Most Reliable

Hello Readers,

It's been a while since the last chapter.
A lot of things have been happening and I've been busy.
But, I've decided to add my January chapter in its entirety.
The title is The Most Reliable Bugger

As always, your comments are welcome and needed.

The Most Reliable Bugger

“Geezus Christ its cold!” exclaimed my dad. “I wonder if the Olds’ll start!”
It was the day after Christmas and the weather had become colder and colder. That morning, the thermometer read eleven below zero.
Just like his dad, my grandpa and his brother, my Uncle Paul, my dad was a self-professed Oldsmobile guy. We had the 1956 two tone green one that my grandpa had given us and the older, black ’55 Olds. With their single headlights in each front fender and extensive chrome grillwork they reminded me of two overgrown frowning bugs.
Dad had other opinions of them.
“Most reliable cars ever made,” he would tell me, nodding towards them with a wink.
I never questioned him, even when he made statements wondering about their ability to start in cold weather.
He once told me that Packards were the best cars ever made. I guess that was why we had the given up for dead, turquoise colored 1952 Packard hibernating in the side yard between our house and the lilac bushes. It hadn’t run in a while, but maybe when you have a “best car ever made”, you’re reluctant to part with it.
Scotty’s dad, Ray, on the other hand was a Ford guy. They had an old 1956 turquoise and cream colored Ford pickup truck and, a much newer yellow and black “T’Bird” convertible.
Ray, with a grin, used to say we had two old Olds.
I thought it was rather clever sounding. But, when I informed my dad of this funny play on words, he just frowned and bit down on his Pall Mall cigarette.
To him it must have been an “insult” to his Oldsmobiles, his running stock, even the one that was equipped with one of the day’s (1956 that is) latest “time-saving” technology..
The newer ’56 had a photoelectric device that Oldsmobile referred to as the “Autronic Eye”. I had puzzled over the word “Autronic”. It wasn’t found in the dictionary, even the big one down at Geneva’s public library.
But one day I figured it out. Aha! I snapped my fingers. It’s a combination of “Automatic” and “Electronic”; “Autronic”! Gee, those guys at Oldsmoblile sure were smart fellows!
It was a strange, futuristic rocket ship shaped device that sat on the driver’s side of the dash near the little vent window. Its purpose was to automatically dim the headlights from high beams to low beams whenever an oncoming vehicle’s headlights were caught by its “Eye”.
My dad often would skeptically refer to it as the “Moronic Eye” and, in more heated moments as that “Gotdammed Eye”. Other times, though, he just muttered and yelled at it with a choice curse word or two.
Even though he didn’t use a lot of curse words as part of his daily vocabulary and he wasn’t as imaginative or varied as his brother, my Uncle Paul, the “Eye” tormented him enough that he could become almost animated, repeating the same words only in different adjective use.
“Gotdammit, you Gotdam thing. Gotdammedsonofabitch. Gotdammed Eye!”
The Autronic Eye was oblivious to my dad’s anger and swearing; it seemed to have a mind of its own. I guess 1956 “time-saving devices” like the “Eye” were still in their infancy. Maybe the “bugs” just weren’t worked out of it.
The “Eye” just wasn’t that accurate.
It had the annoying habit of inadvertently dimming the headlights at the most unexpected times. It might catch sight of a street lamp or some other non-automotive light that came into its field of vision and decide the headlights needed to go to low beams.
Dad hated it of course, saying he preferred the metal foot switch. He would say as much to my mom or one of us kids but never to an “outsider”, especially someone like Scotty’s dad.
“What the hell? Geezus Christ, I could do a better job of it!” he would cuss when it dimmed the lights.
But, as I recall, the footswitch on the floor of the ’55 wasn't a favorite of his either. It could sometimes get stuck from rust or ice. Then it would reap his wrath as well.
It seemed that cars and their individual peculiarities gave my dad stress, not to the point of apoplexy, but just enough to warrant a reason to use a good swear word or two.
One summer evening when Dad was driving the ’55, the headlights suddenly dimmed. “Jiminy Christmas, that gotdammed eye!” he exclaimed, thinking it was the “gotdammed “Moronic Eye”.
But, then he realized he was driving the non “Eye”equipped Oldsmobile.
“Now what the hell? Gotdammit!”
Stopping the car, there was a “clunk!” and then crash! The sound of breaking glass accompanying it.
Dad and I got out to investigate. The left headlight had fallen out of the rusty fender.
More swear words followed. “Gotdammit!” he exclaimed, kicking the broken headlight to the side of the road. “Gotdammed rusty Olds”.
But now, we were in the dead of winter. Cold weather starting was important.
I knew that at least their radiators were winter ready. I had helped.
Before the first frost, in late September, the old man would prepare as he always did for the upcoming winter and its onslaught.
“John, get an Army blanket and crawl under the Olds,” he would command. “I want you to drain the radiator,” pronouncing radiator with a short “A” rather than the more correct long “A” vernacular.
Since we didn't have a driveway, the family autos (the running ones that is) were on the street in front of our house. The lack of a driveway meant that all work was done on the street. This suited my dad’s purposes just fine, especially when it came to radiator draining.
I knew the drill: First, spread an old army blanket under the vehicle in question, making sure it was far enough back of the radiator’s drain spigot. Lie on it, and then turn the spigot's handle open.
As it poured out upon the street and ran to the curb, then down towards the street drain, the coolant made a colorful show. When the flow ebbed to a sporadic dripping, I would turn the spigot closed. It was an easy job. My dad had shown me numerous times how it was done.
“Which one?” I asked smartly.
“The old Olds,” he said, forgetting he was almost parroting Scotty’s dad. “Then do the other. I picked up some ethylene glycol antifreeze from down at Wille’s.
“Wille’s” was Wilbur Wille’s BF Goodrich auto repair and supply shop at the corner of Second and State Streets in downtown Geneva. A place that knew the old man well; he was a frequent visitor.
In his quest to keep his rolling stock in working order, Dad would stop in at Wille’s for some automotive advice and often, a “deal”; some type of free or reduced priced automotive related item.
“Got a deal down at Wille’s,” the old man would tell my mom as he strolled in, confident as a cock of the walk.
Mom would just roll her eyes and murmur, “hmm”.
The “deals” he got were car wax and chrome cleaners and other stuff that seemed to be old, dried up or even used stuff. I wondered if the ethylene glycol (anti-freeze) was one of those “deals”.
As for ethylene glycol, it was of particular importance. During his stint in the Army, Dad had learnt from the motor pool guys that “ethylene glycol coolant” was their antifreeze of choice.
“John,” he would advise, lighting up a Pall Mall, “never use that alcohol based antifreeze. It’ll bugger up the radiator sure as hell.” The words came out as smoothly as the smoke from his cigarette.
I would nod appreciatively, reflecting at the same time that, I rode a bike; it didn’t have, let alone, need, a radiator.
However, I did catch that word “bugger”. Hmm. Now there was something to add to my list of useful words! I was not sure if it was a swear word; I hadn’t heard it from any other adults, or kids and I was not very sure of its meaning, but it sure sounded pretty neat.
Along with this automotive knowledge gained from the Army’s motor pool, he had also secured a good supply of the Army’s blankets. During the cold weather months, all of us had one of the dark olive colored woolen blankets on our beds. The excess was kept in the mothball laden army foot lockers that my dad also secured before being discharged. They were stacked in the basement next to the furnace’s oil tank.
When automotive work was performed, the old man always seemed to need a cigarette as an added aid. If he had trouble starting a car, he would pop open the hood, pull off the air cleaner, light his smoke and then go to work on the carburetor while I or one of the older kids turned the ignition key.
Once he even used a bit of ether spray. It was one of Wille’s “deals”. That was how I learned that ether was flammable.
“Turn the key John,” he ordered. Dutifully, I turned the key. Dad sprayed a bit ether into the carburetor’s throat while hand pumping its linkage.
No start. I let up on the key. He had instructed me not to “grind’ on the key.
“Gotdammit! Turn the gotdammed key again! Quit buggerin’ around!”
Buggerin’ around? Another way to use the word. How about that!
Whirr, whirr whirr. The car’s engine spun over and over.
More spray down the carb.
Nothing.
I could almost see the cuss words floating like a vapor out from under the hood.
Dad looked up at me, held up his palm to stop. Then, he sprayed some more into the stubborn thing. Biting down on his lit cigarette, he waved his arm to me with a circular motion. turn the key.
As he gazed into carb’s throat, muttering, “What the hell, gotdammit,” it blew.
The black '55 Olds had a bad habit of backfiring, even when we were just driving through town. Sometimes it sounded like a gunshot, other times, a cannon. At least that's what I imagined the sound those weapons made. Sometimes when it backfired, the noise made passersby jump. Dad thought it was funny.
It decided to do it then.
With a loud bang, the thing backfired. An orange flame like a jet’s exhaust blew straight up and out of the carburetor as the engine roared to life. With catlike reflexes, my dad luckily escaped the carburetor’s blowtorch flame, banging his head on the hood as he jerked his head from the angry thing.
“Geezus Christ, turn that bugger off,” he roared, eyes as big as silver dollars.
My eyes were even bigger, “is it gonna blow up?” my voice quavered; Gee whiz! I had almost roasted the old man!
“Oh, hell no. I was just a good clean-out. It ain’t nuthin to get excited about,” he said fearlessly. “I just didn’t want ya’s drivin off with the Olds,” he explained logically. But I noticed, his face was pale and he had bitten through his lit smoke.
The ether spray was dutifully discarded.
But this morning it was really cold. I sighed. I knew their radiators were full of the cold weather juice. But would they start?
I did not relish sitting in the cold Oldsmobile turning the key while my dad swore at the thing’s dead engine.
Sure enough; he was already planning for my help if needed.
“John, I wantcha to come out to help me start the Olds if I has problems”.
I watched as the old man trudged out to his car, the black Oldsmobile, cigarette in mouth, a black watchman’s cap on his head, and his hands clad in brown jersey gloves.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
I watched and listened as he endeavored to start the stubborn thing. I could almost hear him inside the car, “gotdammit, gotdammed Olds,” he would be cussing.
But then, just as the Shell tow truck with the jump starting generator was driving by, a cloud of white smoke magically appeared from its tail pipe. It started!
Ronnie the driver, stopped. ‘Havin troubles wit da Olds?” his grin was a chesire cat’s grin. My dad said he was too smart for his own britches. “Betcha it needs a tuneup!”
“Hell no!” exclaimed the old man, waving Ronnie off with the back of his hand.
Ronnie frowned, rolled up his window and drove off.
I breathed a sigh of relief. No braving the elements for me, I could go back to my chemistry set, forgetting, that I too, would be out in the frigid weather delivering papers.
The old man came in triumphant, crowing, “Most reliable car ever made!”
I nodded, my mom just looked over murmuring; she was busy preparing pancakes for my brother Jeff,
“Uh huh.”
I suppose she had heard other, more expletive defining terms regarding the Olds. Little brother Jeff, on the other hand smiled brightly. His blonde hair still wet from a bath was translucent, making his head appear bald. To him, the old man was always right and besides, there were pancakes being made.
Later that afternoon, the News Depot delivery truck came by dropping off my route’s newspapers. It was time to start delivering papers.
As I wiped the Christmas day snow from my bike’s seat, I shivered. It was buggerin’ cold! I mumbled to myself.
And man o manisheverts it was cold! it was buggerin' cold!
Later, when the TV newsman Fahey Flynn asked his weatherman, “How cold was it today PJ?”
PJ Hoff replied, saying that the high temperature for the day was eight degrees, the low, eleven below zero.
As I rode along, finishing my paper route, darkness was settling in. I flexed my fingers and toes; all but my thumbs were numb. Even my ears felt like they were burning through my stocking cap. I was so chilled that when Scotty came over that evening to ask if I wanted to see his slot car Christmas present, I politely declined. I was not going outside again. At least for that day!
But the next day, it warmed up. Scotty came by, his face red from the cold. “Hey John! Let’s go over to my place and play Eskimos,” he suggested. The hearty soul that he was, seemed to thrive in the cold. Much of the Christmas vacation, he spent playing outside, building an igloo under the maple tree in his front yard.

“Well, okay. But later maybe we could race slot cars when we get cold,” I proposed.
“Sure!” Scotty’s grin filled his rosy face.
One of his Christmas presents was a full blown slot car racing track with a dragster that raced against a replica Jaguar. The track took up half of his bedroom.
I was in awe of the amount of presents that he received. No socks and underwear for him. At least he never showed me them if he did get them. It must have seemed to him that all kids got such a large assortment of gifts: toy model airplanes to build, a baseball mitt, board games; all of that on top of the slot car racing track. I was justifiably envious.
As I was leaving late Friday afternoon, after having spent much of the day playing Eskimo and racing slot cars, Scotty’s dad drove up in his blue Geneva squad car.
“Hiya John, you stayin for dinner?” he grinned, his square jaw jutting out.
Friday night dinners at Scotty’s house were often “breakfast for dinner” type of affairs. Sometimes they would have waffles or pancakes and breakfast sausages and other times, bacon, eggs and toast.
One breakfast a day was enough for me. Besides, they often poured syrup on their breakfast sausage. To me, it was like pouring Kool-Aid on Wheaties, Ugh!
“Uh, no sir. I gotta go do my paper route.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re a paperboy now. Aren’tcha?”
Sometimes it seemed I could prattle on when I was asked about my paper route. “Yep. I gotta new basket from Nick’s and I deliver the News, American, Beacon.....”. Before I could finish reciting my workload, method of transport and maybe even my arrangement with Nick, Scotty’s dad interrupted me.
“Wow!” He had heard it numerous times before.
I quickly put on my cold weather gear, I noticed Scotty’s dad appeared suitably impressed.
“You’re deliverin’ them papers up and down Richards Street on yer bike?”
“Yep, and some of the sidestreets and even Anderson Boulevard. But not so many on Union and Center or even Stevens Street”
My face went red thinking about old man Hansen on Stevens Street and his front door window. Did he know about that? I held my breath.
Nothing was mentioned.
He nodded, thoughtfully, rubbing his chin and then went on, “I s’pose yer mom is taking you ‘round during these cold days. You know in the Olds?”
I shook my head, “nope, I’m riding my bike.” Then I added a bit uncertainly, biting my lip while puffing out my chest, “My fingers get a little numb, that’s all.”
I don’t think he really believed me as he wrinkled his brow as he listened, “Well then, stay warm. It’s durn cold out there!” Grinning, he patted my shoulder and winked as I left, closing the kitchen door behind me, repeating, “Stay warm!”
I pulled on my stocking cap and stepped out the door, into the freezing air.
Walking home, I mumbled, “Geezus Christ, its buggerin’ cold!”
Ray’s question about my Mom driving me on my route had me wondering; should I ask Mom if she would do that, drive me around in her car? Willie and Jerry’s mom even delivered the papers for them!
But then I remembered how she had remarked about a paper route being hard work, especially in the winter. Maybe that would disappoint her that I didn’t listen to her advice.
I shook my head. Nope, nope, nope, I better not. Then, I upbraided myself: Gee whiz John, what are you, a big baby?
After all, I was gonna be eleven years old pretty soon. I was in the fifth grade. Heck! Next year would be my last year in grade school!
And so, I went on, delivering my papers through the month of January. Some days were just plain cold, but others were absolutely frigid with temperatures below zero.
The first week, after Christmas vacation, it warmed up. And though it had snowed Sunday and Monday, on Tuesday, the eighth, my birthday, the temperature was in the forties. But then it snowed that Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
As we watched the Channel Five weather, that night, the TV weatherman, Harry Volkman described how a high pressure system was following the snowstorms with very cold air. The high started somewhere in Canada and slid down over the Chicago area bringing its cold, subzero temperatures.
By Sunday morning, the temperature was eight below and rose only to a cold ten above zero the next day.
It was too cold to play Eskimos. Scotty and I raced cars on his slot car track, the cold was forgotten temporarily.
But Monday morning came. The temperature was eleven below. I delivered my papers in frigid five degree temperatures while riding and half dragging my bike through the snow clogged streets. My fingers and toes were numb. They ached as they thawed out later that evening.
But Tuesday, the fifteenth, was even worse; eighteen below zero! The milk that the Johansen Dairy milkman delivered was frozen, its contents pushing the little wax lid out of the bottle.
For breakfast, my little brother and sister, Jojo and Jeff , made ice milk adding cinnamon sugar to the frozen milk that they poured into their cereal bowls. Thye cereal itself omitted.
My dad gazed out the window, puffing on his Pall Mall, cursing the weather.
“Geezuz Christ”. Then, he stopped and stared, gazing icily at his growing nemesis, Ronnie and the Shell tow truck driving by.
Just like the milkman, Ronnie and his Shell tow truck were making stop after stop, jump starting cars. You could hear its rear mounted generator echoing in the cold silence. Its sound was of an ominous power lawn mower.
As we walked to school, we stopped and watched in fascination as Ronnie, cigarette in mouth, pulled up next to the dead vehicle. He hopped out of the truck wearing heavily insulated, brown workman’s clothing, the name Shell Oil Co emblazoned in yellow upon his jacket. As he popped the car’s hood and attached the long cables to start the stalled thing, he would say a few choice words of advice to the owner about tune-ups and car care. All with an ever present sardonic grin
We didn’t watch for too long, it was too cold.
I’m not sure what he charged for starting frozen cars and dead batteries, but I guess for the people who used his services, it was well worth it. His advice was another thing.
My dad, on the other hand, would have nothing of it. He considered calling the Shell tow truck for a jump, an insult to his automobile acumen. And, he made darn sure he wouldn’t have to call them. From oil dipstick heaters to even a heating pad, he had all sorts of devices plugged into the long extension cords that he strung out to the Oldsmobiles in the street. He was certain that they would keep the freezing autos warm and ready to start.
No sir, that Shell truck was not going to be needed by him! And, he sure didn’t want to hear any smart aleck suggestions from Ronnie the driver.
But, this string of continuous below zero mornings had him feeling uneasy. I could tell as he watched Harry Volkman’s weather forecast, groaning as Harry explained that yet another high pressure system was sliding south as if on parade.
Even PJ Hoff, the Channel Two weatherman was proclaiming a string of record cold. My dad was beside himself.
"Gotdammit!,” was all he could muster as he had Jeff switch the television channel from one weatherman to another.
Each one was ominously predicting below zero temperatures.

******

I began to dawdle about delivering my papers. I grumbled to myself about just warming up from the walk home from school and now I had to go deliver these dumb papers. I began to dread the ride that seemed so easy only a few months earlier.
I wondered if this was what the arctic explorers went through, numb hands and feet, no hope of ever being warm. Their bodies later found frozen in the snow.
Then I remembered the movie where a cowboy was freezing in a blizzard. He shot a buffalo, slit it open and crawled inside its body to stay warm. They found him later, frozen inside the buffalo with only his head sticking out! I shuddered thinking about the gruesome sight.
By the time I was half way done, my ears, fingers and toes were numb, even my the heels of my feet were numb. I cursed the weather, my paper route and anything else in the vicinity. I cursed out loud. Who cares? There was no one else outside but me, braving the wind, pulling my dumb bike through the buggerin’ snow drifts.
“Gotdammit!” I shouted.
A car’s headlights appeared.
I looked over my shoulder. A police car! It was one of Geneva’s blue Chevy police cars!
Wild thoughts filled my head.
Had someone heard me?
Did they call the cops?

******

“This is the police. Can I help you ma’am?”
“Yes officer, There is some kid out in our neighborhood swearing up a storm. Please arrest him for using bad words.”
“What? The hell you say! Where is he?”
“Why he’s on Richards Street officer! He’s that same kid who broke Old Man Hansen’s window last month!”
“Why that little urchin! Okay ma’am, you stay inside. He might be dangerous! We’ve had trouble like this before! But we’ll catch him and throw the book at him!”

******

“Hi Johnny, I betcha you’re freezin’. Wanna hop inside my car and warm up?”
It was Ray, Scotty’s dad. Did he hear me swearing? Did someone call the police on me?
“Uh, yessir. It is cold. Thanks,” I entered the car uncertain as to what might happen next.
“You know, it’s below zero already. I was thinkin’ about you and yer paper route today. I thought I’d drive by to see how yer doin’.”
“Well, I’m half way done and it’s buggerin’ cold out!”
Ooh, I winced as I let out the word.
Not in front of an adult, John, you dumb pig!
My faced glowed a deep red.
Scotty’s dad looked at me in astonishment, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised. Then he snorted, chuckling and grinning as he agreed, “yep, it is buggerin’ cold out there!
By the way, Johnny, do you know what “buggerin’” means?”
“Uh, it’s like sayin’ it’s really, really cold?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of thinkin’. Tell you what, just don’t use that word around girls or ladies, like your ma.”
He thought for a minute and then added, “and probably your Pa too. Okay?”
“Okay!”
So, as I warmed up in the car, Ray offered me half of his Milky Way candy bar, We talked about the Geneva basketball team. How it was winning all those games. How their coach was always sick.
Scotty’s dad told me how Scotty had a lazy eye and that he had to be held back a grade because of his poor eyesight.
He even talked about his days in the Marines, playing for the Marine football team. I was enthralled.
We talked about my old man’s Oldsmobiles.
“Those things startin’ I see,” he commented.
“Yep. Dad’s got stuff to keep them warm,” I explained.
He nodded. He already knew. He had been over to see the electrical methods my dad was using.
After about fifteen minutes, Ray suggested that I hurry and finish my route.
I nodded and stepped back out into the ice blast. My fingers had thawed somewhat.
Not knowing what else to say, I waved and yelled, “Thanks!”
Ray grinned and drove off.

******

As that cold January continued, the below zero cold continued, the Oldsmobiles continued to start. The old man’s method of combating the cold weather assault seemed to be working.
If he encountered a starting problem needing two people, Dad would have me sit in the car and, as usual turn the key while he fiddled with the carburetor.
I watched as white puffs of his breath separated themselves from the smoke in his mouth. There were no new swear words emanating from my his mouth, just variations of the same in various degrees of volume. I did hear a sonsofbuggeringotdammit once. But I decided it sounded too silly to be even used as a swear word even if I was a kid.
By the third week of January, every day seemed to have below zero temperatures. Everyone grumbled and cursed, even my mom got in on the act, complaining with a few dammits!
On Monday, the temperature hit seventeen below zero, the next day, it was two below. But, on Wednesday, it reached eighteen below! Not again!
“Geezus Christ! Gotdammed cold weather!”
Dad bundled up and went out to start the cars, hoping, I presumed, that his array of electric cords had kept the frozen things semi frigid in this extreme cold. They would start for sure, just like last time.
I watched as he walked down the walk. Suddenly, he stopped and picked up the extension cord, examining one end and then the other. He gazed back at the house and then sadly at the two frozen Oldsmobiles. Then up and down the street.
Unplugged!
The extension cords were unplugged!
I could see his breath puffing out, probably with a few gotdammits and sonsabitches carried away in the white air.
Dad walked over to my mom’s car, opened the door and sat down. As he turned its key, I could hear the engine of her green two tone ’56 Olds slowly turning over. Suddenly, it roared, white smoke shot out of its tailpipe as it churned to life, chugging away.
Placing a brick on its accelerator, my dad got out, a big frozen grin on his face. I could almost hear him thinking, “most reliable car ever made”.
But, then he sat down in his black ’55, he turned the key.
Nothing.
No start.
No sound at all.
 A dead battery.
The hood was opened immediately. He peered into the compartment.
Looking back to the house, he saw me at the window. With a wave, he motioned for me to come out.
I sighed and nodded my head. Quickly, I donned my winter gear and came out.
“John, I wantchas to turn the key when I tell ya to.”
“Okay”. I knew this drill.
I sat in the driver’s seat and awaited his command.
He banged a few things under the hood and then whirled his hand in the circular motion in which I was familiar.
Whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr. The battery had some life!
I ground on the key, not noticing his hands waving to stop. It was only when I heard him exclaiming, “Geezus Christ! Gotdammit! Stop buggerin’ the thing!” did I stop.
“John, you wait here, in the Olds, we’re gonna jump 'er,” he explained.
Jump? Man, I had only done that once. The old man had almost electrocuted himself with that decrepit set of jumper cables, another one of those “deals” that he had purchased at Wille’s.
That time, when he attempted the “jump”, I had witnessed a long electrical spark being emitted from the hinge of its hood.
Dad pulled my mom’s Oldsmoblile up to the front of the black ’56, set the emergency brake, applied the brick to the accelerator and hopped out. Then he retrieved the keys from the ignition of the ‘55.
“Cable’s in the trunk,” he grunted.
As he rattled and rummaged through the trunk, I wondered if I would be electrocuted in this ‘jumpstarting” process. I had already received a shock from Scotty’s slot car racing track when I slipped and sprawled upon it, my tongue touching the metal contact point on the track.
That was a neck jerking jolt. Would this be worse? Would my fingers have to be pried from the ignition key? Would I just melt on the spot?
I pondered the gory details.
The old man walked by, gleefully waving the cables, a lit cigarette in mouth. I watched as he first connected one end to the dead battery, then to the running vehicle.
“Okay, John. Turn ‘er over,” he shouted waving his hand in the circular motion.
Whirr, whirr, whirr. I watched him intently for the stop motion. The engine turned over faster and faster.
Nothing. No start.
He scratched his head and thought.
Just then, Ronnie pulled up in the Shell tow truck.
“Whatcha doin there’ Big John?”
The ever present smart grin on his face was apparent immediately.
Some of the men in town referred to my dad as Big John. Ronnie was one of them.
“Havin a lttle trouble wit da Olds,” the old man acted nonchalant about it.
“Prolly needs a tuneup!”
The old man was insulted, “Oh hell no, it’s just someone’s gone and unplugged its dipstick heater.”
Then he looked suspiciously at Ronnie.
“Weren’t me!” Ronnie was even more insulted then the old man.
As I watched the exchange between the two, I began to shiver. Gee whiz, hurry up, you guys!
“Tell ya what Johnny old boy, I’ll help ya start her. You jump in and turn the key and I’ll man the cables! We’ll get ‘er goin’,” he said confidently. “No charge!”
A “deal”! The old man couldn’t resist.
He looked at Ronnie with some misgiving, “Okay, but you be careful with her,” he instructed.
Ronnie frowned and waved him off.
I jumped out of the car and stood back, my curiosity overcoming my shivering.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, Dad looked at Ronnie and nodded.
“Okay Big John, turn ‘er over,” Ronnie waved his hand just like the old man did.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
No start.
“Just a minute Johnny!” Ronnie ran over to the Shell truck, rummaged around and then returned with a can.
I recognized the container.
Ether!
Holy cow!
I moved farther away. I had no intention of being roasted alive.
“Hey Ronnie, I don’t like usin’ that stuff!” Dad shouted over the calliope that was the Shell tow truck, its running generator and the roar of my mom's car with the brick  on its accelerator.
Ronnie grinned even wider and waved him off.
Then he gave the can a few short spurts.
“Okay, give ‘er a whirl,’ he motioned with his hand.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
Nothing.
“Jusssst a minute,” More spray.
“Okay,” hand whirling in the now compulsory circular motion.
Whirr, whirr, whirr.
Nothing.
“What the hell, you sonofabitch you,” Ronnie cursed the car.
More spray and some pumps on the carburetor linkage.
“Okay, again” hand whirled.
Ronnie glanced over at me with questioning look; my fingers were in my ears.
Whirr, whir, whirr, BOOM!
There was a loud boom, a flash of flame, a big puff of smoke and then the roar of the engine.
She started!
I gaped at the scene. I had never been outside the car when it had happened.
“Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed. Luckily, no one heard me over the noise.
Ronnie’s sardonic grin was gone just as fast as the smoke and flame appeared.
I stared at his “Shell Oil Co” badge. It was badly blackened.
There was a distinct smell of burnt hair filling my nose. Ronnie's hair was singed.
His eyes were as big as saucers.
“Gotdammit John! What the hell kinda veehickul you got runnin’ here? Son of a bitch if it didn’t almost roast me alive.” Ronnie sounded each word out slowly, trembling as he did.
The old man hopped out of the Olds, almost dancing a bit, tears in his eyes, grinning ear to ear and coughing cigarette smoke out his mouth.
“I told ya I didn’t wanna use that stuff, Ronnie!” He could hardly get the words out in between his guffaws.
“Geezus Christ Almighty! What the hell is this thing, a jet engine?”
“Ronnie, there’s no need for that type of language ‘round my kids,” the old man admonished, nodding towards me.
“Oh, yeah, sorry about thems words, Johnny,” Ronnie looked over at me ruefully rubbing his singed hair.
I shrugged my shoulders, “Okay”.
Even though I had heard variations of the same words from my dad and my Uncle Paul, I still appreciated the old man sticking up for me.
That was the last time Ronnie stopped by to offer the old man help with his car.
That suited my dad just fine.
“Serve’s him right,’ he sniffed, as Ronnie drove off. Ronnie drove away, his grin was already back in place. “Think’s he’s a smart bugger anyhow.”
Although I initially suspected that Earl or DJ had crept over to unplug the things, it was never determined how they became unplugged. Probably the old man tripped on them the night before and inadvertently disconnected them. One thing is for sure, it didn’t happen again. The old man checked them every night.
As for the brutal temperatures and my paper route, they continued into the first part of February and I continued to deliver papers.

******

Over that course of time, until the cold eased, Scotty’s dad would nonchalantly pull up at the same spot just about every late afternoon as I did my paper route, offering me a seat in the warm police car, half a candy bar and a chat.
I don't remember ever telling Scotty or my mom and dad about his gesture. It just seemed the right thing to do.
But, I wondered back then if he ever did that for the other paperboys in town.
I guess I’ll never know.

******

As for the old Oldmobiles, they continued to start through that cold winter. The ’55 gained some notoriety for its pistol and cannon sounding backfire. My folks kept them a few more years.

After all, they were “The Most Reliable Cars Ever Made”.



Hello Readers,

As I told one of my friends recently, I've been suffering from a complete case of writer's block (and laziness too) for the past nine months or so. I suppose its having too many ideas and projects on my plate. Nonetheless, that is not an excuse. I'm working back at finishing this book.
So, with that being said, here is an excerpt from my December chapter tentatively titled Chemistry and Broken Windows. BTW, editing will be done as i see fit. And, of course, your comments are most welcome!

Chemistry and Broken Windows

Whoa! This bike wants to tip right over!

And I was thinking this was gonna be easy?

On the very day it was attached, I was trying out my new bike basket. No bag to carry and I can ride my bike faster than ever! I’ll be done with my paper route in no time!

Man O Manisheverts! It just wasn’t as easy as I thought. (little did I know that it was really “Man O Maniscewitz”, a wine commercial.

I had learned the “Man O Manisheverts” slogan from watching a television commercial. It was a new phrase to add to my repertoire of “safe” exclamations like “Holy Cow”, “Cripes” and “Holy Mackerel”. They all seemed “cool” to say and they weren’t swear words that I heard my dad, Uncle Paul and pretty much every other adult use. I was careful to only use swear words when out of earshot of all adults, siblings and traitorous kids who were known “tattlers”.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, the Chicago Daily News was bigger than usual. Loaded with advertisements for Christmas along with its usual weekend magazine and funnies, the newspaper was not only difficult to roll up, it was a challenge to load into the basket.

Finally I had settled on a precarious scheme of rolled up newspapers lying on their side that rose into a pyramid shape above the basket’s sides.

I threw on a light jacket; the day was unseasonably warm, almost like spring.

Holy cow, for cripe’s sake! It was like learning to ride a bike all over again. Balancing the top heavy basket laden thing, I coasted out of my yard and rode down to Peyton Street.

But, only a half block from my house, as I rode off the sidewalk onto the street, the curb’s bump triggered a ferocious newspaper avalanche.

Plop, plop, plop, I watched as my rolled up newspapers began to topple over the edge of the basket into the street.

‘Sonofabitch!” I almost shouted, but quietly, keeping in mind I was still within the practiced hearing of my Mom.

But, worse yet, all of this was happening in front of Earl and DJ’s house.

They were out in an instant along with half a dozen or so brothers and sisters it seemed.

“Ha-ha! John can’t ride a bike,” chortled DJ between bites of the greasy turkey wing he held in his left hand. His grease slickened jacket matched his face, I noticed. I wrinkled my nose, gosh he smells worse than ever, I thought.

The other kids giggled. With hair unbrushed, runny noses and dirty faces,

they were a site. They reminded me of the little kids in the Three Stooges movies.

“John fell down, John fell down,” the unkempt litter began to recite as if it were a nursery rhyme.

As my face began to redden, I silently stacked my newspapers back into my new basket as quickly as possible.

“Duh John, that’s not how you put newspapers in a bike basket,” said Earl.

I felt my face reddening further. “Shut up Earl, you pig!” I shouted. I was in no mood to be lectured.

“Earl’s a pig, John called Earl a pig, Earl’s a pig,” the onlooking brood recited.

Just as I put the last paper in to the basket, Earl and DJ’s mom came out. Pushing aside the barren lilac branches that overhung the front porch stoop, she glared at me in an imperious manner, “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Earl’s a pig, John called Earl a pig,” tattled Laura. She was the oldest of the girls in the family.

“John, did you call Earl a pig?” Earl and DJ’s mom snapped at me, her round belly jiggling as she talked.

“Yes ma’am,” I said meekly.

Gosh, I just want to go do my paper route, I thought.

“Young man, at your age, you should know better than to call people names,” she admonished. “I oughta go down and talk to your ma! You tell Earl he’s not a pig!”

Her brood snickered.

Earl’s face broke into a wide stupid grin.

“Earl, you’re not a pig,” I said not apologetically. “You’re a big fat pig,” I thought to myself.

But I didn’t think it to myself. I had muttered it under my breath!

Out loud!

DJ caught this slight utterance. “Ma,” DJ cried out, while pointing the turkey wing at me, “John said Earl’s a big fat pig!”

“John, did you,” she stopped in midsentence. DJ was busily chewing away on the turkey wing.

“Donald Joseph (that was DJ’s real name),” she hollered, “I told you to stay away from the turkey. That was supposed to be for dinner.”

DJ held the bird’s appendage to his chest. “Look at what you’ve done to Earl’s jacket!”

Meanwhile, Earl had quietly put his right hand behind his back. It was then that I saw the turkey’s leg.

But their mom’s eagle eye had noticed the movement.

“Earl, what’s in your hand?”

Earl hesitated, his grin instantly gone.

“Show me!” she demanded, her short stubby finger pointed directly at Earl’s arm.

Earl brought out the turkey leg.

With a look of regal displeasure, exhaling in one brief breath, she commanded, “Jesus, God almighty!! Get in the house all of you!”

The brood scurried into the house, shouting, “Earl is a pig, a big fat pig!” This they repeated over and over as if they were chorale group, each one reciting the insult slowly as they made their way past their furious mother.

During this commotion, Earl and DJ looked at each other and then took off, running behind their house.

But again, their mom was too quick. Breaking off a lilac branch in one swift movement; she took off after them, her belly jiggling as she ran.

As she ran past, I stared for a moment at this change in hostilities, my mouth agape in wonder.

A whirring sound issued out, it source, somewhere behind the house, immediately followed by a thwack, thwack and then cries, “Ouch, ow, c’mon Ma!”

Ha! The two pigs had been caught, I told myself, satisfied of their apparent punishment.

Carefully, I hopped on my bike, balancing the pyramid of rolled up newspapers. The heavy load of newspapers made the front of the bicycle act as if it had a mind of its own. I stood on the pedals, slowly riding up Peyton Street.

Nervously, I approached the train tracks that crossed Peyton and separated the old dingy Diversey Foundry from our homes on Sixth Street.

I was wary of the old foundry. It seemed to be a noisy, mysterious place, employing men who would emerge after a day’s work covered in a layer of soot. Often, it would fill the neighborhood with brown and black smoke that belched from its various chimneys.

Even the old wooden bins outside of the building were odd. The wood itself was a series of gnarled and weather-beaten thick planks coated in a smoke covered dust while the materials in the bins might be a fine sand or gray and orange clumps of strange rocks.

Sometimes, Scottie and I would pretend we were moon explorers. With army helmets on, we would break off long pieces of burdock and poke them into the rocks scaring out cats, mice and often a good sized rat.

Many of the foundry’s soot covered windows were cracked or broken, while the old brick building itself seemed to be covered in an eternal layer of soot deposited by the belching chimneys. Even the windows that remained were soot covered.

As I approached the tracks, I noticed even the train tracks were as dilapidated as the foundry. Pieces of railroad tie and the iron rail itself protruded from the track bed.

“Man O Manisheverts!” I exclaimed.

Just then, a short, squat man appeared on the old foundry’s railroad dock, next to its sand bins.

Startled and distracted, I crossed the misshapen tracks, catching the front wheel on a raised railroad tie.

Plop, plop, plop. Again, the newspaper pyramid in my basket seemed to evaporate, as they scattered across Peyton Street along the rusted rails of the tracks.

“Hey kid,” the man shouted, running toward me. “You okay?”

I was busily picking up the papers, stacking them back into the basket while keeping a wary eye out for Earl or DJ and, a train.

I wasn’t too worried about the trains. With an engine a few boxcars and a gondola or two, they were very infrequent visitors, usually arriving in the late evening or early morning, moving as slowly as snails. Besides, the old railroad-crossing bell would start swinging and clanging long before the appearance of the train

Heck, sometimes the old railroad-crossing bell would start and then stay on for hours, apparently stuck in the ‘on’ position, swinging and clanging for hours, long after the train had come and gone.

It irritated my dad so often that he would violently emit choice gotdammits and sonofabitches before finally deciding to call the police and complain.

As if they could do anything about the racket.

“Yessir, I’m okay,” gazing at the man in a bit of astonishment. Every inch of his clothes and body were covered in what appeared to be deep black dirt. As he came closer, I realized the dirt was really soot. He was as dirty as the foundry itself.

Gosh! Even his face was dirty, I thought. If I ever got that dirty, Mom would have a fit!

With a quick glance at my newspaper pyramid, and then me he spoke, “Ya know kid, that ain’t how youse pack yer newspapah basket.”

He talked differently, I noted. He sounded like what I imagined my dad would refer to as a hillbilly.

“Must be hillbillies,” Dad would sniff distastefully, upon observing someone’s messy yard or a rusted, broken down vehicle resting nearby.

For a while, I thought my family was of that hillbilly extraction.

The former family sedan, our long dead 1952 Packard sat in the grass and weeds between the lilac bushes and our house. It sure was rusty and our backyard sometimes resembled one of those “hillbilly” yards.

But then, he never said Earl and DJ’s family were hillbillies and their place was a wreck with kid’s toys and bikes, broken screen doors and windows and various sundry junk littered throughout their palatial grounds.

“No, they weren’t hillbillies,” said my sister Joyce. “Hillbillies talked like the characters on that television show, The Real McCoys.”

“Oh, like that.” I made a mental note for later correct usage.

The man pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes, deftly shaking the pack in a downward motion to reveal a single cigarette peeking out above its white companions. Quickly in an upward motion to his mouth, he grabbed the lone smoke with his lips, rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other, before allowing it to settle on a safe perch.

Breathing in as he lit it, he exhaled, “Look kid, when ah wuz a boy, ah hadda paper route. Ah stacked them end up.”

Huh? “How?” I asked with an odd interest; I noted the perfect rush of smoke flowing between his lips as he spoke.

“Like this,” he demonstrated. Through the haze of smoke, he grabbed a few rolled up newspapers, standing them on their end. “See howz ya kin git more in theya?”

The Lucky Strike was already half smoked, I noted. But, he was right, of course. Even though the man had gotten five or six papers smudged with his dirty hands, the teaching moment was immediately helpful. I started stacking the newspapers side by side, filling the basket with newspapers left over.

“See heeya, once yer basket is full, youse kin still fit in more.” The man squeezed another paper in, compressing it a little.

Achoo! The man sneezed loudly. Quickly, he rubbed his sooty nose and then held a finger to his nostril and blew out. A black gob of snot flew to the street. Then, he quickly wiped his nose with his collar, the seemingly only non-soot blackened part of his clothing.

Huh, what a cool way to blow your nose!

Heck, my dad always carried a white handkerchief and encouraged me to do so as well. Dad would blow his nose in a huge honk and then pull out the “old snotrag” as he like to term it and prodigiously wipe his nose back and forth. I never like carrying the “old snotrag” in my pocket, especially after blowing my nose.

I had been enlightened. I now understood the subtleties of basket stuffing and nose blowing sans handkerchief. All at the same time!

Just keep shoving more newspapers in, they would compress a bit, but they all would fit.

For the nose, press closed one side, aim and blow. Wipe remainder on collar.

What neat tricks!

“Gee, thanks mister!”

The man grinned, his white teeth shining like a beacon from his black sooty face. “Shore kid, youse be keerful with thet pack o’ papahs,” his accent made it hard to understand. “Ahs got ta git beck to mah job.” With a wave, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand and then disappeared back into the old foundry.

The remainder of my route seemed uneventful. The rolled up newspapers disappeared quickly as I rode my bicycle, reaching into the basket, then, tossing them to the porch or steps of the intended recipient.

As I made the tosses, I gazed back, admiring my accuracy. I knew I was a good thrower. Heck, throughout the summer we played baseball almost daily in the old vacant lot on the corner of Hamilton and Fifth Street. I even practiced pitching Sunday afternoons in the parking lot of the old Jewel Food Store on State Street.

With the Jewel was closed on Sunday, their parking lot was empty of customers. This allowed me to pretend to be White Sox knuckleball pitcher, Hoyt Wilhelm. With a piece of chalk, I would draw a circle on the brick wall of the building. This was the spot that I would aim my pitches.

Yes, those were darn accurate throws I agreed. As each one landed, I let out one of the signature cheers that White Sox announcer for WGN TV, Jack Brickhouse would yell when a White Sox player hit a homerun, “Hey, hey!”

Sometimes, the rolled up paper would fly windmill-like through the air. If it landed short of the steps, it would often seem to have a mind of its own, walking up the stairs end over end, making a bam! when it hit the door.

Snickering, I thought, that’ll wake ‘em up!

I was merrily on my way; the basket was becoming lighter as the papers were delivered, almost disappearing like magic from the basket. Weaving my way almost lyrically to and fro, I was full of confidence and good nature, waving to little kids, moms and dads, anyone who could see that here, was a paperboy who knew how to deliver a paper – a professional – and, judging by his accurate throws, maybe even a future baseball pitcher!

Crash!

Hello Readers,

The I Remember Geneva book is almost finished. I might add another chapter in the near future.
But in the meantime, even though it has nothing to do with Geneva, I thought I might add a very short story that I recently wrote.
Since the weatherman says the temperature should drop below zero tonight, I thought it would be fun to read this story. It's titled Sunny, Hot and Humid.
As always, your comments are most welcome, kind, instructive even nasty.

Thanks for reading!

John

Sunny, Hot and Humid

“Oomph!” Jack uttered a gasp of pain as Doctor Schramer inserted the anoscope.

“Looks like you have several internal hemorrhoids here, Mr. Neeson. I see a large, juicy one here,” he said, peering through the scope

“Thought so!” grunted Jack.

“A simple banding procedure is what’s needed. I can perform the procedure now, if you wish.”

“Sure, doc, let’s do it now.”

Schramer quietly spoke to his assistant. She nodded and left.

Just then Jack’s blackberry buzzed, an incoming call.

“Neeson here, what is it?” Jack perched his elbow.

“What that? Another one? Where? Who was it? Related? How? Oh, I see! Okay, call me when you know more.”
Jack cut the call short; the doctor’s assistant was wheeling in a flat tray containing various surgical tools. He noted the syringe and shuddered; its needle was longer than any he had seen.

Dr Schramer appeared. ‘Let’s go Maria,” he barked. “Mr. Neeson, you’ll feel a slight prick as I deaden the first candidate.”

Candidate? Ouch!” Schramer had inserted the needle.

“Jesus Doc, that was no prick!” complained Jack.

The cell flickered and came to life.

“Neeson here,” it was Greene, Jack’s partner. What’s that? They found it where? Ouch!” The doctor was slipping the band over the first candidate.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little procedure I’m having done. Hurts like hell though!” Jack glared at the doctor, Maria smiled.

“Greene, can you take my calls until I’m finished here? What’s that? I’ll let you know dammit!”

“You know Mr. Neeson, you should conduct your police business after I’m finished,” admonished Schramer.

“Sure, Doc. I’ve just told my partner to take my calls. You know, it’s the strangest case,” Jack shook his head.

“Really? How?” asked Schramer.

“A few weeks ago, a body was found near the Field Museum.”

“What happened?”

“We’re not sure. But the strange part was, the body was found half way up a tree.”

“What, just laying on a branch?’

“No, it was as if it was hugging the tree trunk. The person who called it in was walking their dog. Birds were squawking. She looked up and saw it. She said she called to it. No answer. So she called the police. They brought in the fire department. That’s when they figured out the subject was dead. The fireman said its teeth and fingernails were dug into the tree – embedded really - like a death grip almost. Had to break the corpse’s jaw to remove it. The coroner was pissed.”

“How strange!” Schramer had finished the procedure.

“Take the instruments Maria. Mr. Neeson, Jack, you’ll want to eat soft foods and watch for bleeding and infection. See me in a week’s time for follow-up and a second banding, if necessary.”

“Oh, sure.” A second trip for this, not good, thought Jack.

“You said something about a second body.”

“Yeah, its strange. I wouldn’t even have thought they were related but for the same manner, or death grip, that the second body was found and who it was.”

“Really!” What do you mean? Who were they”

“The second one was found in Lincoln Park, in the branches of a Dogwood bush. Hands clenched to the largest branches, fingernails dug into the wood, teeth anchored into a branch. They had to cut the branches, couldn’t release its grip.”

“Interesting. But you said something about who the body was. A friend of the first deceased?’

“No, he was the assistant coroner. He did the autopsy on the first body three days ago.” Jack stood up and hitched his pants.

“Okay Doc, see you in a week,” Jack gingerly made his way to his car. As he stepped out into the late afternoon sun, the heat and humidity hit him like a wall. Whew, another hot muggy day, he thought starting the old Chevy. Thank god for AC!

The week passed. Two more bodies were found. The first was the fireman, in a city park, two miles from the station. He was clinging to a tree, his nails dug into the wood, his teeth embedded into its trunk.

The dog walker was found later that day, near the same spot as the first body, high up in a tree, her nails dug into its woody trunk, her teeth were splintered from the force of her bite into the tree’s trunk. In her apartment, her dog was dead, its teeth in a death grip on the wood frame of a kitchen cabinet.

Jack returned for his follow-up with Schramer.

“Looks good Jack. Continue a regimen of fiber and good eating habits,” instructed the doctor.

Relieved, Jack looked up, “will do Doc.”

“There was something else I wanted to mention, Jack,” continued Schramer.

“What’s that Doc?”

“The case you were working on last week. Those two bodies.”

“Yeah. There have been two more similar deaths. The feds are getting involved, you know the CDC. They think maybe it’s some type of flubug or something,” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Some of us who worked on the case had to have blood tests. Haven’t found anything though.

But, I’ll tell you something Doc, there was something funny about those reports.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first body they found. In the tree? She worked at the Field Museum. Her co-workers said she had been acting strangely, babbling almost. They sent her home. Lives over on the North Side. Seems she got up in the middle of the night and walked back to the museum.

And then the assistant coroner.”

“The second body?”

“Yeah, he was acting funny. He went home after his shift. But then he walked all the way over to Lincoln Park. Someone saw him. They said they thought he was on a drunken tear.”

Jack thought for a minute, “what were you gonna tell me Doc?”

“Last week, coincidentally the same day you were here, I had dinner with an old friend, Evelyn Price. She’s an entomologist, you know insect study. She’s doing some research, writing a paper on ants”

“That’s interesting, but what has that got to do with anything?”

“Over dinner, I told her about your case.

Evelyn was interested. She said that while studying Thai carpenter ants she came across a very odd disease they carried. It was similar to your victims.

The odd look on Jack’s face stopped the doctor.

“What’s wrong?”

“Uh nothing. Go on,” urged Jack.

“Evelyn explained that she had found that there was a parasite, a fungus. It manipulates the infected ants into dying where the fungus prefers to be.

The fungus turns the Thai carpenter ants into zombies, walking dead if you will. It somehow gets them to die in a spot that's perfect for it to grow and reproduce.

Somehow it takes control of the ant’s brain.”

“Go on,” Jack was intrigued.

Dr Schramer continued, “The nest of the carpenter ants is high in the canopy of the Thai forest. To forage, they leave their nest and travel to the forest floor. Apparently this fungus needs to live on the undersides of leaves that sprout only on plants that grow on the forest floor.

Evelyn believes this is where the temperature; humidity and sunlight are perfect for growth and reproduction. The added benefit is that it can infect more ants as they search for food.

Here is the most interesting part. It made me think of your case:

When the fungus infects it, the ant becomes compelled to climb down from the canopy to the low leaves, where it clamps down with its mandibles just before it dies.’

Evelyn says, ‘it as if the fungus manipulates the infected ants into dying where it (the fungus) prefers to live, by making the ants travel to the optimal growth area.”

“After the ant dies, the fungus continues to grow inside of it.

Evelyn has dissected many of the infected ants. She and her colleagues found that the fungus converts the ant's insides into sugars that help it continue to grow. But it leaves the muscles controlling the mandibles intact to make sure the ant keeps its death grip on the leaf.

At the same time it also preserves the ant's outer shell, growing into cracks and crevices to reinforce weak spots, fashioning a protective coating that keeps microbes and other fungi out.

After a few days, spores from the fungus fall to the forest floor. Then other ants become infected.

Evelyn believes it’s the heat and humidity of the Thai forest that allows the fungus to grow and perpetuate. She sees no present way to stop its growth other than dryness and cold.

Doesn’t it sound very similar to your case? Of course, there are many differences, I suppose.” Schramer smiled and looked at Jack.

Jack Neeson’s face had gone deathly white.

‘What is it?” asked Schramer.

“Doc, the first body was the researcher working at the Field Museum.”

“Yes?”

“She was dissecting Thai carpenter ants. Seems they had found them stuck to strange places where they are not usually found.”

The doctor held his finger to his chin in pensive thought.

“What is it doc?”

“Evelyn said she was doing her research with a group at the Field Museum. I wonder if she knew the first victim?
You don’t think?”

“Gotta go Doc!’

Jack hurried to the old Chevy. As the engine spun to life, the radio came on.

“Looks like no letup in sight said the weatherman. Sunny hot and humid.”

Just then Jack’s cell came to life. It was Greene.

“Jack, we found three more.”

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......