Hello Readers,

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

Theater of Terrors

“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.

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......

Hello Readers.

Today, My sister, Joanne Buckley is guest writer.
Joanne has written a tribute to that mainstay of Geneva retail, the Viking Office Supply and its proprietor, Weldon Johnson.
She is also sending this to the local newspapers as a Letter To The Editor.

As always, your comments are most welcome.

Cheers,

John

Weldon Johnson and The Viking Office Supply


Letter to the Editor:

My friend Weldon Johnson is closing Viking office supply, after 32 years in business.
It makes me sad.

It makes me sad that Geneva and the world has changed so much. I owned The Newsstand that shared the same location as Nelson’s Candy Store. Walter Nelson was an old man with a short fuse when a kid – me, tarried at the penny candy counter longer then he deemed appropriate. Many of my older customers remembered how Walter would walk out the front door of the store with a fellow and yell across the street to The State Bank of Geneva, “ Give ‘em a loan – he’s good for it”. Business doesn’t work that way any more. Cripes, I needed proper ID to get my library card renewed.

I digress.

Weldon Johnson bleeds Geneva blue. He is a good Geneva Boy. A former Alderman, Wood Award recipient, name giver of the Geneva River Rats, multiple year Chairperson of the barn sale, member of too many service groups to name, a dancer with the Geneva Stars and a great entertainer as he struts his stuff along the route in the annual Swedish Day parade with his horned Viking helmet and fur pelt. Will the Swedish Day parade be the same without him? He is one of the good guys. Which is why it is so sad to watch as he closes out this part of his life.

When I owned the Newsstand in Geneva and The Geneva Theatre closed, it hurt my business. When Geneva Family Restaurant closed at 3pm instead of 7pm, it hurt my business. I can’t help but compare our downtown to the game on my Blackberry, BrickBreaker. With each store that closes its door, the mortar chips away, and it gets easier for another store to be picked off. There is safety in numbers. I worry for the strong independent retailers that remain. I worry about our downtown and our community. They need our support.

Again, I digress.

Viking Office Supply was very good for Weldon and his family. He raised three children, sent them to college, had two weddings, and was able to take some nice trips while still investing his time to give back to his town and the people he loved. Do you remember when he put a treadmill in the window of his store and raised funds for miles walked? He was able to raise almost $20,000 for Russell, another Geneva boy with Leukemia. He is a selfless man.

However, business has changed. It is hard to scrape out a living, and let’s face it -The Swede is 70. It is time for him to relax, enjoy his grandchildren, and maybe go up nort’ fishin’.

But until March 31, he will be at Viking Office Supply as he has been for the last 32 years. Please stop by, shake his hand, say thank you – because he most likely has had something to do with something you enjoy about this town. And if you can, buy something, carry that Viking Office Supply bag proudly down the street one last time. He definitely earned our support.

Joanne Buckley

Hi Readers.

It has been quite a while between stories. There are more. But I have decided to keep some of them back. The aim is to put together 12 different stories on the same subject: the adventures of an 11 year old boy growing up in 1960's Geneva. The objective is to perhaps publish these in book form (if there is any interest). Therefore, your comments, both kind and critical are most welcome.
So today, I've added a new story. It's titled: He Was Nick Sometimes.

Cheers,

John

He Was Nick Sometimes


One of my less frequent school buddies was Stevie, a slightly built, blonde haired boy who lived a few blocks away on North Fifth Street. A “less frequent” pal was the one you might befriend at school, a birthday party or some other type of adult mandated get-together where both of you needed the mutual accompaniment of another person to allow for the quicker passage of the obligatory time period.
Yes, you were friends but not always the kind who would see you on weekends or after school on a regular basis. Over the years, some friends swam in and out of the little friendship pond like so many fish around a baited hook.
Stevie was one of them.
Being much closer to Fourth Street School, his house was a natural stopping off point at the end of the school day. His mom was nice to his friends, sometimes serving a snack along with a glass of milk. Those of us who stopped by and were not fans of milk, quickly learned how to request a short glass with various excuses: “No thanks, I’m pretty full from drinking water,” or “just a little, my mom doesn’t want me to ruin my appetite,” we might say.
“Ruin your appetite” was another one of those adult phrases that we all knew as kids to be just an excuse. It made them feel better that they were doing it for our own good.
But it really meant, “no, because you’re a little pig”.
The “ruined appetite” excuse always meant less cookies or one of the other various treats someone had made or could be given. That excuse was used when we couldn’t think of anything better.
Stevie’s dad seemed to be older than our dads.
(I remember thinking how astonished I must have appeared from the odd look Stevie gave me when he told me his dad was born in 1913 – a clear seven years earlier than my own dad).
“Wow! Your dad is really really old!” I informed him after doing the mental arithmetic.
But his mom was much younger, Stevie informed me. “Like at least twenty years younger!”
We looked at her in awe when she came out on their front porch to ask us if we wanted any milk with the cookies we were eating.
“Sure, I mean yes, please,” I said, my manners suddenly descending on me like a curtain upon a stage.
Apparently, I was calculating that by being courteous and accepting milk, there might be more treats in store for me.
Yes, I was a little pig!
“Do ya think she knows how old your dad is?” I whispered to Stevie.
“I don’t think so,” said Stevie. “Cause my dad winked when he told me, like it was a secret or something. I bet my sisters don’t even know.”
With a family of two, older red-haired sisters and a younger brother, Stevie was very adept at knowing how to maintain civility when dealing with girls and siblings.
Secrets, such as what Stevie described were difficult to keep, especially when one had older sisters.
I knew that; sometimes, it seemed I had half a dozen or more older sisters.
But a dad that told his son secrets? This was profound news to me!
Heck, my dad only told me stuff like tuck in your shirt or wipe your nose. Nothing that could be considered inside knowledge.
“Have ya told your mom?” I asked.
Stevie shook his head and held his finger to his lips, “Shh, my mom might hear us and maybe get mad”
Stevie and his family lived on North Fifth Street in what was termed a Dutch Colonial. It was a lengthy, ramshackle home with an enclosed front porch and a yard surrounded by a white picket fence.
It was interesting inside, very different than my old house on Sixth Street. In the rear of the house, past their dining room was a study, or den with bookcases that held various books and natural history publications.
His parents had inherited the house from Stevie’s Grandpa, who was apparently an outdoorsman type of fellow.
On some of the walls were various examples of Muskies, Northern Pike and other stuffed game fish of the North Woods. They were fish his Grandpa had caught on one of his many fishing expeditions, Stevie told me. I was dutifully impressed.
Their kitchen was an old-fashioned room with an ancient curtained sink that his little brother Chuckie sometimes hid beneath, behind the drapery enclosed lower portion.
Stevie had lived there long enough to be able to tell me how the big house on Fourth and Hamilton was moved to the vacant lot down the street to the corner of Fifth and Ford. I listened with rapt attention.
How come I wasn’t around to see that? I wondered.
Sitting in their enclosed porch even in the early November afternoon, it was still warm enough to be dressed without an overcoat. His mom had furnished it like it was another inside room of their house.
The piece of furniture we were sitting on was what his family called a davenport. I thought it was a couch – a lot I knew about home furnishings. I had never heard of a davenport.
Earlier in the day, while we were at school, Stevie had approached me and asked if I wanted to take over his paper route. He invited me over to his house after school to tell me more about the business of newspaper delivery.
“What do you havta do?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s easy, they (the News Depot) deliver the newspapers to your house every day after school. When you come home, you just roll them up like this”;
Stevie took a paper from the bundle and demonstrated the art of folding a newspaper for delivery.
“Lay it flat on the table, fold it once and then roll it up tightly. Then put it between your legs, hold it there and put a doubled up rubber band around it. You put them into this bag (a bright blue canvas bag that said Chicago Daily News on it – cool!), ride your bike and just deliver them to the houses on the route. I have a list of the addresses of the homes and the paper they get. They pay you at the end of the month.”
This was way too easy, I thought.
Stevie took me on a tour of his route, delivering newspapers to his various customers.
Starting at State Street, we rode up and down Richards Street and then the side streets, Union, Center, Eklund and the others, delivering papers, taking turns with the bag slung over our shoulders.
It seemed a bit heavy, I thought. But as we delivered the papers, trading carrying the sack, talking and yelling (at other kids we knew), the time went rapidly and the big bag became much lighter.
Heck, this is easy; I get to ride my bike, see other kids and then get paid?
We rode all the way to the St Charles border.
Wow! I had never ridden my bike this far, I thought.
And then, back down Anderson Boulevard, where we stopped at the old Geneva Piano Factory building that had a lower level Laundromat.
We knew better than to stop at the Little Store as we called it.
Even though it was a half block up the street on the corner of Anderson and Stevens, and sold candy and other goodies, we knew better.
The proprietors seemed crabby and short with kids our age.
The Laundromat, on the other hand was a busy place, with moms folding their newly washed and dried clothes while minding their preschool children who played and ran about.
Amid the din of machines and kids, the manager patiently chose to ignore a couple of boys stopping by.
Stevie bought me a hot chocolate and a candy bar straight out of the vending machines.
This was great!
“I’ll take your route,” I quickly informed Stevie, glancing around nervously. I was worried that some other boy might notice me learning the route and somehow be given this moneymaking opportunity.
When I informed my mom, she said, “Are you sure? It’s hard work, you know, especially in the winter.”
“Well duh, mom, I know that,” I said with obvious dollar signs flickering in my eyes.
Ah, but woe is to the boy who does not take all things into consideration and is ill prepared.
On my first day, my pal Scotty asked me, “Hey John, you wanna play Army?”
Geez. No, I couldn’t, I thought, it was my first day of doing the paper route.
I puffed out my chest, “I can’t, I have my paper route to do,” I informed him with the air of a braggart.
Scotty seemed envious, I told myself.
For the next two weeks, I dutifully came home and rolled up the Chicago American, Chicago Daily News, Elgin Courier and the Aurora Beacon News, stuffing them all into the now confounded newspaperboy’s canvas delivery bag.
Was it heavy? Oh surely you should know. On some days, Wednesdays, in particular, the papers were thinner than a Superman comic book; but on other days like Thursdays or Saturdays, they were as thick as a Chicago phone book.
The Chicago Daily News was especially thick on Saturdays with full-page funnies and advertisements.
There was no Sunday paper; it was their weekend edition. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to deliver the Sunday edition of the other papers; there were other paperboys who took on that sorry job.
In short, the bag weighed a million pounds it seemed.
I struggled to maintain balance as I rode my bike with the cursed thing upon my shoulder.
It reminded me of the story of Sinbad and The Old Man of the Sea from the 1001 Arabian Nights book I had checked out of the Geneva Public Library (and had never returned – I subsequently had to scrape up enough money to pay the cost of the book).
Out of kindness, Sinbad had given the Old Man a ride on his shoulders across a river only to find himself enslaved to the Old Man, destined to carry him forever.
I was like Sinbad, cursed with this huge, heavy canvas sack full of newspapers destined to carry it forever (or for at least an hour or so).
For weeks, I struggled with the thing; as it cut into my shoulder blades.
I cursed the thing under my breath as I delivered the newspapers,
“Jesus Christ, sonofabitch,” I grumbled.
I repeated all the swear words that I learned from my dad and Earl and DJ’s old man, while keeping a sharp eye for any grownups or a sibling waiting to tattle.
But then, late in the month, I received a notice that one of the newspapers, the Aurora Beacon News, was having a paperboy’s party at their office on State Street, three stores down from the BF Goodrich Tire and Auto Shop. The party would be the Monday evening before Thanksgiving.
Well, this was much better, I thought. A party for just the paperboys and it says prizes would be awarded?
Wow! So being a paperboy was becoming worthwhile!
I imagined being called up to the stage and being awarded some wonderful prize for the best delivery in Geneva; a new bike, maybe a hundred bucks!
Afterall, I was on time and even made sure the papers were delivered with waxed paper when it rained, most of the time, anyway.
Besides, after the first two weeks, they had quit sticking the pink complaint and tan missed paper tickets in my daily bundle of papers they delivered.
I was delivering the papers to the right customers – most of the time.
The day came. I rode my bike to the office.
“No riding on the sidewalk, kid!” shouted a red nosed man.
I had almost run over him as he was leaving the Blue Room Tavern.
The Blue Room Tavern was a local watering hole that my dad did not frequent.
His place was The Derby, further up the street, next to the State Bank. Lucky for me!
“Sorry mister!”
He was right; riding on sidewalks in downtown Geneva was prohibited. But gee, couldn’t he see I was on my way to pick up the award for best paperboy, for cripe’s sake?
Parking my bike in front of the office, I went in.
Wow! The commotion! The place was full of boys my age and older.
“Who are you?” asked a tall thin man.
“John Nielsen, Route 2B,” I informed him.
“Okay, you’re one of the Geneva paperboys? Or are you from St Charles?”
“Uh, Geneva”
“Well, you’re late by almost an hour.”
Huh? An hour? How’d that happen?
It was because I had watched a Three Stooges episode before doing my route.
Curley was a wrestler who couldn’t be beat whenever he heard the song, Three Blind Mice on the violin played by Larry.
Meanwhile, Moe was his trainer. It was a great stooges episode that couldn’t be missed. I was still whistling the tune.
“We’ve already had refreshments; but you might see if there’s anything left on the table.”
He pointed to a fold up table that was in the corner of the room. There were a lot of the boys clustered around it.
I elbowed my way to the table only to see a few sweet rolls with what looked like peaches or apricots in their center.
One of the boys said there had been cupcakes earlier, but were quickly eaten by the ravenous crowd. The sweet rolls were from the morning; the ones that no one wanted.
Near them were some half filled paper cups into which someone had poured Coca Cola.
I picked up a sweet roll and a cup.
Yuck! The coke was warm and flat; the roll was dry.
Oh well, at least I didn’t miss the prize awards.
Gazing around the room, I noticed Paul talking to Kevin. They were two paperboys I had run into off and on while delivering my papers.
Paul delivered papers on South First Street while Kevin had a route on South Third to Seventh Street. They went to the Catholic school and were well acquainted with Earl and DJ.
“Hi John,” said Kevin. He was short with red hair and freckles.
I had been by his house on the corner of South Fourth Street once in the summer when Scotty and I were exploring the old creek that ran behind the homes on South Street. Much like Earl and DJ, his house was full of kids - twelve Kevin told me – all red-haired ones who seemed to be hanging out from every window from the first floor to the third floor.
But they were different than Earl and DJ’s family, somehow.
His mom was a short blonde haired, frail looking woman who seemed to have the patience and temperament perfectly suited for such a large family. She seemed to take in stride the broken gallon jug of milk that Kevin’s sister Mary Margaret dropped and spilled when attempting to pour a glass of milk.
Just a sigh and then: “Mary Margaret, get the mop and bucket and clean up the milk. We won’t have cereal tomorrow.”
That was all! No swearing or accusations of idiocy. How different than Earl and DJ’s family.
Paul, on the other hand lived with his sister and mom in an apartment above the Geneva Republican printing press on North First Street.
It was next to the Open Pantry and I had run into Paul several times when stopping there for candy or other treats. Apparently, his parents were divorced – something that was not really talked about in those days.
He often talked, wistfully of his dad, saying how him and his dad would go down to the Fox River to fish – someday.
“Attention! Attention, we are now going to present prizes. Everyone please be seated,” announced the tall thin man.
Some of us stood while others sat in the little folding chairs.
Clearly, there weren’t enough chairs for everyone. It didn’t matter to me. I was certain to get some type of award I just knew it.
Accompanied by a short blonde woman, the tall thin man stood at the front of the room and announced, “We have put all of the names of the paperboys present into this fish bowl. Miss Pierce will draw a name and we’ll present a prize to that boy. As I watched each succeeding paperboy get called and receive a small package, I became more apprehensive.
What about me? Was I left out? Everyone seemed to be getting something, even Kevin and Paul!

“John Nielsen, Route 2B,” called out the tall thin man.

Finally!

I stepped up to the front, Miss Pierce handed me a small box. As I walked back, I looked at the lettering on the box.
Portable Transistor Radio.
Wow! I got a transistor radio! I could listen to it while I rode my bike or in bed. No more tube radio for me!
There really wasn’t anything wrong with tube radios. They were just big and clunky. My dad had even shown me how to repair the old radios that used tubes.
“Every tube in it has a place and a function in the radio,” he said. “If the tube doesn’t light up, you can take it out and test it at Wayne’s.”
Wayne’s was the drugstore on State Street. They had a soda fountain in front and a tube -testing machine near the back of the store.
Sometimes, when we had enough money we would stop in and buy a cherry phosphate or their specialty, the Lime Rickey.
On weekends, the tube testing machine would be used by dads or kids like me, to test the suspect tubes in the their old radios or televisions.
When it was turned on, the warm smell of burnt wires and hot Bakelite would waft out of its cabinet.
Some of the sockets were sticky, someone had spilled a fountain drink at another time.
Probably the pigs, Earl or DJ spilled a Lime Rickey on it, I thought to myself, sniffing the air for the scent of pork rinds and dirty underwear.
Because of the spilled drink, the tube-testing machine was only partially useful and undoubtedly causing something to short.
The last time I had taken a tube out of it, I had received an electric shock, even though I had pulled out the cord from the wall socket.
No more trips to Wayne’s now, I thought. Though, I would still stop by for a Lime Rickey.
I walked over to Paul and Kevin. “What’d you guys get?” I asked.
They held up their prizes.
Huh? Portable Transistor Radio?
I looked around the room. All the boys had the same thing: Portable Transistor Radios!
It was just a big giveaway. No one got any special prize for best paperboy!
Oh well, I thought philosophically, at least I won’t be getting a shock from this radio.
We walked outside to our bikes.
I noticed a shiny new oversized basket mounted on the front of Paul’s bike. “Hey, what’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a newspaperboy’s delivery basket,” answered Paul. “My mom bought it for me for my birthday. I don’t use that stupid old bag now. I just stuff the papers into the basket.”
Kevin and I jealously marveled at the basket.
Anything to be rid of the confounded newspaperboy’s delivery bag!
“How much was it? Where’d she get it?” I peppered Paul with questions.
Paul hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. She came home with it one night and my sister and I put it on my bike.”
“Well, I guess I would get one, but I’m gonna let my brother Sean take over my route,” said Kevin.
Poor Sean, I thought, he was even smaller than Kevin.
“You think maybe she got it over at Nick’s?” I asked.
Nick’s was a popular hangout for boys our age.
It was a bike shop in one of the old decrepit buildings that sat on the State Street hill between First Street and River Lane.
Owned and operated by Nick, a perpetually squinting, short old man, the outside of the shop was generally cluttered with the bikes of his young patrons..
“It probably was Nick’s,” agreed Paul. “His place is right around the corner from my house.”
“Maybe I could stop in there after my route,” I suggested.
“I don’t know, he’s an old crab and those guys that work for him are mean,’ said Kevin.
Kevin was right.
When we visited Nick’s, we never bought anything, just looked. It was hard to tell if he was angry or crazy when he spoke to us in his hurried, fractured English style.
He reminded me of one of those leprechaun characters from a Looney Tunes cartoon that starred Porky Pig.
He even looked like one with his white, wild bushy hair and eyebrows.
The few employees that worked for him were teenagers, only a bit older than any of us.
But they did hold sway over us, making sure we knew that they were the older guys. Apparently, Nick paid them cash for helping him assemble the newly arrived Schwinn bicycles. We only knew that because we would often see those same boys at the Open Pantry on First Street buying various candies and pop.
Even though he sometimes used a few curse words and seemed to be a grouchy character, hollering at his young workers, we still frequented the shop; he had some of the latest Schwinn bikes and bicycle accessories being sold.
Maybe he had those baskets, I thought.
Although I had been there plenty of times lusting on the new bikes, I might have been too blind to notice any of the other bicycle-related items that might be offered.
I stopped by the very next day, after school; but first, hurriedly doing my route.
Walking into the shop, one of Nick’s teen workers spotted me.
“What’d ya want kid?’ he asked.
“Uh, uh, do you guys sell bike baskets?” I stammered.
“Sure we do, what’ya think we sell, Lime Rickeys, ya dope?
They’re over there,” he pointed with a quick jerk of his head to a corner of the store.
Geez, teenagers were such jerks, I thought.
And, there they were, all sizes of baskets. Even one the size of Paul’s was there!
Newspaper Delivery Basket, said the tag, twelve-fifty.
Twelve dollars and fifty cents! It might as well have been a million bucks. I don’t have twelve-fifty, I haven’t even got paid for doing the route yet.
I thought back to the different times when I had traded in pop bottle deposits at Western Liquors and then spent the money on candy or pop at the Open Pantry or at Nelson’s.
I was crestfallen, my shoulders drooped, how could I ever come up with twelve-fifty?
I began the long mopey walk out of Nick’s.
“Hey, what’d ya want?” said a loud voice in a short, clipped tone.
I turned around, it was Nick, he spoke quickly, at the same time, mis-pronouncing and jumbling the words together.
“Oh, I came in to look at the bike baskets,” I moped.
“The one I want is too much though.”
“Which one is that?” asked Nick.
“Oh, wait a minute, are you a paperboy?” he asked.
The newspaper delivery bag was still slung over my shoulder.
“Yes sir,” my manners suddenly appearing again. How does that happen? I thought to myself. They come without even thinking. Huh!
“What’s yer route number, what’s yer name? What papers are ya delivering?” he asked in rapid fire.
“Uh, John Nielsen, Route 2B.
I deliver the Chicago Daily News, the Aurora Beacon News, the Chicago American and the Elgin Courier,” I recited.
It was as if being questioned by Mr. Bye, the Fourth Street School principal.
I was getting a little bit scared. I never had really talked to any adult outside of teachers or moms and dads.
I straightened up and stood at attention like the soldiers in Combat, the television show, my Dad watched.
“How old are ya?”
“Uh ten, sir”.
“When will ya be eleven?”
This was becoming an inquisition, I thought.
“January.”
“January what,’ he demanded.
“January eighth, sir.”
Nick was assaulting me with questions!
”What school do ya go to?
What grade are ya in?”
“Fourth Street School, I’m in the fifth grade,” I breathed out the answers quickly.
“What’s yer boss’ name, John?”
“Um, Mr. Little,” I felt like I was gasping for air.
“No it’s not, its Litow, L I T O W,” corrected Nick, spelling out the name.
“Their place is on South Third Street, the News Depot, right?”
Apparently, Nick was aware of the other businesses in town.
“I think so Mister Nick. They deliver the papers to my house. I never really talked to anyone there yet.”
“My name is Nick, not Mister Nick. What’re ya, a smarty pants?” barked Nick.
“Oh, no, no sir, Mister, I mean Nick,” I corrected myself.
“How long ya had the route?
Where do ya deliver?”
Nick’s questions felt like the nipping bites my dog Sam would inflict upon me when we played.
“I got it at the beginning of the month. I deliver to houses on Richards Street and Anderson Boulevard.”
Oops! I forgot about the other streets!
“And then Union and Center, “ I added, forgetting the names of the other streets.
“So yous’re delivering them papers in the sack, are ya’s?
And youse want ta put a basket on yer bike?
Where’s yer bike?” he enquired quickly.
“Out front,” I replied. “I parked it on the sidewalk.”
“Bring it in,” he ordered.
My bike was an old Schwinn one speed with balloon tires and scratched rusted fenders.
The chain was greased as evidenced by my dirty lower right trouser leg and even the wheel hubs were well oiled. My Dad had insisted on me learning how to do some of the bicycle maintenance.
“Hmm,” said Nick, rubbing his chin.
“Yer bike looks sturdy enough and ya have the right kind of tires for the weight.“
Rubbing the chain between his dirty fingers, he asked, “Who greased the chain, yer dad?”
“Uh no, I did that,” I replied. “My dad showed me how though,” I added.
"Good job," Nick nodded approvingly.
“Well, the basket will fit yer bike. But ya need a new front tire. See here?”
Nick pointed to a crack in the front tire.
“There ain’t no way thet yer tire is gonna last much longer. And,” he continued, “with a big basket like thet on the front, the weight of the newspapers ya put in it is gonna make thet tire wear out faster. You’ve been lucky ridin’ around with thet bag slung overs yer shoulders. The weight is more evenly distributed.”
Nick sounds like a scientist! I thought. Wow!
“Okay,” said Nick. “Do ya aims to be keepin’ this route fer some time? Over the winter, ‘till school is out?”
“Well yezsir” What’s he gettin’ at? I thought, beginning to mis-pronounce words like Nick, both out loud and in my head.
“Well, John, for paperboys, I can offer a loan. You can come in here on the first Saturday after ya’ve been paid for yer route. Mr. Litow pays his boys on the first of every month, right?” he asked.
“I think so, sir,” Still not quite understanding what he was talking about.
“Okay then. Youse’r gonna need a new tire for yer front wheel plus the basket. I ain’t gonna just sell ya’s the basket widdout ya puttin’ on the new tire, cuz, ya still need the tire to be safe,” he explained.
“First, I’m gonna talk to Mr. Litow about yer route. Youse tell yer mom and pop. If they think it’s okay, then youse bring in yer bike this next Saturday, afta Thanksgivin. You kin put the new tire on the wheel and then put the basket on at the same time. Have ya ever done thet?”
I shook my head no.
“Thet’s what I thought. So, I’m gonna have Charlie here show ya how to do it. Charlie,” he barked at the teen-age boy helper.
“This is John. He’s a new customer. A payin customer. He’s a buyin a new tire and the big basket. He’s gonna bring his bike in on Saturday to have them put on. I want youse to show him how and help him put them on. No complainin either. Yer getting paid ta do what ah says.”
“Okay, Nick, “ said Charlie.
“But sir, I don’t got any money,” geez there’s the bad language again, I thought as I replied.
“I know, I know,” assured Nick. Here’s what we’s gonna do. How much are you getting paid every month?” he asked.
“ I think seven dollars is my pay,”
“Okay, then you come in every month on the Saturday morning after youse been paid and repay me three-fifty. That leaves ya half of yer route money ta put in the bank. That’s what yer gonna do with it, right?”
Nick looked at me with his squinty little eyes. They twinkled a bit and there was a grin on his face.
“Well, yes. But I might want to buy something once in awhile.” I envisioned days at the Open pantry, drinking pop and eating Kit Kats and Hershey chocolate bars.
“You make sure youse save some of thet money!” Nick ordered. “Some day youse gonna be glad ya did!”
Here’s what we’s gonna do. The basket is twelve-fifty and the tire is another dollar. Thet comes to thirteen-fifty you will owe me,” Nick scribbled furiously on a long yellow lined notepad.
“Les see, thirteen fifty divided by three-fifty gives us.”
Nick stopped suddenly.
“Come in every Saturday after getting paid for the next four months. Youse pay me three-fifty for the next three months. On the fourth month, youse gonna pay me two dollars. Yer loan will be paid in full. Okay?”
“Uh okay,” I nodded wide-eyed.
What is happening, I thought?
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Nick. “Christmas is next month. Youse gonna be buyin presents fer yer mom and pop?”
Huh? I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
“Oh, yessir, I am”.
“Okay then, youse start payin’ me in January, after Christmas is over. So you come in here on the Saturday after you get paid and pay me the three-fifty. Then you come in here in February, March and then April. Then yer loan will be paid. Okay?” Nick held out his hand to shake. “Youse come in this Saturday. Youse and Charlie will put the new tire and basket on yer bike. Okay?”
“Okay Nick,” I replied and shook his hand.
Nicked winked, “Youse be back here Saturday! And youse make sure it’s okay wid yer mom and pop,” he ordered.
Dazedly, I walked out the door with my bike. Geez! I called him Nick! I thought. He never even yelled at me!
Dutifully, I came back to Nick’s that Saturday for the tire and basket installation.
Charlie, the teen aged boy was sitting at his little bench, working on assembling a new bicycle.
Nick, meantime was talking to an adult customer.
He looked over when I walked in.
“Hiya Johnnie,” said Nick, winking his eye.
“Just take yer bike back to Charlie. He’s bin waitin’ for ya.”
Nick turned back to his customer, “Johnnie’s a new customer of mine. Comin’ in for a new basket and a tire. We got a bizness arrangement” He told the adult.
The man looked over and smiled at me.
Nick went back to explaining the virtues of a new Schwinn bike.
I went over to Charlie.
He grinned. “Okay, kid, let’s figure out what size tire you need. We’ll get that put on and then stick on that big basket.”
After all, I was a paying customer!

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.