiar yellow Hahn Eclipse mower up and down the parkway in front of his house, his dad watching, hands on his hips.
“Hi John,” Scotty’s dad had a deep booming voice. “Scotty’s doing a good job here. He’ll be done in no time.”
“Hi!” I replied. I never knew what to call a parent of a friend. Was it Mister and the last name or did I refer to him by their first name? My mom and dad said to say mister or misses, not their first names. But sometimes, the parent would want to be called by their first name. I found it easier to just say “Hi” and leave off the rest of the salutation.
“So you two are going down to the Geneva show for the afternoon monster matinee?” commented Scotty’s dad. “Just stay out of trouble,” he said gravely, winking his eye. Scotty’s dad was a policeman on the Geneva’s police force.
“Oh, yessir,” I exclaimed.
“My shift starts in a little while. Do you think I can trust you two pirates to finish this job without me?”
The “pirates” remark referred to last year’s Halloween when Scotty and I were dressed as pirates. That year, Scotty wore an eye patch as part of his doctor’s recommendation to strengthen his eye. Being pirates seemed the natural disguise. We were pirates for the days preceding Halloween and the following week.
Scotty stopped and turned off the mower, “Hi John, pretty neat, huh? This lawn mowing is a cinch. Look how straight my lines are.”
It was true, Scotty’s lawn cutting looked like he had been doing it for years. I told him so; “Looks great! Hurry up and get done so we can get a good seat!” I urged him.
Just then Scotty’s dad backed their old pickup truck down the driveway. He stopped and rolled down his window and shouted, “Scotty, be careful with that mower! Especially when you start it! Be sure you put it away when you’re done. Make sure your mother knows when you leave for the movies!”
“Okay!”
There was only a small patch under their Maple tree left to cut. “I’ll be done in no time,” said Scotty as he placed his foot on the mower and pulled the starter cord. And then it happened, quicker than I could see.
