The Bully

12 The Bully first draft 2/29 11:50 PM

The days were warm and grew longer. The summer solstice just passed so it didn't get dark until well after 9 PM. We made plans to maximize our summer vacation. Backyard camp-outs were always fun. Sometimes we weren't even in the yard. Garages worked too and they were dryer.

Bob Van and I had just such a plan. We were sitting on our bikes by our houses on Lea Avenue. Bob had just returned with his sleeping bag and we were about to head to the garage when we saw Jimmy. Jimmy was much larger than us. And he was a bully.

I'm not sure what happened to him in Maryland, but he moved to Swazy Acres to live with his aunt and uncle. They had no children living at home and had plenty of room. We never asked why he wasn't living with his parents. It was none of our business, and we didn't know what would set Jimmy off sometimes. But he was on his bike and headed our way.

“C'mon Bob!”

We turned our bicycles and headed for my folk's garage. The big overhead door was open. We got into the garage and I jumped up and pulled the door downwards. But Jimmy got there too. He stuck his bike's front tire in to keep me from shutting the door. The door came down on his bike hard. Bob and I were inside and Jimmy was out. He pulled his bike from under the door. He glared at us. I locked the door.

And then he put his fist through the garage window. Bob and I were sprayed with glass. Luckily we both wore glasses which protected our eyes. Jimmy rode his bicycle down our driveway and home.

Bob and I cleaned up the glass. My parents came home from shopping and I told them what happened. My dad never gets angry. But he stomped down to Jimmy's aunt and uncle. I never heard what became of it.

Jimmy was a fan of TV wrestling. He would act it out. He put me in a Boston Crab once. That hurt. A bunch of us were hanging out in the third street by a stone wall. Jimmy climbed the wall, jumped, and hit me with a pointed elbow to the top of my head.

But he met his match. A kid named Harry used to walk over from Prospect Hill. Harry wasn't as big as Jimmy and so Jimmy, typically, picked on him. They decided to wrestle. Harry more than held his own with Jimmy. They wrestled for a half an hour to a draw. Harry was quick.

At some point, Jimmy dropped out of school. He got a job working at the Golden Krust Bakery in Cohoes. He bought himself a car

And then, as suddenly as Jimmy appeared in Swayze Acres, he left.

I'LL ADD TO THIS AS WE THINK OF SSTORIES.

Is Too Is Not

11 Is Too Is Not Second edit 2/29 11:50 AM

Russell sat on his bike, fascinated by my camera. He kept staring at it. He may have seen cameras before, but not one like this. Not a magic camera. Where in the world did I come up with that silliness? He didn't understand my attempt at describing how a single lens reflex camera works, and rather that delving into that, it was just easier to say it was magic.

“When will you get your pictures developed?” asked Russell.

Uh oh. Do I lie? Do I show him?

“Russell, come over here.”

Russell scootched his bike next to me. I turned my camera so he could see the screen on the back. I pressed the preview button, and the pictures I took came up one at a time as I pressed the button. Russ's jaw dropped.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Those are the photos I took,” I answered. “I'll, um... develop them when I get home.” I didn't want to get into computers and such right now.

“Whoa! That's neat!”

I just smiled. If Russell only knew what modern technology held in store for him. Ha.

More kids arrived. Some alone, some in twos and threes, all riding bicycles.

“Mr. Gibson has a magic camera!” exclaimed Russ.

“He does not,” said Mary Bombard. “There ain't no such thing as a magic camera.”

“Is too!” said Russ.

“Is not!” said Mary.

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

Well, this went on for a bit. But I had forgotten the basic rule of children's debate. Whomever stops first loses.

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

“Whoa! That's enough,” I said. “My ears are getting tired.”

They both looked at me, but then Russell said, “Is too! Show her Mr. Gibson!”

“Yeah! Take my picture with your magic camera, Mr. Gibson,” challenged Mary with a sarcastic tone.

I sighed. What have I gotten myself into? Why didn't I just explain to Russ in more detail how an SLR works? Or just have told a white lie and said I'd develop them later? Sometimes I could kick myself.

“OK. Tell you what,” I said. “How about if I take a photo of all of you. Bunch up close together on your bikes.”

With some minor bicycle collisions, they finally managed to get fairly close. I had to step back a bit towards Ferg's house.

“OK, smile!” I said. They all started grinning. Sheesh. I pressed the shutter a couple of times, zooming a little as I did so.

“There. You can stop grinning now,” I said.

“So what's so magic?” said Mary. “I didn't see any magic.”

“You wait!” said Russell emphatically. “Show her Mr. Gibson!”

“OK. You kids get off your bicycles and gather around,” I said. No point in getting bumped all over by kids on bicycles. Kick stands went down and kids jumped off. They all gathered around me.

“Look closely,” I said as I turned the camera around and clicked the preview button. A picture popped up of the kids on their bikes. At first they said nothing. They just stared at it.

“I know what that is!” said Mary. “It's not magic! He's got a little television in there.”

“Does not!” said Russ. “Then why is it in color? Huh?”

Mary got quiet. Her eyes narrowed. She looked at the preview again. I pressed the button and the picture scrolled to the next one. Mary was quiet. Then the kids all started talking among themselves.

“Look, kids...” I said, “maybe it's better if you don't tell anyone about this. OK?”

“Why?” asked Mary's little sister Annie.

“Well, it's just better,” I said. “A lot of parents don't believe in magic. At all. They might not let you play outside anymore,” I fibbed. Heads nodded up and down.

“Promise?” I asked. More head nodding. “Cross your heart and hope to die?” I added.

“Lick the devil in the eye!” said Russ. Good. That should settle it. Kids started crossing themselves.

“Where's the pictures?” asked Mary.

“He's gonna do it later!” said Russ quite loudly.

“Is not!”

“Is too!

Here we go again. I decided to take a walk around the development. With my camera and bag around my neck, cane in hand, I started shuffling off down Lea Avenue. The kids didn't even notice I left. The sounds of did not did too faded off.

I passed house after house. I knew the names of everyone who lived there back so long ago. Yaeger's house was still vacant. I wonder why? Seems strange. I got to 23 Lea Avenue. My parents house. My house. I stopped and gazed at it. How peaceful it seems. The second nicest lawn in Swayze Acres. Mr. Van, across the street, had the nicest lawn. He put lots of fertilizer on it. My mom just burned ours. Every spring she would set the lawn on fire, and just like after the grass fires you see once in awhile, it came back greener than ever. I wonder why no one called the fire department on her? Maybe folks just kept to themselves more then.

As I stood there, the side door opened and a little boy bolted out. Little me. He jumped on his bicycle and went pedaling past as fast as he could.

“Hi mister!” he yelled as he flew by. I watched as he joined the group of kids down the street. It's like a damn gang down there. It's a wonder they didn't get into more trouble than they did.

Darn kids.

the Magic Camera

10 the Magic Camera Second edit 2/29 11:30 AM

It's good to be home. I never thought, at my age of 70, that I would be living in an apartment. Especially in a senior complex I hadn't lived in an apartment since 1972. Yet here I am. I never thought about it, but even if I did, I never could see myself calling a little one bedroom apartment in a senior complex a home.

My trawler was bigger than this. What was nice about the boat was that it moved. It moved all the way down the east coast, from Albany to Jacksonville. The nice thing about boat living was that if you liked a place, you stayed. If you didn't, or if you had a new neighbor that you didn't like, you would cast off and go somewhere else. You can't do that in an apartment if you have a noisy neighbor. You can't even move out because you have a lease to contend with.

Home. Just a few years ago, it was my wife and me. Plus four dogs, three cats, two goats, two chickens, and one horse. Now it is just me. My wife left me. She never could give me the real reason. She couldn't deal with my accident, she eventually said. She took two dogs, the cats, and the horse. Some animal had killed the chickens. We loaned the goats to a friend to eat back some brush on her property and a Florida Panther killed them. So it was me and my two pit bulls. The best dogs ever. Friendly. I guess too friendly. Someone let my male pit out of our fenced in yard one night while I was tending bar at the AmVets. Probably to play with him. He was hit by a car. Now it was just me and Ruby, my female. My first dog. And my last. She died a year after the male. Pamela said it was cancer. I think it was from a broken heart. Ruby missed her best bud.

Pamela left me. That makes me very sad. It also got me Baker Acted into a mental hospital for awhile. Never tell a 911 operator, when she asks if you might harm yourself, that if you had a bottle of pills you would chug them all. It gets you Baker Acted real good. Being Baker Acted is like going to prison, with barred doors and windows. The difference is you are not charged with a crime, there is no trial, you do not see a judge, and you are only released when they say so.

This little apartment isn't so bad though. It's only me now. It gets lonely sometimes. So I walk to the village. Richie gives me rides to Swayze Acres. Am I going nuts? I should buy a TV. Maybe next month's check. That's what happens when you give everything away. Your houses, your cars, your boats, and even your guitars. A Guild and a Martin acoustic at that. Sometimes I miss my stuff. Like right now I miss my TV. But stuff ties you down. Stuff anchors you. Getting rid of stuff gets rid of sad memories. Oh, they were good memories then, but now they are sad memories. So get rid of your stuff and get rid of your sad memories. I did that twice now, getting rid of all my stuff. For some reason, I still have my sad memories though. Didn't work. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The one thing I did not, and never will, get rid of is my camera. People say I'm pretty good with it. Looking at my photos, I can sure see some nice ones. I get lucky sometimes. I probably should have gotten rid of the camera too. My daughter Becky could have used it. She likes photography too. I even told Pamela that when I die, make sure Becky gets my Nikon and all the stuff that goes with it. But I didn't die, and Becky got herself a nice Nikon anyway. What will I do with this camera when I die? I guess I won't care, at that point. I'll be dead. But I should bring my camera with me to the village. It's a little bulky but it takes much nicer photos than my phone. I use my phone for snapshots. I use my camera for photographs. I need to take more photographs.

I also need to take a nap. The exercise and beer made me tired. But I think I need to take photographs more than nap. I put on my jacket, hung my camera bag over my shoulder, grabbed my cane, and went out the door and shuffled down the hall.

“Good afternoon again, Miss Clara.”

Miss Clara smiled and said something.

I got to the front door. I checked my pocket to make sure I had my keys. Yup. Phone? Yup. Wallet? Yup. I pushed open the door and went out. And there was Richie. Sitting out front with his window down.

“I thought you left?” I asked.

“I did,” said Richie. “But then I came back. Want a ride?”

“Sure,” I said.

As I slid into his '60 Chevy I said “Richie, I really appreciate all these rides you're giving me. How about if I give you some money for gas?”

“No way, man,” replied Richie. “I've got this. It's my job.”

Richie pulled to the end of the driveway. “Which way?”

“Can you give me a lift to Swayze Acres? If it isn't out of your way?”

“Can do, man. I'm headed that way anyhow.”

As we drove along Middletown Road, I looked at things. Many things were exactly the same. The cemeteries never changed. All of the new dead people were planted in the back. Many of the houses were exactly the same. You would think something would have changed, but I didn't see it. Oh wait. 1960 Chevrolet. Right. Don't say a word of this. Nothing had changed here.

“You can drop me off right on the corner,” I said.

“By the Gooders' house?” asked Richie.

“Yes. Do you know them?”

“Only through a mutual friend,” said Richie with a slight smile as he pulled over.

“Ah,” I said as I slid out the door. Easily, I might add.

“If you want, I'd be glad to pick you up later,” said Richie. “I've got the day off. Just give me a time.”

“Richie, you're too kind. I'll be fine. Besides, I have no idea what I'm doing or how long I'll be.”

“OK man, be safe,” said Richie as he pulled away.

“Thank you!” I hollered after him.

I pulled my camera out of the bag. I took off my 300mm zoom lens and put on the 105. I use my 300 mainly for shooting wildlife, or portraits when I don't want people see me taking their photos. I don't bother with things like model or property releases because I don't publish or sell any photos. I just take them. I enjoy it. It exercises my so called brain. It helps me see better when I have a camera. I see things that most would not. It is a form of mental illness, I surmised. I chuckled to myself. Just like buying all that stuff throughout my life. Like sailboats. I must be crazy. You'd have to be nuts to buy a big, expensive sailboat in a place like upstate New York. I got rid of the stuff but I'm still crazy. So maybe I should have kept the stuff.

I hung my camera like a sling. That way it couldn't slide off my shoulder and break. If I broke it, I couldn't afford to buy another one. This has to last. I must be a sight to see. An old man... I looked at my sleeve... wearing a 1960s vintage maroon CPO jacket... shuffling along with a cane, and with a camera bag and camera slung around my neck. Sure, I'll fit right in. No one will notice me. Heck, I look like a tourist. Well, Gibson, it a way you are a tourist. You don't live here anymore. Not in fifty years.

“Hey mister!” someone yelled.

I looked up from my feet. I do that so I don't trip and fall over something, like a crack in the pavement. I dunno. I squinted a bit to get my right eye to focus. It was Russell. I met him the last time I was here.

“Watcha doin'?” asked Russ as he pulled his bike to a stop.

“Just out for a walk, Russ,” I answered. “All alone?”

“Yeah, but everyone will be out soon. They're eatin' dinner. What's that?” he asked, pointing.

“It's a camera,” I said. “Can I take your photo?”

“Sure,” said Russ.

“OK. Turn your bike towards Ferg's house so the sun isn't on your face,” I said as I walked towards Ferg's house myself.

I positioned myself so that I could get all of Russ and his bike in the photo, the sun hitting only the left side of his face. Good. That will give the photo some depth. I set the ISO to 100, the speed to 500, and the aperture to 5.6. I always shoot in manual mode, although the camera will also act like a point and shoot. That's for novices. We experienced photographers do things the old way. The way it should be done. Set the camera in automatic mode and you might as well be using your phone. We didn't have autofocus DSLRs in my day. We had to learn how to set everything. And then we couldn't see the results until we got the film developed. Shooting film makes you a better photographer. And we walked to take photos. Uphill. Both ways.

As I started to press the shutter, Russell grinned.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What?” asked Russ.

“Don't grin.”

“I'm not. I'm smiling. You're supposed to smile in pictures,” stated Russell emphatically.

“Not when I take photos,” I said. “You can smile a little, but no grinning. Act natural.”

“This is how I smile!”

I gave up and started shooting. As I shot photo after photo, I zoomed in a bit each time. My camera was set to autofocus so I didn't have to mess with that. That's the one concession I made to technology. That, and being a DSLR I could snap as many pics as my heart desired. It didn't cost anything. The only waiting was going home to download them. After a couple of dozen, I lowered the camera and put the lens cap on.

“That sure is a fancy camera,” said Russell. “It's nothing like mine.”

“What kind of camera do you have, Russ?” I asked.

“I have a Brownie,” said Russell. “It's brown. And it's square shaped. What kid of camera is that?”

“Well, it's a Nikon. That's the brand,” I answered. “Have you heard the term SLR?”

Russell shook his head no.

“It means single lens reflex. It's a fancy dancy term for the mirror and prism in the camera body that swings up out of the way of the sensor so light will come through the lens and hit it. With the mirror down, I look right through the lens so I can see what the camera sees.”

Russell looked at me blankly.

“tt's a magic camera,” I said.

“Oh OK!” said Russ.

Respect Your Elders

09 Respect Your Elders First draft 2/29 11:30 AM

I sat on my bar stool contemplating my pint of Lake Placid what-ever-you-call-it. Yep. This is a fine beer. But I have to go after two. It's a half-mile walk home, and I have a bladder the size of a thimble.

I chuckled. When you're a kid, the whole world is your bathroom. If I stopped to pee behind a tree now, I be arrested sure as hell. Of course, maybe the officer would see that I'm old and I could just play on that? I have to pee here because I'm old. Is that a problem officer? No, that wouldn't work. Two beers, hit the men's room, and shuffle home as fast as I can.

I looked around the bar. The crowd was thinning out. Just Terry the bartender, a guy sitting at a table finishing his meal, and me. Not much to research, right now anyway. I might as well go home. Work on my next book a little.

I finished my beer, did my men's room business, and put on my coat. I picked up my cane and held my hat in my hand.

“Have a great day, Terry,” I said

“See you again?” asked Terry.

“You bet.”

I put on my cap and went out the door. The breeze felt cold. I turned my collar up. As I passed the old women's entrance into the restaurant, I noticed that there was a sign on it. Please use other door with an arrow pointing towards the barroom. Nothing stays the same. See, as a businessman, I would have that door unlocked and have both doors labeled “Women” and “Men”. Just like the bathrooms. Naw. Some woman's libber would have a cow over it. I haven't heard the term “woman's lib” in a long, long time. So I guess the woman's liberty movement worked. But you still have to be careful what you say and who you say it too. What do they call it now? Politically correct. You have to be politically correct. When I was a kid, it was the ginney store. We didn't know that ginney was a bad word back then. We were kids. We didn't know better. But none of the grown-ups corrected us. Maybe they just left it for us to figure out.

Is that bowling pins I hear? Can't be. Must be something else. I belonged to the school's bowling club. I was never good enough to make the bowling team. Bowling was just something I enjoyed doing. I still do that. I like doing things I'm not good at. It takes the pressure off. I can just relax and enjoy the game. Golf was like that too. When I took up golf, I was going to be the best. I worked hard at it, but I could never break a hundred for eighteen holes. It was when I realized I was no good at golf that I really started having fun. Same for playing guitar. Everyone should be required to do something they're no good at. It would make life more enjoyable if we were all humble. My dad used to tell me that no matter how good you are at something, or how good you think you are, there is always someone better. My dad was a smart man.

A Traction Company bus passed just as I got to the canal. I've got a mule and her name is Sal... wait. Traction Company? United Traction Company? Didn't they get replaced by the CDTA like, fifty years ago? The bus was that muted red and cream color of a Traction Company bus. As it passed, it belched black sooty exhaust from its diesel engine. It went up to St. Mary's around the island, and stopped on the canal bridge. That's where we always caught the bus to go to downtown Troy. Can you imagine that? Kids, ten or twelve years old, walking down a busy road to the village, and hopping on a bus to go to Troy? Parents today would never allow such a thing.

Troy was a fun destination for us kids. That was before shopping malls. Everyone went to downtown Troy to shop. There were department stores everywhere. Stores you don't hear of anymore. Denby's, Woolworths, Grants, Frears, Green's... Tom Bombard and I would take the bus to downtown Troy to wander about. Was it Green's we went to? On one of the upper floors was a soda fountain. We'd order banana splits. There were balloons hung overhead. You'd pick a balloon and the lady would pop it. Inside was a slip of paper with a price on it. Whatever the price was is what you would pay for your banana split. I don't remember the top price, but the lowest was a penny. I got that once. All those stores are gone. Stores just come and go. There are only a few big ones left today, and they're closing as online shopping becomes more and more popular. I shop online. But you can't get a banana split for a penny from Amazon.

Times sure have changed. Cripe, now I'm thinking like my grandmother. Do you know what I paid for a loaf of bread yesterday, Bobby? My dad would answer along the lines of I dunno ma. Thirty cents! For a loaf of bread! Can you imagine? Cripe grandma. It's only thirty cents, I'd think. I'm never going to be like that when I get old, I told myself. But the last time I bought a loaf of bread it was three bucks. Three bucks! Can you imagine? I got to the canal. I've got a mule...

Richie pulled up along side of me. This is getting weird. He's always giving me rides. He was driving a Chevy coupe. About a '60, I'd guess. Don't look surprised. Baker Act. Think Baker Act.

“Hey mister! Out for a walk?” he asked.

“Sort of. I was doing research for a book,” I answered.

“Want a lift?”

“Sure, thanks Richie,” I answered.

“Van Schoonhoven?”

“Yes, please. And thank you.”

I got in. Easily, I might add. Richie pulled away from the curb and took a right at St. Mary's. We quickly got to Van Schoonhoven.

“You can just drop me off here,” I said.

“I'll drop you off right at the door,” said Richie. “We aim to please.”

Richie took a left into the long driveway. We aim to please? Who is we? Just an expression, I suppose. Richie stopped the car at the door. The front door was in the back where the parking lot is. Like North Side is in the south part of Waterford. Maybe there's something in the drinking water? I wonder if Waterford still gets its water from the Hudson River?

“Thanks Richie,” I said. “I really appreciate the rides.”

“Anytime man.”

I got out and walked around the front of the car and shuffled up to the front door. I noticed that Richie waited. Why? To make sure I didn't forget my key? I'm not that old. Yet. Well, seventy. Maybe I am that old. I fumbled for my keys and put the door key in the lock. I turned it and yanked on the door. It didn't open. I turned it the wrong way. I always do. I turned it the other way and pulled on the door and this time it opened. I stuck my foot between the door and the jam while I tried to get the key out. It always comes out hard. I better tell Bill the maintenance guy the next time I see him. I yanked on the key, turned it this way and that as I did so. Richie was still waiting. Finally it came out. I stuck the keys in my right front pocket. That is their place. Everything must have a place. That way you can find things when you need them. I learned that on boats. I turned to Richie and waved. He tooted his horn and drove off. Geez Richie, there are all old people here. They might be taking naps. I can see a nap in my future.

As I walked down the hallway to my apartment, I saw Miss Clara. She's ninety-five.

“Good Afternoon, Miss Clara.”

She turned slowly and looked at me. She smiled and said... something. I can't understand a word she says. Between my difficulty hearing and her advanced age and difficulty talking, we don't have conversations.

“You have a good day ma'am.”

It is important to respect your elders. I don't know why that is, but that's how I was raised. If all the seats in a room are taken and someone older than you enters, you give up your seat. Same if a lady walks in even younger than you, you give up your seat. I've given up a lot of seats in my day. I turned the door key and the door opened easily.

I'm glad because I have to pee like a race horse. I got that phrase by my buddy Vic. Vic played the horses. Saratoga has the flat track and the harness track. The locals preferred the harness track, especially at the end of the season. They all know who is going to win. And the winning horses are drug tested. They're given something to make them pee, which is where the phrase comes from.

I tried to get Vic to quit smoking when I quit in 1975. He laughed and kept smoking. He died of lung cancer in his early 40s.

Swayze's barbershop

08 Swayze's barbershop Second edit 2/29 11:00 AM

Richie and I were mostly quiet on the ride down the hill.

“Van Schoonhoven?” asked Richie.

“Would you mind dropping me off in the village?” I asked.

“No, not at all. I'm headed that way anyway.”

We approached St. Mary's church. Still impressive, I thought. What a beautiful building.

“Right here by the church is fine,” I said. Richie pulled over to the curb.

“Thanks for the ride, Richie,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Any time, man.”

I opened the door and slid out with some difficulty, cane in hand. I stepped onto the terrace and shut the door. Richie pulled away and tooted his horn. He stopped at the intersection and took a right towards North Side. North Side is on the south side of Waterford. I think that's funny. Why it's called north, I have no idea. I need to google that. I need to know. Someone might ask me one day.

I had to wait a bit for traffic, but I soon made it across 6^th Street to St. Mary's without getting run down by a darn kid. That really is a beautiful church. I need to go one day. The cornerstone says it was built in 1911.

I shuffled on, over the canal bridge. I've got a mule and her name is Sal... I walked down the small hill past the sign shop and a couple of beauty parlors. I got to McGreivey's pub. This used to be Camp's bar. My dad's Uncle Graham was a bartender there. As a kid, I stopped in a couple of times to visit. It always smelled like cigars. I decided to stop to see if anything changed.

I remember two entrances, one for men and one for women. This was the men's entrance because it entered the tap room. The other, for women and children, opened into the restaurant. I stepped inside. Everything changed. The bar was on the left. It's still on the left. Why move a bar? So that hadn't changed. But it felt different. Maybe it's just the lack of cigar smell. Or all of the new tables and chairs. What ever it was, it wasn't Camps.

The restaurant room was the same, I guess, but with new furniture.

The bowling alley over to the far left was gone. If I remember right, there were four lanes. It must have been very old because it didn't have pin setting machines. Camp's used kids as pin setters. The kids would set up the pins, hop up on a ledge so they didn't get hit, and raise a protective bar in front of the pins. Bowlers would toss coins down the lanes for tips.

I sat myself at the end of the bar and hung my cane off it.

“Hi. I'm Terry. What can I get you?” asked Terry. He had on black shirt and pants and a necktie. Uncle Graham always wore a white shirt and a bow tie, and he parted his hair down the middle too.

“What do you have on tap?” I asked. Terry rattled off a list of beers I never heard of. All micro-brews. I didn't hear the familiar Schlitz, Rheingold, or Utica Club.

“I'll have that Lake Placid what-ever-you-called-it,” I said.

Terry turned and went to the taps. He returned with a small plastic cup of beer.

“Here, try it,” said Terry.

I downed it. It was very good. I love dark beer.

“Great,” I said.

Terry went back to the taps and returned with a pint of Lake Placid what-ever-you-call-it. I tended bar for a short time in Florida as a volunteer for our local AmVets, and I saw that Terry poured a good beer. Just about a quarter to a half an inch of head. That's a talent. Most novice bartenders pour with too much of a head. You have to stick the spout right in there while tilting the glass. It isn't as easy as it seems. It takes practice. Jackie Gleason's character Joe the Bartender would stick two fingers in a beer he was pouring if it started to overflow. Funny stuff. Crazy Guggenheim could sure sing. What was his real name? Frank Fontaine? I wonder why Jackie Gleason only did one season of the Honeymooners? Maybe it was as John Cleese explained why Fawlty Towers only did one season. They did it and did it well, and it would only be downhill from there. Man, Fawlty Towers was funny.

There were two couples at the bar, drinking their drinks and eating lunch, making small talk. I had eaten here a couple of times over the years. It was really good. And theirs looked good from where I was sitting. One had meatloaf. I could smell it, and it smelled great. Meatloaf. Two out of three ain't bad. Good song.

Just then a young guy walked in and sat nest to me. Terry poured him a soda without asking. He must be a regular. He was young, about thirty I figured. His sweat-shirt sleeves were rolled up and his arms were covered in tattoos. He had a knit hat covering all of his head. He had a pretty good beard growing. He certainly didn't look like a Camp's customer. I guess he looked like a McGreivey's customer.

“Sorry Terry. No soda today. I'm trying to cut back,” the young fella said.

“Sorry Joe,” said Terry as he took the soda back and dumped it down the sink. “What can I get you?”

“Just a menu,” said Joe.

“How about water?” asked Terry.

“Fine.”

Terry handed Joe a menu and then brought his water. Joe scanned the menu for just a few seconds and set it down. He must be a regular. He probably doesn't even need a menu. Terry came by and took Joe's order. I couldn't make out what he wanted because of my hearing issues. When I was a kid, if it was quiet enough, I could hear my heart beat. Now I can't hear normal conversation unless the person is looking right at me, so I can read lips. It made Pamela mad sometimes. Get your hearing checked, she'd say. I hear just fine, I'd say. She would roll her eyes loudly.

“You must come here a lot,” I said to him, trying to be friendly.

“Yeah I do. Just about everyday for lunch,” Joe answered.

“I'm Dave,” I said as I extended a hand.

“I'm Joe. I own the barber shop in back.”

“Really? Don't take this the wrong way, but you're not a good advertisement for your business,” I said with a smile.

“No, I guess not,” laughed Joe.

“The cobbler's children have no shoes,” I smiled.

“Pretty much.”

“My dad used to bring me to Swayze's barbershop when I was a kid,” I said. “It was behind here, but the little shop was torn down for the rescue squad.”

“That's the barber business I bought,” said Joe. “I bought it from Chuck.”

“Chuck? The young apprentice Hunk Swayze had?” I asked.

“Well, Chuck isn't young anymore,” said Joe. “He just turned 80. I bought the shop from him last year.”

It seems that barbers stay in business long after most of us retire. My barber in Gloversville, Mike, started cutting hair in 1947. He still does 73 years later. It must be barbering is more than a business. It must be a lot more. Maybe it's more like a social club, as patrons return regularly, and have time to chat while they wait their turn in the chair.

I told Joe the story of the first time I visited Mike's back in the 1990s. I switched from Lucky and Snake's shop when I moved my business. As I was sitting in the chair and Mike was putting that paper collar around my neck, he asked “How do you want it cut?”

There was a poster on the wall of a handsome guy with thick wavy hair.

“Can you make me look like that?” I asked, pointing.

Mike stopped, walked to the side where I could see him.

“Dis is a comb. Not a magic wand,” said Mike with his Italian accent. He grinned at me. I grinned back.

“Ya know Joe,” I said to my bar neighbor, “I remember going to Swayze's and hoped to get Chuck. Because if I got Hunk, no matter how I asked him to cut it, I always got it cut short with whitewalls over my ears.”

“That would be Hunk,” Joe laughed. “The only exception was if you wanted a crew cut or a flat top. And Hunk would even cut a flat top DA.”

DA. Duck's ass. I hadn't heard that in years. We both laughed.

“I have some of the old bowling alley in my shop,” said Joe.

“Really? I'd like to see it,” I said.

“Follow me over,” said Joe as he finished his lunch.

“I would, but not today,” I said. “It was a tiring walk for me, the half mile from where I live to the village. I need to build up my endurance.”

“OK, some other time then.”

Joe got up and walked out the side door to go back to his shop. Nice kid. Too bad about the tattoos and stuff. But I guess that's what kids do today. I don't have any tattoos. I did have an earring that my ex-wife goaded me into getting. I took it out when I was having an MRI and the hospital promptly lost it. I wonder if I should get another? I'm not a respectable businessman anymore. I'm now an author and photographer. Being artsy-fartsy now, I should look a little eccentric. Maybe I should wear a beret. No, that would be too French avant garde. Maybe if I lived in New York City. Not Waterford. I did wear an Irish style cap, with an Irish clover and Polish flag pins on the side. That's edgy enough. I might even have to get a Giants baseball cap. Everyone in Waterford talks Giants and Yankees.

I ordered one more pint of Lake Placid what-ever-you-called-it. Good stuff. This is a good place to do research for my book. Just chalk it up to research.

I heard a distant noise. It sounded something like bowling pins. Must be a truck.

Red Rover

07 Red Rover third edit 2/29 10:45 AM

I shuffled along, like I always do now. I like the word shuffle. It matches. With my feet problems, I half-shuffle and half-waddle, actually. It must look odd to people. But I'm not alone. I've seen other old people do it too. One reason we do it is a fear of falling. When I was a kid, we fell all the time. Off of our bikes, off Tarzan swings, off swing sets... we didn't care. Kids are more resilient. They sort of bounce. Old people break.

As I made my way down Lea Avenue, I looked around. Where did all the kids go? Are they inside playing video games? You idiot, Gibson. There were no video games in 1958. If it is 1958 When we stayed inside, we played with toys or watched TV. But mostly we wanted to be outside. Unless it was raining.

A kid came riding by on his bicycle. I waved to him. He waved back. Then he stopped.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I answered. “It sure is quiet around here. Where is everybody?”

“Well, it depends on who you mean. I don't think I know you.”

“Um... my name is... Mr. Ford,” I interjected. “Harrison Ford.”

“I'm Russell. Are you from around here?” Russell asked.

“Well, I used... I mean, sort of. I live in the village.”

“Oh. I live over there,” said Russell as he turned and pointed.

“The Chumley's house,” I said.

“Yeah. How did you know? Do I know you?” said Russell as he looked at me suspiciously.

“No.”

But I knew him. Russell was my next door neighbor from 1955 to 1965 when my folks moved about a mile away on Middletown Road. Russell and I were best of friends.

“Well, it is about 4:30 or so,” said Russell Chumley. “The Old Skipper is on.”

“The Old Skipper?” I asked.

“You know. The old Skipper. A sea captain on Channel 10. He shows Popeye cartoons and the Three Stooges. I started watching the Three Stooges but they had Shemp on. I don't like Shemp. I like Curly.”

“Ah, right,” I answered. “Me too.”

“A lot of kids go home now for dinner,” Russell went on. “Then after dinner they come out to play until dark. My dad is an electrician and he goes to work real early and gets home around 3. So I eat early, and then I watch the Old Skipper and then I come out to play.”

“I see,” I replied. “Thanks. I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” he asked.

“Nothing. Hey, Russell,” I continued. “Can you tell me the date?”

“Sure. I saw it on the newspaper. It's June 27.”

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

“You don't know what year it is?” asked Russell, quite shocked.

“Old age, Russ,” I said. “I don't work anymore and so I forget things.”

“Oh. Well, it's 1958. Friday if you forgot that.”

“Thank you. Are you on summer vacation?”

“Yup. Just started,” Russell said with a smile. “I really like summer vacation.”

“I remember them well,” I said.

“Well, I gotta see if anyone else is out yet,” said Russell.

“OK. Maybe I'll see you around,” I said.

“I'm not leaving,” said Russell. He cupped both hands around his mouth like a megaphone and yelled “YO-OH! YO-OH!”

Faintly, but not too far away, came an answer yo-oh. A few kids on bikes came down the hill toward us. They stopped and stared at me.

“Hi,” they said almost in unison.

“This is Harrison Ford,” said Russell. “He lives in the village.”

“Hi. My name is Paul. This is Pete and Bob Naise and Bob Van.”

“Well, I'm pleased to meet you all,” I said.

More kids came over, walking.

“Hi,” said Russell. “This is Mr. Ford. He lives in the village. These are the Bombards, Mr. Ford. Tom, Mary, and Ann.”

Tom approached, while Mary and Ann stood close behind him.

“Hi,” said Tom. “Are you visiting somebody? I haven't seen you here before.”

“No. I'm just out for a walk and here I am,” I answered.

“That's a long walk for an old man with a cane,” said Tom.

Kids, I thought. No filter between their brains and their mouths. Art Linkletter said in one of his books that the only two kinds of people who will always tell it like it is are small children and old people.

“Yeah it is a long way,” I said. “About a mile.”

“What do you guys want to do?” asked Russ. “Wanna play spud?”

“We played that last night,” said Mary. “Let's play Red Rover.”

“I'd rather play spud,” said Tom

“You're bossy,” said Mary. “We always do what you want to do. We want to play Red Rover.”

She never said who “We” were.

All of the kids started talking at once. Spud. Red Rover. Spud. Red Rover. This is how we decided what we were going to do, I thought? It sounds like congress.

“OK, I'll decide,” said Bob Naise. “Red Rover.”

After a few more Spud-Red Rovers, it was settled. Red Rover it is.

“Who are going to be captains?” asked Russell. “I'll be one.”

“I'll be another,” said Pete. “OK, line up!”

Russell and Pete walked to the middle of the street and the kids lined up on Chumley's lawn. They took turns picking one by one until no one was left.

“Here come Dave,” said Tom. “He's always late because his dad doesn't get home until late.”

“Hey Gibson,” yelled Russ. “Hurry up! You're on my team. I'm short one.”

I looked at Dave. It was me. It was me eight years old. We stared at each other. For a few seconds.

“This is Harrison Ford,” said Russ. “He lives in the village and went for a walk and now he's here.”

“Hi,” said little me. “Is he playing Russ? He's old and has a cane.”

“No,” I interrupted. “I'd rather stand out of the way and watch.”

The kids lined up, one team on one side of Lea Avenue and one on the other. Russell stood in the middle of the road. Now, if I remember right, the captains took turns calling one of the other team's players to cross the road to the other side. If they got tagged, they joined that captain's team. If they made it without being tagged, they joined the other members of their team on the sidelines.

“Red Rover, Red Rover,” said Russell. “I dare ANN to come over!”

Ann Bombard, the smallest and youngest one there, bolted from her side of the street. She was quickly tagged by Russell. Ann and Russ went to their team's side of the street and Pete walked to the middle.

“Red Rover Red Rover, I dare MARY to come over!” Pete yelled.

Mary took off running as fast as she could, but Pete tagged her. Pete and Mary walked over to Pete's side of the street. This went on for some time. Russ' team got an advantage when Bob Naise was able to cross without getting tagged. Just as he was about to be, he twisted and spun away. Bob Van missed the tag, and before Pete got to him, Bob Naise was safely on the other side. Russ' team whooped.

Finally, after many rounds there was only the little me left on my team. Even Pete had gotten tagged. Dave stood there looking at the large group of kids to find a way to get through. There was no way. He would have to get across without somehow getting tagged by one of about ten kids now on Russ' team. If Dave somehow made it across untagged, he would stand in the street all alone and try to tag someone to build his team back up. Dave would be the new captain.

This had gone on for quite awhile and it was starting to get dark. We heard Mrs. Chumley holler out the door.

“Russey! Time to come in!” she yelled.

“In a minute mom!” yelled Russell back.

“Right now Russell!” yelled Mrs. Chumley.

“I'm coming! In a minute!”

“I said NOW Russell!” Mrs. Chumley went back inside.

“Red Rover Red Rover. I dare DAVE to come over!”

Even though the old me was the only one left, the rule was clear. You had to call the runner by name. Dave ran up and down the side of the street on Chumley's lawn, looking for an opening. He would run in one direction and then suddenly stop, turn and run the other way. He did this several times until he saw what he thought was his best chance. The slower runners were on the right and the faster on the left. He was running down the right side as fast as he could go and then quickly turned and started across the street. He only got maybe ten feet , if that, when he had four of the opposing team tag him at once. Game over.

“See ya tomorrow!” yelled Russ as he ran toward his back door.

“Wanna play again?” asked Bob Van.

“It's getting dark,” said Mary. “We have to go home.”

“No. Let's play again,” said Dave.

“But it's getting dark!” protested Mary.

It was soon over, and most kids decided to play again. While the teams were being picked, parents one by one shouted out their doors for their kids. And one by one they left for home. Even the little me. I was left alone.

Well, I guess I should go home too. When my mom called for Dave, something inside me wanted to go too.

My mom had passed away many years ago. It was hard to deal with. Something deep inside said “I have to go. My mom is calling!” but I knew I couldn't. Or shouldn't. I headed down Lea Avenue towards Middletown Road, shuffling along.

That was fun. See what kids today are missing? Fresh air, exercise, fun, and bonding. These are among the best memories you can have, and the longest lasting friendships. Now we're all old, but many of us that are still alive are at least Facebook friends and stay connected. A car pulled up just as I got to Lavedieure's house.

“Hi! Heading home?”

It was Richie.

“Hi Richie. What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I just left Denny O'Shaughnessy's house,” said Richie. “Want a ride?”

“OK,” I said. “You seem to show up at just the right time. All the kids went in.”

“Yup. The street lights are coming on,” said Richie.

1958 Dodge Coronet

06 1958 Dodge Coronet second edit 2/29  10:30 AM

I went to bed early. That half a mile walk without a rest break was too much for me, I guess. I was asleep by 8. Funny, I thought. When I was a little kid, real little, I might get put to bed by 8. Then as I got older, I could stay up until 9, and then eventually 10. During my adult life, I could go to bed any time I damn pleased. Now, in old age, it pleases me to go to bed at 8. I'm regressing.

“Going to breakfast, Mr. Gibson?” asked Mrs. Schiocetti as I approached the front door.

Is this all this old woman does all day?

“Yes ma'am,” I answered as I hurried out the open door. I don't want to seem rude, but I've got places to go and things to do. Who am I kidding. I have Don & Paul's to go to maybe, but I have nothing to do.

I crossed over the bridge over the railroad tracks. A train was actually coming. I stood about halfway across and watched it. Trains are still fun to watch. I wonder why? I continued on to O'Connor's stone wall. I was going to continue, but after going to bed so early the night before because I was so tired, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and sat.

That's an odd phrase. Discretion was the better part of valor. I'll have to google that. I wonder how we got along before computers and google? Encyclopedias, I suppose. Or ask dad. He knew everything. I wondered how he got so smart? I could never be as smart as my dad.

I got up off the stone wall. I stood for a couple of seconds to “find my feet”, balancing with my cane. I love this cane. I bought it off Amazon. It's all wood with some fancy spirals near the top. As canes go, this is pretty nice. I sure as hell didn't want one of those ugly aluminum ones that screams OLD MAN to everyone. Maybe some folks might think I was just being stylish.

I shuffled a short ways to Division Street. I think I'll go this way, down the grade. It's steep, and sometimes walking downhill can be tricky. Just do it, Gibson. So I turned left and walked slowly down the hill. Once I got to the old bridge over the old canal and crossed the old street, I could see where the old school used to be. Hmmm... that's a lot of olds.

The old school got its name when the new school was built on Middletown Road. It was a fine old school. If I remember right, it was named the “Union Free School”. Now it is the school free school. It was torn down in the 60s when the new school was built. The Waterford Rescue Squad moved there. Swayze's barber shop is gone too where I used to go to “get my ears lowered”.

I later learned that Union Free had nothing to do with labor unions. Out of curiosity, I tried to look it up on the internet, not having the Encyclopedia Britannica handy. I couldn't find anything, so I looked up the “contact us” link on the school's web page and asked. The next day, on a holiday no less, I received a very nice email in reply, from the school superintendent, Mr. Fitzpatrick.

“Union Free is a designation created by the NYS Education Department many years ago. It was a way to organize the many “common schools” that were located in the towns and villages near each other and establish a high school where all the common schools could send their students. In this case the word union means “bringing together” and the word free means “public schools”

Well. See? You're never to old to learn something. NOW I know it all.

The old school had three floors, plus the basement. The basement held the shop and the only bathrooms. In class, if you had to use the bathroom, you would raise your hand. When called on by the teacher, you'd ask to “go to the basement”.

My first real job was a summer job working for the school I just graduated from. Besides cleaning up the mess we all made during the school year, like scraping gum off the bottom of the desks, and mopping and polishing floors, Denny Carnival and I had to clean the now empty lot where the old school was of deep, deep brush with hand sickles. It took the two of us two days. And I clearly remember it being oppressively hot. I can remember it being hot over fifty years ago, but I can't remember much about last week. Or even this week for that matter.

As I walked down the new (new to me) bike path, I hummed. I've got a mule and her name is Sal...

I came to the sign shop where Shulusky's used to be and took a left down the small hill. I got to Fourth Street and looked up at the light. I remembered the old traffic light It was your standard red-yellow-green, but at the bottom of it there was a “walk” light. The walk light was black with white letters that lit up. As a kid, I was told to wait for the walk light and then cross because cars had red in all directions. You couldn't even turn right on red back then, so it was pretty safe to cross, even for a little kid. I had a green light to cross Broad Street. I made it with no one blowing their horn at me. That's a first. Damn kids.

Then I waited for the green light to cross Fourth Street. It seemed silly to stand there because there was no traffic to speak of, but I've always been one to obey the law. Well... now anyway.

I crossed the street towards whatever that building is called now. It will always be the National Commercial Bank as far as I'm concerned. But when they put in their parking lot, they tore down the liquor store and a little grocery store. Just past the old bank was an alley. I'm surprised they don't have a light or a crossing guard here. The was these damn kids drive today, it's probably needed.

I got to Don & Paul's, opened the old wooden door, and stepped inside. I hung my hat and jacket up on a hook.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla. “Out a little late, I see.”

“Yes ma'am,” I answered. “I did a lot of walking yesterday. I even got a ride in the back seat of a police car.”

“Really?” asked Kayla. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“I was ringing doorbells and running away,” I answered with a twinkle in my eye. “But I'm not as fast as I used to be and I got caught.”

“Mr. Gibson, really?” she laughed.

“Naw. But I did get a ride down from Swayze Acres to the village by Officer Boyd,” I said. “I was hitch-hiking and he stopped.”

“Hitch-hiking? At your age?”

“What do you mean 'at my age',” I said with mock indignation. “There goes your dime tip.”

Kayla laughed. I looked around the place. I didn't see anyone I knew. Waterford is a small place. You'd think there would be someone I knew here. Well, after awhile, I'll probably get to know folks.

I glanced out the front window. Jelly bean cars were driving by. Maybe I was sick and delirious before? Well, I don't know what happened. Everything is back to normal. Just be quiet about it. And I'm not Baker Acted or anything. Good job, Gibson. There's hope for you yet.

My lunch arrived. Turkey sandwich on white with lettuce and mayo. Mac salad and a cup of coffee. It was good. I wonder how many turkey sandwiches I've eaten like this in my lifetime? Well, if I ate one a month, that's twelve a year. Say I've been eating out in diners for fifty years. That's six hundred turkey sandwiches! Holy crap. Now, if I saved that money instead of eating out, at five bucks a sandwich on average say, that's three thousand bucks! Heck, I have no problem skipping lunch. I should have done it. Three thousand bucks would come in handy now.

The best turkey sandwiches I ever had were at the old Stage Coach Inn in Wilton. You got thick homemade white bread, piled high with turkey, for a buck. A buck. That was back in 1969. I guess prices have gone up. You can hardly get a cup of coffee for a buck now. I finished my lunch and put my napkin on my plate.

Kayla brought my check.

“How was everything, Mr. Gibson?” she asked.

“Fine. You can call me Dave. Mr. Gibson was my father.”

Kayla smiled and went to wait on other customers. $10.65. Sigh. That's progress. I remember when my mom could buy groceries for a week for three of us for twenty-five bucks at the Central Market, and it even had automatic doors. I wonder how those work?

I put my debit card on the check and pushed it towards the edge of the counter. I wonder why they call it a check? Why not an invoice, or a bill?

Kayla picked it up. When she returned it, I added two bucks to the slip for a tip. I got up off the stool, found my feet, picked up my cane, and walked to the coat hooks. I put on my jacket, but I waited until I got to the door to put my hat on. I was always told to never wear your hat indoors. It isn't proper. Kids nowadays wear their hats indoors and think nothing of it, and most of the time the goofballs put them on backwards.

I stepped outside. All the cars were jelly beans. No cars were coming so I decided to walk on the wild side. I crossed the street where there is no traffic light. I jay-walked. Me. And I got away with it. I walked down the alley next to the town hall. Parked next to the building were the new Dodge police cars. I shuffled along, grateful that whatever happened to me was over. It had to be my meds. I don't do well with meds.

I turned left on Division Street and approached the corner that had the post office, kiddy-corner to the rescue squad where the old school used to be.

The post office. Ha. Many years ago, my buddy Gary and I went out one Saturday night. I could drive at night because I had my license and passed driver's ed. I was seventeen and Gary sixteen. We went to the College Inn in Saratoga, a night club that catered to college students. We listened to some music for a bit and then left. It was too crowded and too loud.

We were driving down Route 9 towards home and were approaching a strip club. Now they call them “gentleman's clubs”, I guess.

“Do you want to stop here, Gary?” I asked, pointing.

“Sure,” said Gary.

I pulled around back. The place had no windows. The only way in or out was the back door. We walked in past the bouncer, who didn't ask for ID. The place was packed. We walked up to the bar and ordered a bottle of Bud each. We were served, no questions asked.

There was a dance floor with chairs surrounding it on three sides. The fourth side must be where the dancers came out, I figured. Gary and I walked to the far side and sat down and waited for the show. We'd never been to a strip club before. This should be fun. I wonder what the dancers do? Was it like Burlesque? I've seen that in old movies on TV.

“Uh oh. I'm dead,” said Gary.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Well, the only reason I got out of the house tonight is because my father had to work late at the post office with my uncle.”

“Yeah?”

“There they are,” he said pointed to the opposite side of the stage. “I am so dead.”

I looked and two men were glaring at Gary. They got up from their seats and came around to our side.

“I am soooo dead,” whimpered Gary.

Gary's father and uncle walked up behind us. They didn't look happy. Gary's father bent over and said in a low voice...

“Gary. I won't tell your mother if you won't.”

They each pulled up a chair and we watched the show together. Gary's father and his uncle bought us a few beers that night. We watched scantily clad women bumping and grinding for a couple of hours. It seemed like an odd thing to do. Gary's father told him it was getting late. I thanked them for the beer before leaving.

Ha. It was all innocent fun back then. Now a lot of people say that sort of dancing denigrates women. Maybe it does. I don't know. But I know we all had a good time.

I had made it to the top of the Division Street hill. I took a right and passed the church hall. I need to rest. That hill really tires me out. So I sat on O'Connor's stone wall. This is a good place to stop, I thought. It's about half way home to Van Schoonhoven Square. That's a mouthful. Why didn't they just name it Henry Hudson Square, or Waterford Villas or something. Van Schoonhoven. I almost didn't move here because of the name. Every time I give that address on the phone, I have to spell it.

It was still a really nice day. What will I do with the rest of the day? I guess I could grab my camera and go shooting. I really enjoy photography. I really wanted to be an oil painter, but I quickly learned I don't have any talent. But photos I can manage.

A car pulled up and stopped. It was a '58 or '59 Dodge. The driver leaned across the seat and rolled down the passenger's window.

“Are you OK mister?” he said.

It was Richie. I got up, got my feet, and walked to the car. I leaned in and looked in the window.

“Hi Richie,” I said. “Um... a different car.”

“Yep. I got the job at Behr-Manning. I traded in my Olds for this. Brand new. '58 Dodge Coronet. Do you like it?”

Not again. Here we go.

“Yeah. It's nice.”

“Do you want a ride up the hill again?”

“Sure,” I answered. :Thank you.”

I pulled the door open and got in, propping my cane between my legs. Richey pulled away from the curb and drove up the hill.

“You traded in your Oldsmobile for this that fast?” I asked.

“That fast? Naw. It took me a few days before I got the job, and then I spent about a week car shopping.”

“Really. It seems like it was a lot shorter time than that.”

We arrived at Swayze Acres and Richie stopped the car and I got out. These old cars are a lot easier to get in and out of than the ones they stick us with today.

“Can I drive you to your house? I have plenty of time,” said Richie.

“Naw, I'm good. Thanks for the lift, kid,” I said.

“Any time, Mister,” said Richie as he pulled away.

I started down Lea Avenue. I guess Mr. Gooder finished mowing his lawn. It looked nice. Those old reel mowers were tough to push, but they sure did a nice job. There weren't too many cars around. I guess everyone is at work. But isn't it Memorial Day? Heck, I don't even know what year it was.

The cars that were there were all from the 1950s. I looked at my sleeve of my jacket. It was maroon.

Lunch at Don & Paul's

05 Lunch at Don & Paul's second edit 2/29 10 AM

I looked at my wrist. Force of habit. I don't wear a watch anymore. I looked at my phone. 11:40. Good. It will be noon by the time I get there. I got up, grabbed my hat and coat, and headed out the apartment door and down the hall. Strange name, Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments. I wonder who that was? I have to remember to google that.

There's Mrs. Schiocetti. Guarding the front door and watching who comes and goes.

“Good morning again, Mrs Schiocetti. Going to Don & Paul's for lunch,” I said. Might as well just get it out of the way.

Mrs. Schiocetti hit the handicapped button and the door swung open.

“Do you walk all that way, Mr. Gibson?” she asked.

“It's not that far,” I said. “Only a half a mile.”

Half a mile. Sheesh. That's not far. I used to walk a lot farther than that. Why, when I was a kid we'd think nothing of walking the mile from Swayze Acres to the village. I did it every day in the summer to take swim lessons. A bus would take us... somewhere. I don't remember where. South Troy? Then the bus would bring us back to the village and I'd walk a mile back home.

Waterford began the “Learn to Swim” program because kids drowned in the rivers or canals every summer. Drowned like clockwork, they did. Then the village finally got smart and put a pool at the Fourth Street playground. Kids still drowned in the rivers and canals sometimes.

I used to love to walk. The view is real nice from the top of the hill. And then the road descended down into the valley. The valley. Ha. I sang the lye soap song to myself. Somebody named Johnny Standley sang it. I only know that because my mom had the 45, and Johnny Standley's name was on the label. I used to love mom's old record player.

You remember Grandma's Lye soap,

Good for everything in the home -

And the secret was in the scrubbing -

It wouldn't suds, and couldn't foam!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

Little Herman and brother Thurman

Had an aversion to washing their ears

Grandma scrubbed them with the lye soap

Now they haven't heard a word in years!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

Mrs. O'Malley, down in the valley

Suffered from ulcers, I understand

Swallowed a cake of Grandma's Lye Soap-

Has the cleanest ulcers in the land!

O sing, O sing of Grandmas Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home,

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes-

And for your hands, and for your face.

O Sing, O sing! O! Of Grandma's Lye Soap

Good for everything, everything in the home

The pots and pans, the dirty dishes!

And for your hands and for your face!"

Ha. I'll have to google that when I get home and see if I can find that record.

Several cars passed me as I shuffled my way down the sidewalk over the bridge over the railroad tracks. No antique cars. Just jelly beans. Why don't people fix some of these places in the sidewalk where frost heaves pushed up some of the concrete? I could trip and fall and break a hip. Then I might say something stupid and get Baker Acted again.

I got to O'Connor's rock wall next to the church hall. I stopped to rest. Stopped to rest. Ha. I never stopped to rest when I was a kid. What in the hell happened to me? A police car pulled up and stopped.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson,” the officer said as he put down the window. It was Officer Boyd.

“Hello, officer,” I said.

“Nice day,” said Officer Boyd.

“Yes sir. I decided to head to Don and Paul's for lunch.”

“Well, you have a good one,” he said. “And be careful crossing the streets.” And then he drove off.

Nice guy. Every police officer I've ever met has been nice to me. I don't know why some people have such a problem with the police. Just be polite and do what they say. No mouthing off. No attitude. That gets you in trouble with everyone, and police officers are no exception.

I thought back to the time when Bob Naisse and I walked to the village and bought a six pack at the ginney store. I still can't believe that no one ever told us the word “ginney” wasn't a nice word. It may as well have been “Lucy's Store” for all we cared. The old Italian ladies that ran it never even asked for an ID. We were about fifteen or sixteen, but we had money. While I paid for the beer, the other lady put it in a brown paper bag.

Since we were lugging the beer, we stopped at the church hall to hitch-hike up the hill. Several cars passed, and then Bob said “Shit. Here comes the cops!” We didn't stick our thumbs out. The cop car stopped.

“You fellas looking for a ride?” asked one policeman out the passenger side window. “Get in.”

Shit. Bob and I looked at each other. We got in the back. Bob got in first, then me. I placed the bag between us.

“Where are you guys headed?” asked the passenger seat officer.

“You can drop us off at the school,” said Bob.

There was no way in hell we'd have them drop us off at Swayze Acres. Then they'd know where we lived. The police cruiser passed Swayze Acres and past the cemetery and stopped at the school's driveway. The passenger side officer got out and opened the door for us. We got out. The officer looked at Bob and me, and the bag.

“You guys keep it quiet. OK?” he said. “No trouble.”

“No sir,” we both said at the same time.

The officer got in and the car pulled slowly away.

“Man, that was close,” I said. “I guess we fooled them.”

We turned and walked back down the road and to the cemetery. Once we walked in the driveway, we felt safe. What if one of our parents drove by? Or if the cops came by again? We walked to the back of the cemetery and sat on some grave stones under the huge horse chestnut tree. I took a beer out and handed it to Bob, and got one for myself.

“Do you really think we fooled the cops?” asked Bob.

“Yeah.”

“We better watch for headlights coming in the driveway anyway,” said Bob.

I don't remember now what we talked about. Kid stuff, I guess. I can't rightly say. I wonder what we did with the empties? I'm pretty sure we didn't just leave them laying around. That would give away our hanging out spot. We liked it there because it was private. No parents watching us. Ten or twelve of us would sometimes gather under that horse chestnut tree. We probably put the empties in the bag and tossed them in some bushes. I wonder if those cans are still in the bushes? Probably. I feel bad now, littering and all.

Thinking back now, I'll bet we didn't fool those cops at all.

I stood, found my feet, and continued on toward the village. I passed St. Mary's Elementary School. I wonder how old that building is? I turned off the sidewalk and approached the school. On the bottom of the right corner was one of those time capsule blocks built into the wall. It had a date on it. 1953. That dang building isn't as old as I am.

Down past St. Mary's church I went. Down the small hill and into the village proper. I crossed Broad Street at the light. No darn kids. Good. I got to Don and Paul's, pulled open the old wooden door, and walked in. I took my hat off and looked around. Kind of busy. But there was an empty stool. I hung up my hat and coat and left my cane leaning on the wall. I made my way to the stool and sat.

“Why hello, Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla, smiling brightly. “Menu?”

“Yes, please.”

I looked over the specials. I'll order the French onion soup. I love French onion soup. Just a cup though.

“Have you decided?” asked Kayla as she came back over.

She's a good waitress. Very attentive.

“I'll have a cup of the French onion soup. And... a roast beef sandwich on rye, lettuce and Russian dressing.”

“No Russian dressing honey. Is Thousand Island OK?”

“That's fine, thanks.”

“Fries, salad, or chips?” she asked.

“If you have potato salad, I'll have that,” I said.

“OK Hun,” said Kayla as she hurried off.

I looked at the mirror behind the counter. I could see most of the people sitting at it. I didn't see anyone I might recognize. I wonder what age you have to be when the waitresses started calling you “Hun”, “Honey”, and “Darlin'”? Whatever age that is, I am well over it.

“Here's your soup, darlin',” said Kayla as she set the cup in front of me. It looked good, with the cheese melted over the top and running down the sides of the cup. I finished it quickly. I must be hungrier than I thought. And right on cue, there was Kayla with my sandwich.

“Here you go, Mr. Gibson,” she said as she set it down and hurried off again. She's a busy young lady.

“Did she say Gibson?” asked the person to my right.

“That's me,” I said.

“Are you from Waterford?” he asked.

“I grew up here. Moved away, and just moved back,” I replied.

“I thought you looked familiar,” he said as he stuck his right hand out to me. “I'm Ed Dublin.”

“Ed! I'm sorry but I didn't recognize you. It's been years!” I said as I shook his hand. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good for an old guy,” said Ed. “Where are you living?”

“Van Schoonhoven Square,” I said. “You?”

“I bought the old Muenster House on First Street,” he answered. “Been there for thirty years now.”

“Muenster? I can't place the name,” I said.

“Yeah, the Muenster House. I bought it from Herman and Lily Muenster, he answered with a smile.

“HA! The Muenster TV show. You had me going there, Ed.”

“Well, it sorta looks like it, all creepy and stuff,” said Ed. “It needs painting now too. Next month I'm getting it done.”

“So you never really left Waterford?” I asked.

“No. Not for very long, anyway,” he continued. “Many of us from the class of '68 stayed.”

“Well, I've been around a bit. I've seen most of the country. Lived in a few. Lived on a boat for awhile, traveled down the east coast.”

“Really?” said Ed. “You'll have to tell me about it sometime. But right now I have to run. Hoot, good to see you.'

“You too Ed,” I replied. “See you around.”

Ed got up, walked to the wall with hooks, grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door.

Son of a gun. Ed Dublin. I haven't seen him since... what... 1971 I think. He's gotten old.

I finished my sandwich and looked in the mirror behind the counter. An old man was looking back at me. What in the hell happened? I put my napkin on my plate. Very shortly after, Kayla came over.

“All done, Mr. Gibson?”

“Yes mam.”

“How was everything?”

“It was good, as usual,” I answered as she put the check face down in front of me. I placed my debit card on it without looking at it. Kayla swooped by, picking up the check as she passed. She brought it back with my card and a pen on top. I picked up the check and turned it over. $9.34. I added $2 for a tip, picked up my card and stuffed it back in my wallet, and stood up. I started to lose my balance and grabbed the counter.

“Are you OK buddy?” asked the guy on the stool to the left of me as he reached and grabbed my left arm.

“I'm OK, thanks,” I said sheepishly. “I just lost my balance a little.” He let go of my arm. I shuffled over to the wall hooks, put on my jacket and grabbed my hat and cane. When I got to the door, I put on my cap.

“Thank you Mr. Gibson,” said Kayla in a loud voice. “Be careful.”

Geez. Be careful. I'll bet she doesn't say that to young guys, just old people.

As I stepped outside, I looked all around. No classic cars. Good. Maybe this “thing” happening has passed. I slowly made my way up Broad Street to the canal, sang “I've got a mule and her name is Sal..”, passed by the church, and feeling pretty good, walked all the way to Van Schoonhoven Square apartments without resting. Good lunch.

I walked up to the door. It opened.

“Thank you, Mrs. Schiocetti,” I said as I passed.

“How was your lunch? What did you have?” she asked.

“It was good. Roast beef,” and I made my way to the apartment.