Ice Cream Man

19 Ice Cream Man fourth draft 3/13 11:30 AM

I sat in my apartment gazing out the window. It was a cool, drizzly day. Even for March, although I suppose that's when we get cool drizzly days. Better than snow. I used to love snow when I was a kid. We all did, especially when we were too small to shovel our driveways. Well, it's not snowing, and I need to go out to get some groceries. Drizzly works.

I hate going to the grocery store perhaps even more than going to a regular store. People stand and stare at the grocery shelves for the longest period while they calculate unit pricing and which apricots look best. They block half the aisle with their butts and their carts block the other half.

Cart. I remember living in the south, and they call them “buggies” down there. No wonder they lost the war. “The general is getting away! Stop that buggy!” and all the Confederate troops stormed the Piggly Wiggly. Or, as they call it, simply “the Pig”.

But thankfully, most all of my groceries are ordered online. I go to the Instacart website, pick what I want, and within a couple of hours I have the groceries. All without leaving my chair. Today, people act like that's a big deal. Back when I was a kid, we had men. We had the bread man, the milk man, the grocery delivery man, the ice cream man, and the mail man. In my dad's day, they even had a horseradish man.

Nowadays I guess you shouldn't be saying man, but person. Or change the name completely. Once we had stewardesses, but now we have flight attendants. Mail men are now letter carriers. I don't know what we'd call the others, if we had them. Persons, I guess. Newspaper boy would now be newspaper person? But that's OK. Most jobs can be done as well by a woman as a man. Sometimes better. And you just don't see too many stay at home moms anymore. When I was a kid, my mom was always home. My mom didn't have a car, or even a driver's license. It wasn't needed. But women today often have to work because dad's paycheck won't pay the bills anymore. That's called progress.

What was really good about having a milk man, from a kid's point of view, is that there was an insulated metal box that sat on your stoop. The milk man would take away your empties and refill the milk box with full bottles. But I was also able to stand on that milk box and open the back door. I couldn't reach the door handle otherwise. I wonder what kids stand on now? Of course, that's saying they leave the house at all.

I remember quite clearly the red and black Freihofer trucks. The Freihofer man delivered baked goods from the Freihofer Bakery in nearby Lansingburgh. I loved driving past the bakery when I was small. It always smelled like fresh baked bread. Freihofer followed the same model as all the others and had the bread man deliver right to your home. That's how you did it back then. My mom would put the bright yellow Freihofer sign in our house's window signaling the bread man to stop. And he did.

There was nothing special about delivery trucks at the time. But what was special was visiting my great-grandparents' house in Lansingburgh. Sometimes I'd see the Freihofer bread man there on his route. Only in Lansingburgh, he wasn't driving a truck. There he had a horse drawn wagon. The horse knew the route, and would walk from stop to stop and wait for the bread man, who would run between the wagon and the customers' houses with his wares. The horse knew the route, and knew the customers. It's funny, but at the time, it didn't strike me as being odd, having horse drawn wagons. That's just how it was. It's too bad that I didn't realize as a young boy then that it was the end of an era. By the early 1960s, the horses were all retired and replaced with heartless, polluting, noisy bread trucks. Those too were soon phased out of service even. There was no more home delivery of Freihofer baked goods. Or home delivery of anything. Supermarkets were the wave of the future. The modern way of shopping for groceries. Big selections, automatic doors, and double S&H Green Stamps on Wednesdays. The stamps were stuck in books. My mom would save up books to get free stuff from the S&H store in Lansingburgh. One time our moms got Russell and me the same red fiberglass bow and arrows. Free.

I thought back to being a kid in the 1950s and watching the Freddie Freihofer TV show. When I watched it, it was hosted by “Uncle” Jim Fisk. A select group of children would sit in bleachers, and Uncle Jim would come out from behind a Freihofer truck and ask “Hey kids! Who wants to squiggle!?” The kids would all wave their hands excitedly, and Uncle Jim would pick one at random. He'd hold up paper on which the child would squiggle a line or circle or something using a marker. Uncle Jim would look at it, think for a few seconds, and turn the squiggle into something recognizable. Much to the children's delight. It was like magic.

Years later, as an adult selling automobiles, I waited on a man who wanted to look at station wagons. I introduced myself, extending my hand in a handshake. He introduced himself as Jim Fisk. “THEE Jim Fisk?” I asked. It was. I sold Uncle Jim a Dodge Aspen wagon. At this point, with Breadtime Stories off the air, Uncle Jim was drawing maps for a living. His company was named Jimapco.

We kids watched Howdy Doody too. It starred Buffalo Bob and his puppet Howdy. How do you do turns into Howdy out west. The kid audience was called the Peanut Gallery. Clarabell the clown was mute. He didn't speak. He had a box hanging from his neck. The box had two horns, one for yes and one for no. I didn't watch Howdy Doody much mainly because of the horrible acting, and it had no cartoons. Buffalo Bob wanted us to nag our moms for Wonder Buns and Hostess Sno-balls. Put them in the freezer for a cool summer snack. Howdy Doody was lame. I preferred the Old Skipper and Popeye cartoons.

There were plenty of other TV programs for children. Romper Room with Miss Francis was popular, as was Captain Kangaroo with Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose, the Dancing Bear, the Banana Man, and the Bunny Rabbit, who was always tricking the Captain out of carrots. The token old man was Grandfather Clock who we all had to awaken by shouting his name, and who would soon fall back asleep while the Captain was talking to him.

The Captain showed cartoons. Terry Tunes presents Tom Terrific. He wore a funnel on his head instead of a hat. The funnel was his thinking cap that blew smoke when he had an idea. He had a faithful companion named Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog. Calvin and Charlie Brown look an awful lot like Tom Terrific. They all had big round heads. Tom was a shape shifter. He could turn himself into anything, animate or inanimated. Tom's World Headquarters was a tree house. How cool would that be?

Beany and Cecil was a favorite cartoon. Beany wore a beany hat with a propeller. He could fly. Cecil was a sea monster. Whoever came up with this stuff must have been Baker Acted.

The Rocky and Bullwinkle were favorites. Rocket J Squirrel and Bullwinkle were the stars of the show. Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat. Nothing up my sleeve. Every kids show had to have a villain. Theirs was Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale, spies from Pottsylvania. But what was great about this cartoon was that it was a show, and within it were more cartoons. I loved Fractured Fairy Tales, Peabody's Improbable History, Mr. Know-It-All, Dudley Doright of the Mounties, and Aesop and Son. Unlike Howdy Doody, Rocky and Friends was fast paced. Kids bore easily, and this show kept our interest.

One of the newer cartoons was the Roadrunner. This was when cartoons got really interesting to me. The Roadrunner's villain was Wile E. Coyote, who was on a hilarious never ending quest to catch the Roadrunner and eat him. Wile E. Coyote merely didn't chase the Roadrunner because that would be futile. The Roadrunner was fast, so fast that sometimes you only saw a trail of dust as he ran down the road. So Wile E. Coyote would build various contraptions with parts ordered from the Acme company, all in an effort to catch the Roadrunner. None of them worked. Not only that, they would always backfire and often had Wile E. Coyote falling off a high cliff. So high that watching from above, you would see him get smaller and smaller until he vanished. But there would be a cloud of dust and a thunk sound as he hit the canyon floor. He would sometimes hover for a second or two as he ran off a cliff, holding a sign that said “help”. Great stuff.

But I think kids would all agree that the best cartoons, by far, were the original Looney Tunes. The supposed star of the show was Bugs Bunny, but to me, “What's up doc” has to be one of the lamest catch phrases in all of cartoon history. Other characters such as Daffy Duck, Foghorn Leghorn, Marvin the Martian, Porky Pig, and many others were better.

One of the outstanding things about early Looney Tunes cartoons was the quality of the art work. Characters moved smoothly, and actually had shadows. Later cartoons did not move as smoothly and cast no shadows. I guess the adults running the company didn't think we kids would notice. We did.

No more quality, entertaining children's shows. Kids today don't know what they're missing. SpongeBob SquarePants? Give me a break.

Sigh. No more home deliveries by men. Now we have Instacart and Amazon for, well, everything. I suppose that's better and more efficient than one man for bread, one for milk, and so on. Economies of scale and all that. But one thing Instacart and Amazon will never replace is the ice cream man.

We kids would be outside playing, doing whatever we were doing on our summer vacation, and we would hear the jingle jingle jingle of the bells coming down the street.

Russell, Tom, and I were sitting on my parent's stoop one summer day. We were learning the fine points of negotiation, a skill that would take us through our whole adult lives. We were trading comic books.

“I'll give you one Lulu, one Donald Duck, and one Casper for your two Superman,” said Russ.

“Are you crazy?” said Tom. “Lulu is lame. Tubby Tomkins is funny, but Lulu? No way.”

“Superman is stupid,” said Russ. “A guy who can fly, has x-ray and heat vision, and is invincible? What has he got to be afraid of. Deals off anyway. I'd rather have Lulu than Superman.”

“I've got a Flash here,” said little me. “I'll swap you my Flash for your two Superman.”

“Geez... I dunno,” said Russ. Jingle jingle jingle... “The ice cream man!”

Everyone scooped up their comics and ran for their allowances. Jingle jingle jingle... Quick before we miss him! Into our respective houses we ran, emerging shortly with nickels, dimes, and the rare quarters. Jingle jingle jingle...

“Hur rey up!” shouted Tom.

“I am!” shouted back three or four kids.

The ice cream man stopped his truck, and stopped his jingling. He stepped out onto the street. He was an older man. He wore a white shirt, white pants, black belt and shoes, and a white hat. Gray hair stuck out from under the hat. He was always smiling. He walked to the side of his truck and opened the greezer door as the kids lined up.

Just like at Michon's and penny candy, each of us hemmed and hawwed about our selection. This required careful consideration. Ice cream sandwiches were a favorite, but on a hot day they melted really fast and quickly turned into a gooey mess, so we had to take into account the weather before deciding. Popsicles were dead last. We could get those at home. Freeze-pops were good. Fudgsicles were a favorite.

We would make our selection and hand the ice cream man our money. If change was needed, he had a change dispenser on his belt. It was bright and shiny. He would click the little levers and coins would drop out. That was fascinating.

We felt sorry for the kids who had already spent their allowances, and whose mothers had no change. They had to watch us buy our cold treats. We felt a little bad. But only a little.

Soon, it was gone. Eaten or melted. Sometimes both. The kids who opted for Fudgsicles were obvious with the brown ice cream all around their mouths and, usually, down the front of their tee-shirts. But then it was back to what we were doing. Unless it was playing in dirt, because melted ice cream and dirt was a nasty combination.

Even for kids.

Shepherd's Pie

18 Shepherd's Pie second edit 3/10 4:15 AM

Sitting in my little apartment, looking out the window, can be nice. Believe it or not. It is quiet here. I can't hear the traffic on Middletown Road at all, even though I can see it. It's maybe a hundred yards away. A good 9 iron shot for me.

I enjoyed playing golf when I used to be able to play. As a young guy taking up golf, once I realized I wasn't the next Arnold Palmer, I could just have fun and enjoy the game. Games should be like that. Fun. We played a lot of games in my youth. Besides baseball, in the Fall we'd play football. Touch football. No one had equipment for tackle. A few had helmets. Oh, lack of equipment didn't stop us from trying to play tackle sometimes just like we'd watch on TV.

Back in the days before color TV, when TVs were black and white, one team had to wear light color jerseys and the other dark. That way, we could tell one team from another. But I remember watching Green Bay play one afternoon at home. Their stadium was outdoors, like all stadiums were. They didn't have sissies for players who needed domed stadiums back in the old days. Those guys were tough. I remember it started snowing real hard at Green Bay. Workers were sent out frequently to shovel off the yard markers so the line judges could see them. The ground had not yet frozen, and in no time the field was a muddy mess. Soon, on black and white TV, everyone playing was black from head to toe. I couldn't tell Green Bay players from the other team until substitutes were sent in. They stood right out, having on a clean uniform. But soon they looked like everyone else.

And then along came domed stadiums, taking all the fun out of it. Football was sissified.

Let's see... what other games did we play? We shot hoops. And besides playing teams, we'd play horse, or around the world, or... I forget the others. Many times my dad would play. If he did, the older Gooder brothers would play too. They were older than us and much better, so if they played, we'd just watch. I think they went on to play college basketball. I should google that.

One neighborhood kid that could play against the big kids was Pete Chemilievsky. He was our size and our age, but Pistol Pete had something we didn't. A hook shot. With his hook, he was tough to block even for my dad and the Gooders. And he was deadly with it. I wonder why Pete never played high school basketball? He was good enough. But all of the high schoolers had graduated from set shots to jump shots to shoot over their opponents, which was fun to watch too. But nothing like Pete's hook. I wonder what happened to Pete?

Let's see, what else did we play? When it rained and we were stuck indoors, we sometimes played cards. War was fun. Old Maid was kind of corny. It seemed like a girl's game, but we tried it. Monopoly we attempted, but it took too long and we lost interest pretty quick. Battleship. We had that. When we were real young we had Chutes and Ladders. I had Lincoln Logs and Bob Van had American Bricks. I don't know, I'm forgetting now. Maybe I'll think of more later.

Kids today play those dumb video games, all full of violence and lawbreakers, stealing cars and whatnot. I'll bet they don't know how to shoot horse in hoops.

Heck. I'm wasting the day. It's a bit chilly today. Maybe I won't go to Swayze Acres. Maybe I'll walk into the village for lunch. That's exactly what I'll do. It's only a half a mile, but it takes me fifteen or twenty minutes at my speed. What time is it? Let me check the clock on the wall. A quarter to twelve. And that's another thing kids today probably can't do. Read a clock. Everything has to be digital with kids today. I remember the kid in my computer store asked me one time what time it was. I answered a quarter past one. He looked at me funny. I had to repeat it as 1:15. He didn't know what a quarter or half or three quarter hour meant. They really should teach that in school. How to tell time.

I was muttering to myself as I put on my shoes, grabbed my coat and cap and my cane, and walked out into the hall.

“Good morning Mr. Gibson.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I answered. As usual, that was quick.

“Going for a walk, are we?” she asked.

“We are. I think I'll go into the village for lunch,” I answered and I hurried out the door.

“Hello Mr. Gibson.”

“Hi Richie. I would love to know how you do that.”

“Hop it and I'll give you a ride,” he said out the open window of his jelly bean car.

“Richie, thank you. I truly appreciate it. But I've been writing all day and I really need to stretch my legs a little.”

“Gotcha. OK Mr. Gibson, but you take care. The traffic is horrible.”

“I will, thank you,” I answered as I walked up the sidewalk from the senior apartments at Van Schoonhoven up to Middletown Road. It was a bright, sunny day but the temperature was low and the breeze made it chilly. I zipped my coat up tight and pulled my cap down tighter.

Only one side of the bridge over the railroad tracks had a sidewalk, so I stayed on that side. I usually crossed Sixth Street somewhere around the convent while looking for a break in traffic. I got one and crossed the street. A car came speeding down the hill. I didn't even look. I could hear him coming. Go ahead, I dare you. I heard him brake and slow down, and then speed up and pass when I was halfway across. Damn kids. Rush rush rush.

I got to my sitting spot on O'Connor's stone wall and sat myself down. I stood my cane in front of me and set both hands on top of it. The breeze died down mostly so I unzipped my coat a little. I looked to my right and I recognized Richie's car as he slowed down and stopped.

“Are you OK Mr. Gibson!” he hollered.

“Fine!” I yelled back.

Richie rolled up his window and drove towards the village. There seemed to be more traffic that usual. Horrible, I thought as I smiled to myself. But this is nothing compared to the short time I lived in Stamford, Connecticut. Now THAT was some horrible traffic. I hated it at first, but like all things, you soon get used to it. So what Waterfordians were used to was their normal traffic, and this, to them, seems horrible. In Stamford there is no way that I could cross a street. I don't know how old men do it there. Maybe they don't. Maybe they've all been run down by those damn kids.

After a spell, I stood up. Whoa. A little dizzy there. I sat back down. I tried it again a minute later and it was OK. I found my feet and started shuffling down Sixth Street. The school was closed. It must be a weekend. Good for those kids. I loved weekends. Now that I'm retired, my entire week is a weekend. I have to set reminders in my Outlook Calendar so I don't miss doctor's appointments.

I crossed Division Street. I didn't look, I just crossed. One car approached from behind and slowed to a stop. I glanced over. It was a woman in a red car. As I looked at her, she smiled and waved. I smiled back, but under my breath I thought you're darnn right you're gonna wait. I'm in a crosswalk. I got across and she slowly passed behind me.

Now what was all that, Gibson? You're turning into a grumpy old fart. See, she seemed like a nice lady. She did what she was supposed to do and waited for you. Yeah, but I'll bet she was mad behind that smile. You don't know that. I think she was nice. Probably not. Was too. Was not. Was too. Was not.

STOP! Listen to you, arguing with yourself. Do you know how annoying that can be? Silence. Good.

I rounded the corner by St. Mary's. I looked down the hill. The side of the street across from Don & Paul's looked packed. Too bad some young nimrod turned all the parking places in front into a turning lane. Kids today don't understand business and how important parking is. I'll bet the diner is packed too. It's a great place. Even when they get busy, the service is still top notch and the food is as well. If you can get a seat. Being a weekend, I'll bet all those darn kids are in there.

I shuffled on down past the sign shop and such and I saw the hanging sign for McGreivey's. There was also a new Chinese place across from town hall, the Sun Rise Restaurant. I like Chinese food a lot. Not today. Some other time. I want something American. You can't beat good old American food.

Just as I approached the entrance to McGreivey's, I heard the unmistakable noise of a skateboard coming behind me. I stopped. Sure enough, first a kid on a bicycle swerved to my left and used McGreivey's handicapped ramp as a bicycle ramp. He was followed closely by a nitwit on a skateboard who used it as a skateboard ramp. They both made their jumps and flew across Fourth Street.

“Hey you kids! Get off the sidewalk!” I yelled. But they were out of earshot. I can't yell like I used to. That kid on the bicycle is lucky I didn't stick my cane in his spokes. What if someone had walked out of McGreivey's? They could have been hit. And hurt. Businesses usually have to have their doors open out in case of fire, but McGreivey's was so old that the doors opened in. Good thing.

I looked behind me. Nope, no one else coming. I walked up McGreivey's handicapped ramp. I avoid stairs. I got to the door and opened it. I walked in and was taking off my coat and hat.

“Hello Mr. Gibson!” waved Lindsay.

“Hi Lindsay. But look, Mr. Gibson is my father. Call me Dave.”

“OK Mr. Dave, what will you have?”

I like Lindsay. Oh, I like Terry and Gwen too, but Lindsay is prettier than Terry.

“What's that beer I had last time?” I asked.

“ Czech'rd Past, by Chatham Brewing?” she asked.

“That's it. Give me that.”

I honestly don't remember if that was what I had before or not. I didn't want to seem forgetful. But you are forgetful. Don't start with me. I've had it with you guys. Just shut up and let me enjoy my beer. Fine. Fine. Fine.

Lindsay came over with a pint of... of... that beer and set it in front of me on a coaster. She shot me a smile. Young girls always smile at me now that I'm a sweet old man.

“Here ya go,” said Lindsay brightly.

“Where is everybody?” I asked as I waved my hand around.

“Oh, they'll be along. Usually late in the afternoon the place will fill up.”

“OK. Can I see a menu please?”

“You sure can. Eating today?” asked Lindsay. “That's unusual.”

“Yep. I'm in the mood for some good old American food and besides, I don't feel like cooking hamburgers again tonight,” I answered.

Lindsay handed me the menu and I browsed it while she waited on a few other customers. Everything looks good. Why do restaurants today have so many choices? How am I going to decide? What don't you do what you always do. What's that? Don't pick anything until you're asked for your order and then you pick something on the spot. Hey it works for me. Now be quiet.

I browsed down the menu. Picking something for lunch is like being a kid and picking candy at Michon's. It's a big decision. The biggest one I'll make all day.

“Are you ready?” asked Lindsay as she came over with her order pad and pen.

“Yep. I'll have the Shepherd's Pie,” I said, quite pleased with my selection.

“You've got it.”

While waiting, I was enjoying my beer and the decorations. McGreivey's was all decked out for St. Patty's Day. Green string lights, shamrocks, leprechauns everywhere. Terry had told me that they're having a party there the Saturday before, but I'm not much for parties. I have a hard enough time hearing as it is. Toss in some background noise and I'm done. But if you like that kind of thing, I suppose it would be a good time. Probably corned beef and cabbage. I think that's a law. For Irish-type pubs.

McGreivey's has a nice crowd. Older, I noticed. The youngest person I saw was sitting with an older woman, probably her mom. She looked to be maybe... 25? 30? Is it really important? Well no, but I was just wondering how old she was. Maybe she's wondering how old you are? Do you think so... Shut up.

I looked around some more. Nothing else to do until my lunch got here. Might as well absorb the ambiance.

And then my food got here. Good. I'm hungry.

“Here you go, Mr. Gibson,” said Lindsay.

“Dave,” I corrected.

“Right. Dave.”

She set down a paper place mat and put the bowl of Shepherd's Pie in front of me. She set utensils wrapped up in a white paper napkin next to the plate.

“Can I get you anything else Dave?” asked Lindsay.

“No, thank you. I'm good.”

“Be careful. It's hot,” she warned.

“I will, thanks.”

Sheesh. Be careful of traffic. Be careful it's hot. I didn't get to be seventy years old for nothing. Oh sure, I've stepped out into traffic a few times when I shouldn't, and I've burned my mouth more than once. But that's how you learn. By the stupid things you do. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.

I finished the Shepherd's Pie in short order and ordered another beer to wash it down. This beer is pretty good. What's it called? Begins with a C. Critical Mass? Something like that. Anyway, it's good. I'm glad Lindsay can remember the name of it because I can't.

I just sat. Just like I do at home, looking out the window. Only I'm sitting here in a different place, looking out a different window. Variety is the spice of life, they say. Who in the hell is they? You know, they. No I don't know. For the last time, shut up. I'm relaxing here. Fine. Fine.

I later finished my beer and placed my coaster on top of my empty beer glass. I learned that tending bar in Florida. When you don't want a refill, cover your glass. A universal sign. I also quickly learned the most common phrase bartenders hear. Just one more.

“All done?” asked Lindsay.

“Yes ma'am,” I answered.

Even though she looked to be extremely busy and swamped with customers now, she returned quickly with my check. I already had my debit card sitting on the bar when she returned. She scooped it up and very quickly returned with my debit card and copies of the tab. I never look to see which ones are merchant copies and which are for the customer. And sometimes there's a third one. I have no idea what that's for. I squinted for the total, took 20% and rounded it up to a whole dollar and added it for a tip. I arose, pulled my cap out of my sleeve, put on my jacket and was out the door.

I didn't look when I stepped out the door. I should have but I didn't. Thankfully there were no kids coming down the sidewalk on bicycles or skateboards. Darn kids. Always in a hurry.

I heard a car pull up and stop at the curb. I knew who it was.

“Hey, Mr. Gibson!”

“Hi Richie. Yes, a ride would be great.”

I like to walk, but I didn't go to the men's room before I left. I forgot. You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached. Shut up. Fine.

I slid in Richies little Hyundai or Honda or whatever it was. I got my cane in and shut the door. Checkered Past. That's it.

“How was your lunch?” asked Richie.

“It was good. It really hit the spot,” I said. “There's nothing like good ol' American food if you ask me.”

“What did you have?” asked Richie.

“Shepherd's Pie.”

Richie just smiled as he pulled away from the curb.

Rich Dill

17 Rich Dill second draft 3/06 3:00 PM

I was sitting in my senior apartment. Just sitting. Not watching television on my laptop. Not listening to any music. Just sitting and staring out of my window. I could see a few trees on the small hill. I like trees. I used to live in a cabin in the woods in the mountains. I loved it. I love the outdoors. Always have. It seems that I spent an inordinate amount of time tramping through the woods as a child. Usually I went with friends, but if they were busy doing other things, things I had little interest in, I would go alone.

I could see Middletown Road on top of the hill, and sometimes I just watch traffic go by. No tramping through the woods for me anymore. At least I can see a few trees.

I also saw a kid go by, walking down the hill into the village. He had on a backpack, just like all the kids do today. Things change. We never had backpacks for school stuff. In my day. We had book bags. Red ones with the school logo on the side. They were very stiff canvas with two handles that came together when you zipped it up. But what was really cool about these book bags was that they had a hard bottom, and on each corner was a knob that kept the bag bottom off the ground. Or floor. A favorite pastime in school was bowling with book bags. If the hall was empty, it was great fun to set it sailing down the hard shiny floor to see how far it would go. And if we were lucky, a kid might walk out of a classroom into the hallway and get knocked ass-over-teakettle. Try that with your knapsack.

I wonder what ass-over-teakettle means? Oh, I know it means getting knocked over... so I suppose if you were carrying a teakettle at the time... who knows? I should google that.

Yeah, kids today aren't the same. I was watching the kid walking down Middletown Road, and just before my view was blocked by a house, he kicked a can. Then kicked it again, in front of him as he walked. Ha! I did that once on my walk home from the village, kicking a soup can all the way. One mile. By the time it got to Swayze Acres all of the label was gone and it was bright and shiny steel. I was going to stomp on it and flatten it, but then I decided to just leave it for another kid to find and admire. Maybe that kid would kick it some more. Maybe today's kids aren't any different than we were, but just growing up in a different time. What kid can't resist kicking a can?

I decided to stretch my legs and check the mail. Each apartment has a mailbox by the entrance. I walked down the empty hall and turned left (when I was a kid we called it “hang a looey”) (I need to google that) to the mailboxes. I unlocked mine with my key. Nothing. Good. No bills. I locked it and turned.

“Good day, Mr. Gibson.”

“Geez! You can sure sneak up on somebody, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I stammered.

“Oh my, I'm sorry I startled you, Mr. Gibson. I only wear slippers to go up and down the hall and I guess they don't make any noise. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I answered. “It's just my heart is pounding a little.”

“Why don't you come over to the community room and sit a spell,” she queried.

“No, no, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? Are you going for you walk today, Mr. Gibson?”

“Ya know, I think I will. I was going to stay in today and maybe work on a book I'm writing, but it is really too nice to stay in,” I answered.

“Oh, you're a writer?” asked Mrs. Sciocetti.

“I try to be.”

“What is the book about?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing really. Just an old man's ramblings,” I said.

“Well, you enjoy your walk, and be careful. Traffic, you know.”

“Horrible,” I answered.

I went back to my apartment, changed, put on some nice new walking shoes I just bought, and grabbed my magic camera. I smiled. Magic camera. That was stupid. What was I thinking? I wasn't. I'm not as quick on my feet as I used to be. Maybe I shouldn't walk around Swayze Acres anymore. I might get in trouble by saying the wrong thing. Might get in trouble? I think I've got a reputation since high school of saying the wrong thing. I'm always in trouble, it seems.

I hung my camera around my neck, grabbed my cane, and headed out. I passed Mrs. Sciocetti again, still standing by the mail boxes.

“Take care, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I said.

“Remember what I said about traffic, Mr. Gibson.”

“I'll be careful,” I said in a loud voice as I went out the door.

“Hi Mr. Gibson!”

“Hi Richie,” I said. “This is really spooky. Have you been sitting here long?”

I think Richie said his car was a Mazda. Whatever. It looks like all the other cars on the road.

“Naw. Just got here.”

“How did you know...”

“I just know is all,” he answered. “Give you a lift?”

“If you don't mind. If you're headed towards Swayze Acres.”

“That's exactly the way I'm going,” said Richie with a smile.

We pulled out of Van Schoonhoven and headed up the hill.

“You seem to really enjoy walking around your old stomping grounds, Mr. Gibson.”

“How did you know? I never told a soul I used to live here!” I exclaimed.

“Well, you know, Waterford is a small town. Word gets out and everybody knows,” said Richie. “Some folks don't like that. They feel like they're being watched. Like it's an invasion of their privacy and all.”

“Well Richie,” I said with a smile. “My life is an open book. So I don't mind. I'm an author, and what better thing to write about is what you know. And I have nothing to hide.”

“I heard you was an author. What are you writing about now?”

“Oh, I'd rather not say. I'd like to keep it quiet. It makes doing my background research better. If folks knew I was writing about them, for example, they might act and say things differently than they really are.”

“Gotcha. Mum's the word,” said Richie. “Here ya are. Can I drop you off in there?”

“No, I need to walk a bit,” I said. “Richie, I really appreciate this. Really.”

I reached over to shake his hand. He took it, and smiled.

“Just doin' my job, Mr. Gibson.”

Doing his job. Indeed. I slid out of his jelly bean, waved goodbye, and started making my way down Lea Avenue. It looked different. Many of the houses now had additions built on. The cars in the driveways were jelly bean cars. There were pools in the back yards. I looked around. I saw no kids on bicycles. I heard no squeals of laughter. Things didn't look right.

I stopped walking. I put a little weight on my cane. I took off my cap and wiped my forehead with my hand. I closed my eyes. I felt a little dizzy. Something is wrong. Am I sick? I wonder if I should go home? Somehow. How would I get home? I'd have to walk a mile. I don't know if I could. I felt a little weak.

“Hey Mister! Are you OK?”

I looked up and opened my eyes. It was a young boy I hadn't seen before. I looked around. Everything appeared to be back to normal. The houses, the cars, all were as they should be.

“I'm OK son,” I said in a quiet voice. “I haven't seen you before.”

“My name is Rich. Rich Dill.”

“Well, I am very pleased to meet you, Master Dill,” I said. “My name is Gibson. Where's your bicycle? Where are the other children?”

“They're off playing. I play with them sometimes, sometimes I don't. I left my bicycle home. Sometimes I do that.”

“Well, shall we see if we can find them?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Rich. “Let's go this way.”

I walked alongside young Rich Dill. I heard a noise. A metallic sort of noise.

“Do you hear that?” I asked.

“What?” asked Rich.

“A rhythmic ching ching ching.”

“Oh, that's my brace,” said Rich. He was limping.

Oh! Now I remember. How could I forget Rich? Stupid of me. It's that old memory thing.

“I got a brace because I got polio when I was little. Real little,” said Rich. ching ching ching.

“Well, Mr. Rich Dill, I am sorry to hear that,” I answered.

“Sorry about what?” asked Rich.

“Well, I'm sorry that you had polio and have to wear a brace,” I replied.

“Don't be sorry, Mister,” said Rich. “My mom and dad said lots of kids got polio and died. They said that I must be special. And tough. And a real fighter. 'Cause I'm still here and a lot of kids aren't. I'm a lucky kid.”

I stopped walking. I looked at young Rich. I admired his spirit. It is too bad that many adults didn't have that attitude. I wanted to tell him that I knew the fine man he would turn out to be, but I knew I shouldn't. Right? Geezus Gibson don't screw this up. This is much bigger than your magic camera, you idiot. For once in your life, shut the hell up.

“Are you OK, mister?” asked Rich.

“Yes, I'm fine. Let's find the kids.”

“I know where they are,” said Rich.

“You do?” I asked.

“They're on the hill playing baseball. I tried to play once, but I can't run.”

“So what do you do, Rich?” I asked.

“I like to fish. A lot. And when the others aren't playing baseball, I fly my airplane there.”

“Your airplane?”

“Yeah, my dad bought it for me. It's got a small gas engine in it. I start it up and it flies. I control it with two long strings that go from my hand grip to the wings, through the plane to the tail so I can fly it. I don't have to run to do that, only not get dizzy and fall down 'cause it goes round and round in circles.”

“I see,” I said. “How old are you, Rich?”

“I'm ten. But I'm going to be eleven soon.”

“Well, Rich, you are a remarkable young man,” I said. “and you are going to do some really great things.”

“Do ya think so?” asked Rich.

“I know so,” I answered. “I have a lot of confidence in you.”

We continued to Naise's house. There was an empty lot and we cut through there to get to the fields behind the houses. There was a pretty steep hill to climb.

“Can you walk up this hill, Rich?” I asked.

“Sure. No problem.”

We started up the hill. I didn't get too far before I had to stop and catch my breath.

“Are you OK, Mr. Gibson? Can I help you?” asked Rich.

“No, I'm OK. I just need to catch my breath,” I answered. “Getting old isn't for sissies.”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Rich looked me up and down, evaluating me carefully.

“I dunno. 50?” he asked.

“Spot on right!” I answered with a smile.

“I knew it. You're old! Older than my dad!” said Rich. “Keep going Mr. Gibson. We're almost there.”

And Rich went limping quickly up the hill, we me straggling behind.

“Hey watch it! You guys are in right field!” someone shouted.

Rich and I moved way over to our left and continued on behind home plate. Everyone was there. All the kids. Even Jimmy, the bully. Bob Van, Bob Naise, Tom Bombard, and a whole bunch of kids I hadn't met yet.

“Hello Mr. Gibson!” someone yelled. “Hey Rich, ya wanna play?”

“I can't,” said Rich. “I can't run.”

“We'll make you our catcher, and have a designated runner for you for the bases.”

“Well, I dunno...” said Rich in a low voice.

I prodded him gently.

“Go ahead, Rich,” I said. “Play some ball.”

“Do you think I could?” asked Rich as he looked up at me.

“The boys want you to play,” I said with a smile. “Go ahead.”

“OK!” said Rich, as he ran over to the team captain who called to him.

I stood and watched the boys play. Not only were no girls playing, but there weren't any girls watching. Today, girls are included in everything. In a way, I like that. In a way, I don't. It's bad enough to lose at something, but to be beaten by a girl? Well, that's the new way of doing things I guess, but I think I liked it better when the boys played at their games and the girls played at theirs.

I watched as the teams changed sides. A couple of batters hit pop-ups, which were easily caught by the infield players. Then it was Rich's turn to bat. He stood in the batter's box, which you had to use your imagination because there wasn't one. Another boy stood by the catcher. There was a pitch. Rich didn't swing.

“That was a strike!” yelled a kid on the opposing team.

“That was a ball!” yelled a kid on Rich's team.

“Strike!”

“Ball!”

Oh Geezus here we go. Eventually, after several rounds of was-to was-not, it was decided it was a strike.

Another pitch. Again, Rich stood there without swinging.

“That was a strike!” yelled a kid on the opposing team.

“That was a ball!” yelled a kid on Rich's team.

“Strike!”

“Ball!”

After a time, it was called a strike.

“Hey Mr. Gibson. Would you umpire?” Bob Naise yelled from third base.

“Uh... I don't think so, boys. I'll need to go soon.”

Rich stood at the plate, bat poised, with a determined look.

Another pitch. Rich swung and hit. A hard grounder right between first and second base. Rich's runner took off like his ass was on fire. He got to first while the right and center fielders were running for the ball.

“RUN!” yelled a kid serving as the first base coach.

The runner turned and headed for second. The center fielder had the ball and threw it for the second baseman. Threw it. Right over his head.

“RUN!!!” Rich's team was yelling.

The left fielder had the ball and underhanded it to the third baseman. Rich's runner slid into third at the same time as the third baseman tagged him.

“OUT!”

“HE WAS SAFE!”

And this went on back and forth.

“Let's let Mr. Gibson decide!”

A quiet came over both teams as they looked at me. Crap.

“Well, from my vantage point, it looked really really close,” I said. “But in all honesty, I think the runner was safe.”

Rich's team cheered and gave Rich slaps on the back. Some of them yelled “Way to go!” to the runner at third. Rich had a big grin on his face.

I really don't know if the runner was safe or not. But it's only a pick-up game on a... I don't know what day it is. It doesn't matter. It's only a game for fun, and I think Rich needed that hit more than the other team needed an out. And that is why you don't umpire, Gibson, I thought to myself. You can't be impartial. So sue me. When you're an umpire, you have to call 'em as you see 'em. Yeah, but I was too excited and watching Rich, not the runner.

“Good hit, Rich,” I said as I slapped him on the back.

“Thanks Mr. Gibson,” said Rich.

“Time for me to go,” I said. “It's getting late and I don't walk too fast.”

“Thanks for coming,” said a few of the boys.

I left with a wave and headed towards St. Mary's cemetery. I smiled to myself. Gibson, for once you did the right thing. About time, said another voice in my head. Jeepers creepers, don't tell anyone about the voices. You'll get yourself Baker Acted again.

I got to the road in the cemetery when a car pulled up. A '60 Olds.

“Hi Richie,” I said.

“Hi Mr. Gibson,” said Richie.

“Yes, I would like a ride.”

Richie smiled.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“I can't tall ya. Trade secret,” said Richie with a bigger smile.

the Library

16 the Library first edit 3/04 7:30 PM

I went for a walk yesterday. It was a cool fifty-eight degrees, but that's warm for upstate New York in March. I only wore a tee-shirt and quilted flannel shirt. Should be warm enough. I left my camera home because it is heavy, and was going to walk to the library. It's less than a mile, but I also need to walk back, so that would make it a bit less than two miles round trip. That's pushing it for me now.

Pushing it. Ha. When I was a kid, during the summer I'd walk to the town library in the village town hall. A mile each way, carrying the maximum three books. I thought nothing of it back then. All kids walked back then. Or rode our bicycles.

This should be nothing. Our the door, down Division Street by St. Mary's Elementary School, to Third Street. Take a left and walk down to the “new” library. The library in town hall needed more room, and the old D&H building was vacant. The town, with great foresight, bought the building and renovated it, I was told. Something like thirty years ago.

I grabbed my cane and left my apartment. I looked up and down the hall. No one was there. I walked toward the exit. I passed the hallway to the community room just feet from the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good morning Mrs. Schiocetti,” I answered with a sigh.

“Going for a walk, are we.”

“Yes ma'am. We are.”

“Where are you walking too?” asked Mrs. Schiocetti.

“I'm going to try to make it to the library,” I replied. I'm wasting precious walking time.

“Oh my, that's a long walk,” she declared. “Do you know the senior center is behind the library now?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Have a nice walk, Mr. Gibson, and be careful walking. The traffic today is horrible. Just horrible.”

“Horrible. I know,” I answered as I shuffled out the door.

I got as far as St. Mary's Hell and I decided to rest on O'Connor's stone wall. Huh. I never thought about it, but this wall is made out of slate, not rocks. I wonder why? Well, I guess it doesn't matter why. Rocks, stones, what's the difference? Oh sure. Rocks are igneous and slate is sedimentary. When did I learn that? Seventh or eighth grade? I wonder if schools still teach that? Who knows what they teach kids nowadays. A jellybean car pulled up to the car and the passenger window rolled down.

“Are you OK, Mr. Gibson?” asked Richie. “Need a lift?”

“Hi Richie,” I answered. “No, I'm headed to the library.”

“I can take you there.”

“Thanks, but not today,” I replied. “I'm trying to build up my stamina. When I was a kid, I could walk miles. I don't know what in the hell happened.”

“Well, OK,” said Richie. “Are you sure you can make it? 'Cause I don't mind taking you there.”

“Thanks Richie. But this is something I need to do.”

“OK Mr. Gibson. Take care walking. The traffic is horrible.”

And then Richie was gone as quickly as he appeared.

I got up, dusted off my fanny, found my feet, and walked the short distance down the Division Street hill. This isn't so bad going down. Going up might be a challenge. Pay attention. Watch the sidewalk, particularly when trees have pushed up sections of it. Why don't these people fix their damn sidewalks? A person could fall and break a hip, then they'd get sued. I got to the bottom of the hill. Instead of turning right and going to McGreivey's, I kept on going straight. Past the post office. Down to the corner. Huh. The gas station where we used to buy Cokes out of an outside cooler is now a mini-mart. I guess mini-marts are the new ginney stores. Ginney. Stop with that already. Find a new name.

I started down Third Street towards the library. These sidewalks are especially bad. Must be all these old trees just pushing up old sidewalks.

I got to the library after a bit. Wow. This is a nice old building. I walked up the handicap sidewalk to avoid the stairs. I don't like stairs. A person could break a hip on one of those things. Is the library closed? There were no cars in the parking lot. I peered in the window. No, there's a light on inside. With a bit of effort, I pulled the door open and walked in.

“Well, good morning, David,” said the librarian. “We haven't seen you in a long time. Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lavender,” I said. Mrs. Lavender? She should have retired long, long ago.

“May I help you find anything?” asked Mrs. Lavender.

“No, thank you. I just want to look around.”

“Well, you go right ahead. Are you returning your three books?” asked Mrs. Lavender.

“Um... no.”

“Well, do you know the fine is two cents a day per book?”

“Um. I'll get them back,” I said. Crap. That would be hundreds of dollars!

Where did I put my cane? I looked around. It was gone. How do you lose a cane? As I looked around, I noticed my shoes. Why am I wearing black Converse high tops? What the hell. Don't say a word. Just be quiet. You'll get Baker Acted again. Just browse, like if you knew what you were doing.

I saw one book that I thought might be interesting. I was short and had a real hard time reaching it, but I finally got it. I don't remember what I thought it was, but what it actually was, was a book about sex.

I stared at it in wonder. What is this? Then I heard a voice behind me.
"May I have that, David?" asked Mrs. Lavender.
I handed her the book and she put it back without saying a word. This is nuts. Why would they have books like that, and then not let anyone read them? Makes no sense. Just leave.

“I'll be back another time,” I said.
“OK, David. Now don't forget those books.”
“I won't,” I said as I went out the back door.
Ah. There's the senior center, What a nice building it is, too. It looks new. Let's go check it out. Let's? That's short for “let us”. Do I have a frog in my pocket? I smiled.
I made it across the library's back parking lot to the street. I stopped and looked both ways. Nobody coming. Good. Damn kids drive too fast.
I crossed the street and stopped. There was a ditch. There was no sidewalk across the ditch. I looked left and right. To the right, down a bit, was a driveway. There was no sidewalk in front of me, just a ditch. Well, it isn't much of a ditch. I wouldn't think twice about it when I was a kid. So, very carefully, balancing with my cane, I made it across the ditch. My cane? Where did that come from? Well, whatever.
I looked around the senior center's parking lot. A few cars parked. No one coming. I crossed the parking lot to the curb. I don't do stairs or curbs. You could fall and break a hip. But by the handicapped parking signs, there was a handicapped access for wheelchairs and scooters and the like. So I shuffled down there, carefully stepping over the one inch lip and up to the sidewalk. The handicapped ramp to the building was not next to the handicapped ramp from the parking lot. Handicapped people don't design these, do they? That would make sense, so off course they don't.
I shuffled down the sidewalk, to the handicapped ramp and held onto the handicapped railing as I shuffled my handicapped butt up to the door.

As I got to the door, a woman who was leaving held it open for me. Huh. Another benefit of being elderly. Where I always held doors for women, now they hold them for me. I'll bet today's kids don't do that.

“Good morning,” said the lady.

“Good morning,” I smiled. Holding the door open for a man. It must be that women's lib thing.

“You're new here,” said the nice lady.

“Yes. How did you know? Does it show?”

“I'm Mike, the director,” she answered. “I know everybody.”

“Oh, I talked to you on the phone earlier about doctor's appointments I have coming up, to arrange for the medical bus.”

“Oh, then you're Mr. Gibson then?” she asked as she stretched out a hand.

“I am,” I answered as I shook her hand.

“Well, I'm about to go to lunch, but I'll give you a quick tour.”

Mike showed me the main lobby where there were all kinds of papers on a table, and notices and such thumb-tacked to the wall. The room to the right had a pool table and a couple of card tables.

“And to the left is another room. They're playing Bingo,” said Mike. “Join in if you like.”

“Oh, no thanks, Mike. I'm not a Bingo player,” I replied.

“Well, take one of these applications, and take an activity flyer,” said Mike. “Dues are twelve dollars a year.”

“OK,” I answered, as I took an application and flyer, folding them and stuffing them into my back pocket. “Thank you for your help. Enjoy your lunch.”

“I will. Nice to meet you,” said Mike as she left.

I looked around. Nice place. Waterford has come a long way. Nice library. Nice senior center. Nice pool table. I'll have to come back to shoot some pool.

I decided I had better get back. My hip was starting to ache from the long walk. It's probably my shoes. I need good walking shoes. I went out the door. There was a jelly bean car. It was Richie.

“I had some time,” Richie shouted. “I thought I'd check on you. Would you like a ride?”

“Thanks, that would be great,” I said as I made my way down the ramp and to the parking lot. At least I won't have to walk up that hill on Division Street.

“Where to?” asked Richie.

“Just home,” I answered.

I would have liked to go up to Swayze Acres, but my hip was bothering me. Cripe, I wonder if I'm going to need a hip replacement. This month, I have an ophthalmologist, a neurologist, and my regular doctor. It's a good thing I'm retired so I have time for all these appointments. When I was a kid, we had one doctor. Dr. Quandt. Good doctor, but his hands shock pretty bad. We didn't like getting our polio and smallpox shots from Dr. Quandt. He might break a needle off in your arm, he shook so bad.

Richie pulled out of the parking lot and I was back at Van Schoonhoven in no time.

“Thanks for the ride, Richie,” I said as I got out of his car.

Richie waited at the curb until I got the door unlocked and got inside. Good kid, Richie.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs Schiocetti.”

Although she's a busybody, she's our busybody. I suppose it is good to have someone watching the place, what with all of the old people here. Even Mrs. Schiocetti. She's always here.

It's nice when things don't change. Change is bad. Change is always bad.

sleigh-riding

15 sleigh-riding first edit 3/03 7:45 PM

I just recently moved into my apartment at Van Schoonhoven Square. Only a few weeks ago. It's quite nice for a one bedroom. I'm furnishing it bit by bit, as money and motivation allow. I didn't bother with getting cable TV. I don't even own a TV. Not yet, anyway. I didn't have TV when Pamela and I traveled down the east coast on our trawler. Well, we had a TV, but moving south like we did, leading a nomadic lifestyle on the water, we had it only for movies that I'd buy out of the five dollar bin at Walmart. I didn't miss regular TV. So I didn't bother with cable here.

But I did, and do, watch TV of sorts. On my laptop. Online. I really enjoy the old TV shows such as the Twilight Zone, the Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and some old westerns. One thing I noted is that the date at the end of the show was always in Roman numerals. I wonder why? Why not a regular date? l watched a bunch of the Twilight Zone shows recently, and the episodes I've watched so far have a date of MCMLIX. If you are not following Roman numeral dates, the M stands for thousand, the C a hundred, the L for fifty, the X is ten, and the I for one. Placement of these numerals adds or subtracts from the letter before or after.

MCM is 1900, with the C subtracting from the last M. L adds fifty to give you 1950. IX is nine, with one being subtracted from ten. So you get 1959. I wonder why I was taught Roman numerals in school? I'll bet kids today don't learn Roman numerals. Why bother? Nowadays you can just google MCMIX to get the answer. Not that anyone would. They probably don't show up at the end of today's TV shows and movies anymore, and what other use would they have?

TV. Man, I remember those old console televisions from when I was a boy. Good screenplays, great photography, excellent acting, and just one story line instead of three stories at once. I have a hard time with three story lines. Everything used to be so much simpler when I was a kid.

Funny. I had a kid that hung around my compute store. Smart kid. Somehow we got talking about TV. Jason said he didn't like black and white TV sets. He preferred color TV. I looked at him with a smile.

“We have always had color television sets,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” asked Jason.

“Life was black and white in the old days. Then President Eisenhower mandated that life be changed to color.”

Jason shook his head and went back to the service department of my computer store muttering to himself.

Life was certainly different back then. Simpler. My dad bought one of the first color televisions in Swayze Acres. It made Saturday morning cartoons more fun to watch. And you could adjust the color intensity and tint to get amusing results.

The last Twilight Zone I watched showed a sign at a “filling station” at 32.9 cents a gallon. Gasoline was cheap then. You could even tell one make of car from another back then. In this episode, a woman was driving a '59 Mercury two door hardtop. Nowadays, I can't tell one from another. Jelly beans.

I looked out of my apartment window. It was snowing pretty hard. It seems that we always had a white Christmas in the old days. December is just about right to get your first snow. I wonder if kids still sleigh ride? Probably, but only if there's a video game or app for it.

Well, it sure is pretty outside. I think I'll put on my boots, grab my camera, and take photos. Bundled up, I walked out my door and almost ran over Mrs. Schiocetti in the hall.

“Leaving for a walk?” she asked.

“Good morning, Mrs Schiochetti. Not far, just to take some photos.”

“Be careful, Mr. Gibson. Don't slip and fall,” she said. “You might break something.”

“I'll do my best, ma'am.”

I stepped outside and there was Richie. In a '59 Mercury two door hardtop. I carefully made my way down the entrance ramp. Richie had his window down.

“Richie, it's good to see you,” I said. “Are you OK? I missed you the other day.”

“Yeah, sorry man. I had to work an extra shift,” he replied. “Did you miss me?”

“Believe it or not, yes. I mean, I am very appreciative of all you've done and all, and I don't take your favors for granted, but when you don't magically show up like you do, I worry.”

“Well, I'm fine, thanks,” replied Richie.

“Another car?”

“This is my dad's Merc. I don't have chains for my car yet,” said Richie.

“Why don't you get studded snow tires?” I asked.

“Get what?”

“Studded snow tires. Snow tires with studs in them,” I answered.

“Well, learn something new everyday,” said Richie. “I'll ask my garage about it.”

“Wait, Richie. On second thought, you better not. I might be getting confused. Old age, ya know.”

“Not a problem, man,” said Richie. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“Well, I'd like to go to Swayze Acres to see if kids still sleigh-ride. But if it's out of your way...”

“No, it's not,” said Richie. “It's my job. Hop in”

I got in, and as Richie drove slowly down the road, I heard the once familiar click-click-click of tire chains slapping the road. My dad's chains came off once and wrapped around his car's axle. He spent an hour unwrapping them in foot deep snow. So did I. My job was to hold the flashlight.

“Richie?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you mean when you say that it's your job to drive me around?” I asked.

Richie smiled a little smile. He kept his eyes on the road because it was snowing so hard.

“It's just my job. I, uh, watch over folks who need watching.”

“I need watching?” I asked.

“Some folks think so,” he answered.

“Really? Who? Did my daughter call you?”

“Of a sorts,” he answered. “We're here. Can I drive you in this time?”

“Well, OK. If you don't mind. The snow is piling up and I don't know how good my cane is in snow. It might slip out from under me.”

“Maybe you should get studs on your cane,” laughed Richie.

“Or chains.”

Richie dropped me off at Yaeger's house. Since it's empty, no one will mind if I cut through the yard. I carefully made my way up the gravel driveway. I could hear kids whooping and hollering from the hill. Must be they still sleigh-ride.

Our sleigh-riding hill was behind Lea Avenue on St. Mary's land. There was a small landing about two-thirds of the way up that young ones used. The older kids climbed to the top. It was short, but steep, and those kids got really flying. It didn't take long to get to the bottom, and then we kids would turn around, climb back up, and do it again. And again, and again, and again, and again...

I raised up my “magic camera” Nikon and took photo after photo. This is where I love my 300mm zoom lens. Getting right up close to the action without the subject knowing I was taking his or her photo.

“Hi Mr. Gibson!”

I turned around. It was Russell.

“Hello Russell,” I said.

“Hey, where's your sled?” He laughed.

“Good one, Russell. Have a good afternoon of it.”

Russell ran up the hill, sled in tow. There had to be twenty or thirty kids up there. I moved forward, staying to the left side of the hill so as not to get run over. And there it was. My Flexible Flyer. Little me had it, dragging it up the hill. Which wasn't easy since it was heavy, but it was worth it coming down.

My sled once belonged to my dad. It was his when he was young. He told me it was the fastest sled in Lansingburgh. It was certainly the fastest sled in Swayze Acres. No one could touch that sled. All I figure is that the runners were perfectly parallel and straight. And every time I used it, I put candle wax on the runners. That was my secret.

“Wagon train!” someone yelled.

All the kids that wanted on the wagon train lined up at the top of the hill. Each laid on his or her sled, sticking his black galoshes in the front of the sled behind. When everyone was ready, someone would yell HO! And off we'd go. All the kids would be paddling with their hands for all they were worth. The front sleds were part way down the hill before the train got momentum and then the whole train careened down the hill at a pretty good clip.

And always... always... some joker would pulls his galoshes out of the sled behind him. Then we had two trains, or three or four. Many times it was so out of control that some sleds would flip. Then we'd all get up, get our sleds, and drag them back up the hill. And do it all again. Over and over, until our mothers called us in for dinner.

Sometimes I would go back out after dinner. It would be dark, but Chumley's spotlight was often on and that lit up the hill enough to see. Besides, I knew that hill and every bump. Most often, I was all alone at night.

Sometimes, I'd run my sled purposely into the bushes at the bottom. I'd put my face down as weeds and bushes slapped at my sled. If it was snowing or sleeting, I'd roll onto my back to admire the beauty and the quiet of the night.

Speaking of night, the sun was setting. It was twilight, or what we photographers call the “blue hour”. I better get back. Besides Russell, no one else noticed I was there. Or if they did, they didn't care. I shuffled back to Yaeger's house.

Waiting in front was Richie.

Treasure

14 Treasure second edit 3/02 9:45 PM

Every kid likes treasure. Who doesn't? Most of us kids dug for it at some time in our lives, with the warning not to dig too far because you'd wind up in China. But one man's junk is another man's treasure. Or, in this case, another kids' treasure.

I was thinking of that as I was getting ready for my daily walk from the senior apartments to the Village. The weather was warm, even for July, and I only had on a tee-shirt. I wore long pants all the time now, though. When we were kids, we only wore long pants. Never shorts. We were always outdoors playing, often through fields and brush, and we didn't want to get our legs scratched up. Kids today probably wear nothing but shorts. They don't play outside.

I walked down the hall, shuffling cane in hand, my camera bumping at my side, and pushed open the front door out of the complex. There was no Richie. I wonder why? He's been giving me a ride to Swayze Acres every day. I hope he's OK. I guess I'll have to fend for myself.

I walked down the road to the complex. Here I would head right into the Village, but I stopped. Such a beautiful day. It would be a shame to waste it on such a day. Could I make it up the long hill up Middletown Road? I've been walking a half mile into the Village every day and then a half mile back. That's one mile. It's a mile to Swayze Acres. I should be able to make that. So I went left instead of right.

I got to Fanucci's gravel pit across the street. I don't like walking on Middletown Road. Never did. But there was still a path just off the road leading up the hill, away from traffic, like when I was a kid. I helped wear that path. I was pretty proud of that, and all these years later, it's still being used. The walking wasn't too bad, but I took my time anyway. Man, Fanucci's is a large operation. Both sides of Middletown Road. The pit on the west side now is the location of Van Schoonhoven Square. It was that big.

I finally made it to the top. I was winded. Where was Richie? I could have used him today. This camera can get heavy. Maybe I shouldn't have given up driving. And my car.

It was a short walk to an old dirt road that lead into Prospect Hill. I took it. Darn kids drive too fast. Best to get off the road. I walked along Weaver Street. These houses are just a little older than the ones in Swayze Acres. I passed Harrison and Jay streets. I soon got to the end of Weaver. The old path was still there, leading through the cemetery to St. Mary's cemetery. Here I bore right, just as I did as a kid. And there, on the right, were two gravestones I admired. They had pictures of the dead people on the stone. I took a photo of it and then took a right at the farthest road in.

I heard young voices. It sounds like it's coming from St. Mary's dump. It was just a short distance, so I decided to check it out. I walked through some grass, a bit high because it is not mowed that often. I got to... well... I don't want to call it a road. It was more like two tracks where trucks drove in to dump. But it served its purpose. I hobbled down, and there they were. Kids. Rummaging through trash.

“Hicksey!” yelled Bob Van. “Look what I found!”

Russ, little me, and Bob Naisse went running over.

“What is it?” as Russ.

“I don't know, but hicksey! It's mine!” exclaimed Bob Van.

“I know what that is,” said little me. “My dad bought one. It's a tape recorder.”

“What do you do with it?” asked hicksey Bob.

“You record stuff with it, you dumb shit,” said little me.

Little me was rude, I think. I only call politicians dumb shits now.

“Like what?” asked Bob.

“Sounds. Geezus H. Keerist. I record songs that come over WPTR and WTRY.”

“How does it work?” asked Bob.

“Well, you put the tape you're going to record on the reel on the left. You feed it through down there,” said little me. “And you hook it to the reel on the right. And then you push the play and record buttons at the same time. To hear what you recorded, you push that rewind button there. The tape goes back to the reel on the left. Then you push play.”

“Cool!” said Bob. “I'm going to go home to see if it works. The top is smashed.”

“OK,” said the rest of the kids.

“Let me take some photos first,” I said. “Smile!” They all grinned. Sigh.

“Hicksey!”

“Hicksey!”

“Hicksey!”

Kids were finding treasure. I walked closer.

“Hey kids!” I said loud enough to be heard.
The kids all turned towards me.
“Hi Mr. Gibson!” said they all.
“What are you finding? Be careful of broken glass,” I said in my parent voice.
“Lots of stuff! I got candles!” said Bob Naisse.
“I got... I don't know what I've got, but I want it,” said little me.
I walked over to see what little me had.
“It's a doorknob,” I answered. “A glass one. And that's a hinge.

“They must go to those doors,” said Russ. “I hickseyed all the doors.”

“What are you going to do with all of those old oak doors,” I asked. But I already knew what they were going to do with them.

“I'm gonna build a tree fort in my back yard!” said Russell.

Before I could answer, Bob Van came back on his bicycle, out of breath.

“Did the tape recorder work?” I asked..

“It sure does!” said Bob. “I did what Dave said and it started playing something about a sale at J.M. Fields. They must have thrown it out because it's busted. But it works. I even recorded my voice. But I wanted to come back to see if I could find more tapes. I hicksey all the tapes!”

“We wouldn't have a use for tapes anyway,” said Russell. “There's some in a box over there. They don't even stick to anything.”

Bob ran over to the box Russell pointed to.

“There's only a few,” said Bob. “But my dad can get me some. He sells 3M stuff, like tape.”

Satisfied with their haul of treasure, Russell announced that looking for more stuff was over. The kids started to walk up the little hill out of the dump.

“Hey, give me a hand with these doors!” said Russell. “They're heavy!”

“I'm carrying too much stuff,” most everyone answered.

“They're oak, Russ,” I said. “I'd help but I can't carry anything and balance with my cane. Don't you think you should ask your mom and dad if you can bring those doors home? Otherwise, you might be bringing them back. Or maybe your dad with just break them up and put them in the burn barrel.”

“How did you know my dad has a burn barrel?” asked Russ. “Were you in my back yard?”

Uh oh. Think fast.

“Doesn't everyone have a burn barrel?” I answered.

“No. Only a few dads.”

“Oh, well, I just figured he had one,” I replied.

Russell grabbed the top corner of a door and dragged it behind him, leaving a furrow in the ground. Well, if the dump workers want to know where the doors went, just follow the furrows.

The rest of the day was spent by kids walking from Russ' house to the dump and back, dragging doors. Then they got smart and got a wagon. Russ pulled, little me pushed. Bob Naisse was playing on his radio station, WVUT. It was illegal, but no one cared.

All worked that day except Bob Van. He hickseyed the tape recorder and he was busy.

I watched for a short time. Richie would never find me here. So I retraced my steps through the cemeteries and Prospect Hill and back to the senior apartments. I walked in the door.

“Hello Mr. Gibson. Out for your walk?”

“Hello Mrs. Sciochetti. Yes. Have a nice evening,” I answered.

And then I went to my apartment and took a nap.

The Frog Pond

13 The Frog Pond first draft 3/01 6:00 PM

“What do you wanna do today?” Russell asked.

“I dunno. What do you wanna do,” little me asked.

“Wanna go to the Frog Pond?” asked Bob Van.

“You always wanna go to the Frog Pond,” said little Dave.

“So? You got something better to do?” asked Bob Van.

“No,” said little me.

“OK, c'mon,” said Russ. Russell was one year older than us and always had the last say in deep decisions seeing as he was wiser.

We walked down Lea Avenue to the east. This had changed a bit since Mr. Swayze put in the houses on Davis Drive. Our path to the Frog Pond moved.

“I'm thirsty,” said Russell. “I need a drink.”

“Where?” said little Dave.

“Right over here,” said Russell.

He pointed down a very, very steep hill. Almost vertical. There was a culvert sticking out of the hillside about twenty feet down. It stuck out of the hell maybe fifteen feet or so. It was about three feet in diameter of corrugated steel. There was a stream of water coming out of it. Not a lot, but enough.

Russell scootched down the hill. He started to slide, but his feet hit the culvert and stopped him. That was a good thing because it was another twenty or thirty feet to the bottom of the ravine.

Russell, straddled the culvert and shinnied his way to the end. He stuck his hand down and scooped up handfuls of... storm rain water. Who knows what's in there?

Russell drank his fill, swung his legs over the culvert and shinnied back. Then he somehow stood on the culvert and managed to climb his way up the almost vertical hillside. And that is why Russell was in charge.

We then walked past Smythe's house to the empty lot and proceeded down the path. This was a great inconvenience. We liked the path where it was. But then Smythe's stuck their stupid house there.

So we walked down what little path there was in the new place, and then down a steep hill on the well-worn path which was there, like, forever. Probably Indians used this path.

The path followed the stream, which was the runoff from the storm drain. As we approached the witch's house, we got very quiet. It was an old house, built right on top of the canal where it was filled in long ago.

Even though she was a witch, we could sneak up very quietly and swipe pears off her tree. And elderberries, and apples.

Then we proceeded down the path to the Frog Pond. It too was mostly filled in. With what, I have no idea, but I did see cars and such dumped in there.

We walked along what was left of the tow path. The canal was different here. It wasn't a canal at all. It was a stagnant, stinking algae filled mess. Perfect.

There were small granite walls here. I don't know what purpose they served. Nor did we care. We came here for frogs.

Russell and little me were pathetically bad at catching frogs. But not Bob Van. He would see a frog on the surface, sneak up on it, and in a flash have it by its hind legs. I don't know how he did it. But he did. So Russell and I quickly got bored.

“C'mon Bob, let's go,” said little me.

“Not yet. I've only got three frogs,” protested Bob.

“How many do you need?” asked me.

“I dunno, but there's more frogs here,” said Bob.

“Let's go, Bob,” said Russell, the kid in charge.

So we proceeded up the path, being very quiet by the witch's house. We didn't stop at her fruit trees.

“Hey, let's stop at the Tarzan swing!” said Bob Van.

When you're a little kid and you watch Tarzan movies, you just have to swing from vines. It may be a law.

So Bob ran up to the swing and grabbed the vine. It was one of the longest we had. The top was way up the tree. Bob ran up the hill as far as he could go, until he could barely reach the vine, and swung off the hill into thin air. Way above thin air. And that's when the vine broke.

Bob went tumbling down, barely missing trees and rocks. He started crying. He stood up. From his elbow to his wrist, his arm had a decided angle. Bob was holding it and sobbing.

“You dumb shit!” said Russell. “You broke your arm!”

Little me didn't want to look at it. But that's why Russell was in charge.

“C'mon, let's go home,” said Russell. “I didn't have anything to do with this. You did it.”

Bob kept crying and sobbing. I wonder if that really hurts? I guess it must. Bob started walking up the path up the hill and didn't even bring his frogs.