Early this morning, the ringing wakes me.  Besides the telephone in the dining room, there's another in Mother and Dad's bedroom.  Patients call when Dad's in bed.  He doesn't like getting up.  Mother gets up, leaves their bedroom, and cries.  She sits on dark blue fuzzy couch.  "What's the matter?" I ask, thinking Dad must've slugged her.

"My father.  He—"  Her fingers, grabbing at her throat, clench and relax and clench again.  "He's dead.  That was my sister, Florence, on the phone.  She told me our father died in a hospital a short while ago."

"But he just visited us."  Frank had ridden the Hiawatha train from Chicago to Wisconsin Rapids.  Cousin Robert had driven him in Robert's new 1951 two-door Mercury from Oak Park, Illinois, to Chicago's Union Station. 

Francisco "Frank" Giavonni and I go fishing in the river behind J. C. Penneys on the concrete island.  Seventy-five years old, he climbs down a rickety steel ladder and back up again.  He's so proud I catch a huge carp with a doughball wrapped around a big hook, hiding it.  So proud, we walk up Baker Street hill, hauling that stinky fish all the way home.  Horns honk.  "My-ah grandson.  He-ah caught a whale," Frank announces.  He's dead.  Forever.  I begin to bawl, almost as much as Mother.  "Why'd he have to die?" 

"God," Mother answers, swallowing hard, her Adams apple rising and falling like a yoyo, "wants him to be with Him in heaven."

"I don’t want him to be in heaven.  I want him to be here, on earth.”

"He was such a good man, but he's now with my mother, your Grandmother Palma."

"But I don't want Grampa in to be in heaven with Grandma.  She scared me."

Mother wipes at tears.  "How did my mother scare you?"

"She sucked and swallowed goo out of raw eggs plus her singing sounded like nervous ducks, quacking away.  I want Grampa to be alive in Oak Park, Illinois, enjoying his Coffee Royale with Fat Aunt Florence and Uncle Leo Pier Dominici."

"You don't understand, Gordon.  You're too young."

"I understand that my Grampa who went fishing with me and taught me what the best pocket watch in the world was, is no more.  He can't drink his morning Coffee Royale anymore, and he won't be able to tell me how anything works.  He'll be six feet under in a cemetery." 

Mother has no comeback.  I don't eat breakfast.  I dress instead and go outdoors to my shack behind the garage, kneel, and climb in.  Being alone doesn't help.  So, I leave the shack and walk.  When I make it to Turbin's grocery store, Bob Martin smiles and waves at me from across the street.  I wave back.  With jet-black hair and build like Charles Atlas plus a Sherman tank, Bob wears a white butcher apron.  He chats with Romie Nelson while helping Romie, ripping heavy cardboard meat boxes with bare hands.  Meat boxes are extra strong but Bob's Popeye-like arms rip apart those boxes as if they're nothing at all. 

Looking both ways, I run across the busy street and make it to the front of Nelsons' garage where Romie keeps his paper and cardboard baler.  He makes money by selling the baled stuff to the paper mill.  "Hi ya, Carrot Top?  How ya doin'?"

"Hi, Go-dun, waaah," manages Romie.  Romie's the only person I know with cerebral palsy.  Before he speaks, his face scrunches up and his arms thrash about as if he's going to drown in the deep end of our city’s swimming pool because he hasn't learned how to swim.  Eventually, a word comes, most of the time just before, "Waaah."

"Hi, Romie."  I look to Bob.  "My Grampa died.
 
"That's awful.  My condolences."

"What’re they?"

"Well, they mean I'm sorry for your loss but I feel helpless at the same time.  Which grandpop died, the Eye-talian?"

"Yes."  Bob pats my shoulder with a hand as large as a bear's foot, its touch as soft as a cat's paw. 

"If I remember correctly, he was very close to you.  Death's a hard thing to accept, Carrot Top, especially when it comes to grandpops.  I lost both when I was your age.  I'll never forget either one.  They're not like parents.  They spoil the heck out of grandsons, don't ya' know?"

"Yes, Grampa Frank was more like a friend than a relative."

"That's what I was trying to say.  Grandpops are like that.  My Grandpop Fred, Dad's dad, gave me my first .22 single shot rifle for squirrel hunting.  It was a gift for him from his dad when he was a kid."

"That true?"

"As true as I'm standing here, talking to my buddy, Carrot Top.  I still have it."

"I didn't know you went hunting."

Bob laughs.  "Well, I did but I don't.  I'm too busy making a living."

I wear my first smile of the day.  "Thank you, Bob.  Your words always help."  I pull out my Ingersoll pocket watch and check the time. 

One of Bob's big hands rests on one of my shoulders.  "You don't have to thank me.  Again, accept my condolences."

"I do, Bob.  I accept them.  You're a good friend."

"Hey, Bob."  That was Mr. Peters, Bob's partner who hates kids.  "You got a customer who wants a beef roast."

"Be right there," calls Bob.  "See ya later, Romie."  Bob heads to the store's rear door. 

“Bye Bob, Waaah.”

"Thanks, Bob." I wave at him and Romie, both men waving back.  I go home and grab about six slices of fresh Holsum bread for doughballs.  I ride the Schwinn to Daly's drug store and walk it down the alley and lean it against the river wall above the concrete island where Grampa and I went fishing.  Down the ladder with my rod and reel, I grab two slices of bread and soak them in the river.  I squeeze them over and over again and make a gooey doughball and wrap it around a hook.  After I cast out the line, I look up to white clouds and blue sky.  "I'll never forget you, Grampa.  Never." 

"Thring, thring, thring."  Crazy Man sharpens a knife and turns up the phonograph's volume so neighbors can't hear him and Mother.  That's a joke.  You can hear them a city block away.  Some soprano sings in Italian.  I want to sleep, that is, until Crazy Man screams he's going to kill.  I'm wide awake. 

"Thring, thring, thring."  Even Doc III cries.  He and Dork's bedroom is in what used to be the attic that Uncle John, Doc III, and Dork remodeled.  It's the first time I hear Doc III cry.  Dork's crying, too.  Crazy Annie is bawling, Little Pete, blubbering.  I'm scared.

"Thring, thriing, thring."  A chorus sings mightily in Italian.  I don't understand a word.  They don't argue every night.  But just about.  This is the worst.  Ever.  Crazy Man's on the rampage.  He's going to kill. 

"Thring, thring, thring."  Mother's in the locked bathroom.  She sounds as if she's in my room because the bathroom has a bedroom on either side.  Mine is one.  Crazy Annie and Little Pete's is the other. 

"Thring, thring, thring."  "I'm going to cut out your heart and chop the rest of you into pieces and feed you to the carp."  The orchestra's drums make thunder.  Crazy Man stands alongside the Elks Club, tossing into the Wisconsin River Mother's thighs, looking like ham roasts with a bone in the center.  We're next.  Carp wait.  They want Hoffman flesh instead of poop from drain pipes. 

"Thring, thring, thring."  I can't see him but hear him, sharpening.  He's probably on his parlor chair, honing a butcher knife on a sword-like sharpener.  Violins accompany a soprano.  If he's going to murder Mother, we're next.  I make the sign of the cross:  "Please God, don't let him kill me and make me carp food.  Hail Mary, full of—" 

"Thring, thring, thring."  And then nothing.  Only the opera.  Did he pass out?  He has in the past.  I make the sign of the cross.  "Please, let him pass out."  

"Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom."  Oh my God.  Crazy Man pounds, pounds, pounds the floor.  The house shakes.  The phonograph squawks as the needle jumps.  He stops.  Music starts.  A tenor sings.

"A-heh, a-heh, a-heh."  I can hear him wheeze on the other side of my door.  I slither under the bed, or else he might find me.  He'll find me anyway under the bed.  The closet, too.  "I'm going kill you," he screams.  The choir sings what they sang before.  I've got to pee but hold my pecker so I can't. 

"Go ahead," Mother yells back, "I have nothing to live for, anyway."

"Where's the axe?" 

"That's my Boy Scout hatchet." It's Doc III.  He's sixteen years old and owns his own car.  "It's my hatchet I paid for with my own money, and you can't use it."

"The hell I can't," Crazy Man screams.  "I'm the master of this house.  And I'm going to kill that Grease ball bitch.  Where is it?"

"I'm not afraid of a drunken bastard."

Oh, oh.  Doc III's in for it. 

"What'd you just call me?"

"Drunken bastard."

Right now, I'm glad Doc III is my brother.  I don't often feel this way. 

"Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom."  Crazy Man runs.  The house shakes.  The phonograph squawks.  He opens the kitchen door.  I'm sure it's the kitchen door.  It's just orchestra music now.  No words.  "Bumble, bumble, bumble."  Crazy Man pounds down the stairs into the basement.  Then, nothing.  "Bumble, bumble, bumble."  Up the stairs, he slams the kitchen door.  Ka-rack.  "I found it," Crazy Man screams.  "I have your axe."

Jesus Christ Almighty, he has Doc III's Boy Scout hatchet and he's going to kill us with it. 

"Ka-rack, ka-rack, ka-rack."  Mother's screams accompany hatchet strikes.  A baritone sings.  Drums sound.  "Ka-rack, ka-rack, ka-rack."

"Stop it, or else."  It's Doc III.  He sounds as if he's in my room.  Quickly, I pull myself from under the bed.  Forehead hits springs and hurts.  I don't care and open door.  Doc III glares at Crazy Man who glares at Doc III.  Annie opens door.  She screams, sees what I see:  Splinters and huge holes in bathroom door, Crazy Man holding hatchet.  Dork stands behind Doc III. 

"Or else what?" screams Crazy Man.

"If you even touch her, I'll kill you," snarls Doc III, holding a golf club as if it were a baseball bat.

"Did you hear that?  Everyone?"   Crazy Man's eyes are flaming and huge, his face crimson and blue.  "Did you hear my first born?"

"Yes," screams Annie.  "Don't you kill our mother."  She cries even harder. 

"Your oldest brother," yells Crazy Man.  "Did you hear him?  He's going to kill me."

"Only if you kill Mother," I yell.  "Only if you kill her."

"Dad?"

"Who said that?"

"I did," said Dork.  "I think you ought to go to bed and sleep it off.  You're drunk, Dad."

Crazy Man starts bawling.  "You, too?"  Hatchet falls to the floor.  Crazy Man leaves.  He goes to his and Mother's bedroom.  Dork saves us.  Must I now call him Bill or William?  He doesn't like William.  I'll call him that.  Mother in night dress wipes away tears and looks at me and shudders.  "Gordon, you're bleeding.  Let me wash it off," she sobs. 

"I'll wash it.  Besides, I have to pee."

She nods and limps to the kitchen.  The others follow.  Opera music continues.  New 33 1/3 rpm records play forever.  Not like 78's.  A soprano and tenor sing together.  I pee.  Then, I wash tiny wound with cold water and dry it.  Finally, I attach small piece of toilet paper.  I watch me in the mirror.  I’m crying.  I go to the kitchen.  "Go to your bedrooms," says Mother.  "You kids need your sleep."  The whites of her eyes are red. 
 
"I'll shut off the record player," says Doc III.

"Don't do that," says Mother.  "Turn the volume down, but let it play to the end.  Your father might wake up if you turn it off suddenly.  You kids need sleep.  I'll be okay.  I'll sleep on the couch." 

We return to our rooms.  Slowly.  I shut the door.  Maybe he'll wake up and kill her yet.  But he doesn't.  I make the sign of the cross. "Thank you, God."  The music stops.  I sleep.  I dream I'm lying in a coffin, and Crazy Man is laughing. 

Hi, Diary.  Of course, it's me, Gordy Hoffman. 

Our sixth-grade teacher says I should write or say, "It's I, Gordy Hoffman."  The heck with that.  Everybody I know says, "It's me."  Besides, who wants to sound like a teacher?   Well, the morning after Bobby Kell and I agreed to free the no name Indian's soul, who we call No Name, the sun was out and the sky was blue as blue can be.  I was in my bedroom, wearing earphones and listening to WFHR radio station on my crystal set while watching tropical fish.  "Gordon." 
 
Startled, I looked around.  Mother stood there.  I took off the headphones.  "What'd I do now?"
 
"Nothing.  Bobby Kell's outside.  He has a shovel."
 
"Whoops."  In no time at all, Bobby and I were walking to the Old Grove, shovel handles biting into our shoulders, which is why I changed shoulders a lot.  Bobby changed shoulders once.  Not only is he practical, he's strong.  Eventually, we made it to the stone.  Bobby stood on it.  "We first have to move this."
 
I didn't say a thing.  My imagination, like spring flowers, was in full bloom.  I was getting cold feet. 
 
"What's wrong?" he asked.
 
"Uh, what happens if we dig 'im up and instead of going to the Happy Hunting Grounds, No Name comes in our bedrooms at night and kills us or—”
 
"Hoffman, you're crazy.  How can anyone who's dead do anything?"
 
"Jesus did."
 
"That's different."
 
"In my brother's Inner Sanctum comic books, there are plenty of dead people who kill live people."
 
"Comic books are make believe.  So, let's move this stone." 
 
No way, Diary, could we even budge that huge rock.  It would take ten men and maybe twenty kids to even scooch that huge lump on the ground a full half-inch.  Finally, Bobby, The Practical, said, "We'll dig next to it and then when we get far enough down, we can scoop dirt from the side of the hole and under the rock."
 
"Won't it fall on us?"
 
"Hoffman, do you think I'm stupid?  No way, are we going to dig in far enough to let that rock fall on us."
 
"Okay," I said, not wanting to dig at all although last night I thought I'd be a hero for doing so.  Another thing.  It was hard work.  As we dug, the shovels put on the brakes and sang out, "Chingggggg," as they were suddenly stopped by yet another rock.  Also, we sweat like crazy and swatted at chiggers, stink bugs, mosquitoes, horseflies, and bluebottle flies, all revolting creatures.   Who needs them?  I don't.  Then, the kindly white haired retired minister—plus he’s Wisconsin Rapids' premier owl artist—who always wears his roman collar, showed up with his brown and white springer spaniel.  "What are you boys doing?"  
 
After Bobby and I explained the whole story of No Name, the reverend smiled, "That's an admirable thing you are doing, boys, but I don't think anyone's buried there."
 
"Do you know that for sure?" asked Bobby.
 
"This used to be an Indian cemetery," I said.
 
The reverend chuckled.  "You boys could be right."
 
After he and his dog left and then passed us by again on their way home, Bobby and I continued digging.  Other kids stopped by and asked what we were doing and then we had to go through the whole story, once again.  "Found any bones yet?" one high school kid asked.
 
"Not yet." 
 
"Don't think you will."
 
I hoped he was right.  A while later, I guess Bobby thought the same thing as the high school kid.  "I don't think anyone’s buried here," he said.
 
"You think so?"
 
"Pretty sure.  We'll dig one more foot, and that's that."
 
“One more foot?” I complained.  “We could quit now.”
 
But, of course, my practical friend wouldn’t do that.  We dug one more foot and didn't find any white anything.  Except more rocks.  And that, Diary, was that.  I got out of the hole, put my shovel on a shoulder, ready to return to my house.  "What're you doing?" asked Bobby.
 
"What's it look like?  I’m ready to leave."
 
"Somebody could walk on the path at night, fall into this hole and break their neck."
 
"You really think so?"
 
"So, who d'ya think is gonna fill it back up so that doesn't happen?"
 
As I told you, Diary, Bobby's way too practical, but I knew what I had to say.  "We are, I guess."
 
"Hoffman, you're a genius."  As we started dragging and scooping and shoveling dirt and rocks back into the hole and getting attacked by all kinds of nasty bugs, Bobby cackled as only he could.  "Yeah, Hoffman, you're a genius, all right."
 
I could’ve said something, but I didn’t say one word.  I was too tired from all the work. 

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman.  

"What're you doing?" I asked Ed Kubisiak the next time he visited the next door empty lot.

"Still full of questions, ain't cha?  Well, I'll tell you.  I'm here to build a—"

"We don't want a house built here.  This is our playground."

"Well, as I was trying to say before I was rudely inter—"

"We play softball, kick the can, plus pole vau—"

"Well, tell your friends Johnnie, the Polack, owns this lot and hired me to build his house here, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do.  I'm not here to upset anyone.  It's my job.  That's how I make my living to feed my family.  You tell your friends they'll have to find another place to play.  Right now, I'm gonna pound stakes on four corners where Johnnie’s house is gonna stand.  That way, the fellow operating the digger will know exactly where to dig the basement.  Next, a plumber and probably his helper will come here and lay some drain pipes and water pipes to hook up to the city sewer and water lines.  Then, Ready-Mix trucks will unload concrete for the basement floor.  Finishers will smooth it out.  After the floor is dried, masons will put up a wall and foundation.  Then, it's my turn to build the rest of the house, roof included.  Now, you got any more questions?"

I didn't. 


When the power shovel arrived, it seemed just about every kid within six blocks was there to watch.  Huge scoops of dirt soon formed a gigantic dirt pile although our former playground had a big, deep hole in the center.   "Hey," said Jimmy Kell, "that pile gives me an idea.  We can play King of the Hill."  

"Yeah," other kids and I agreed.

Then, Jimmy added, "After supper tonight, okay?"

"You got it." 

After supper is exactly when a bunch of us met and chose two teams, based on size.  One team couldn't have all the big guys and call that fair, now could it?  We had a lot of fun climbing and pushing guys on top down the hill, or the guys on top pushed us back down the hill and then we climbed back up, that is, until Smitty stood there.  "What 're you doing here?" thundered our favorite cop.  "You guys gotta stop playing on that dirt pile.  This is private property and you're trespassing."

"Are you serious?" asked Glen Peterson.

"As serious as President Truman," answered the cop.  Smitty gave us a break one night when he caught Paul, Glen, and me nipping apples from a neighbor's tree. 

"Who complained?" demanded Paul.

"The owner drove by here, seen ya, and called Chief Exner," said Smitty.

"We didn't see nobody drive by," piped in Johnny Nelson.

"That's because you were too busy playing and having fun."

"What you're telling us is that kids in this town can't have no fun," complained Jimmy Kell.

"I didn't say that at all.  You can't play on Johnnie the Polack's private property is what I’m saying."

"Say," Bobby Kell said, "I know what we can do, instead."

"What's that?" demanded his older brother.

"Since we can't use this place to play anymore, why don't we go to the Old Grove and dig up No Name?"

"What?" everybody else but me asked. 

"Who's No Name?  I think you're making that up," said Larry Manley. 

"No Name's an Indian, buried under a large white stone on top of Old Grove hill," explained Bobby. 

"How do you know No Name's buried there?" asked Dork, my older brother.  He and Larry, both big deal high school freshmen, didn't play King of the Hill but had left our house when they saw Smitty get out of his squad.  Dork was probably hoping I'd get arrested and sent to the Green Bay Reformatory for the rest of my childhood.  After that, the next stop would be the Waupun State Prison.  "Bobby's telling the truth," I said.

"That's just a made-up story.  It's a fantasy," Dork added. 

"You're full of baloney,” I yelled at my brother.  "No Name has no name," I explained, "because he sold Indian land to the white man for practically nothing.  So, when he died, his tribal members buried him under that big white rock, White Man style, so his soul couldn't enjoy eternity with other Indians in the Happy Hunting Grounds.  Me?  I'm going to help Bobby."

I waited for others to speak up, but nobody else said a word.   I needed to pee.  Finally, Bobby said, "We'll start tomorrow, Gordy."

"You and me, Bobby, we'll be heroes, won't we?"

"I don't know about that," he said, "but you'd better bring a shovel." 

Bobby's so darned practical. 

​

Hi, Diary.  Gordy here. 

The empty lot next door is the neighborhood kids' playground.  Has been for as long as we’ve lived here.  Or I should write, it has been their playground.  Kids often play softball there.  I don’t.  Most of the time.  Why?  I'm afraid of getting hit by a fast ball.  When I'm the only kid available to even up the sides, the other kids insist I play.  Whenever I'm at bat, I hold the bat wrong and Bobby Kell keeps yelling, "Look at the ball, Gordy.  Look at the ball."  
 
"Look at something that's going to hit me between the eyes?  You’re crazy,” I yell back.
 
Softball has its "Rock Rules."  If the ball lands on a rock pile and can be easily retrieved by an outfielder, it's called a "Foul."  The batter gets another chance to slug away.  However, if the ball drops into a hole and an outfielder must remove a bunch of rocks to get it, then it's called, "Out.”  Next batter up.
 
I usually sit on my doodlebug and watch.  Sometimes, when a player sees me, he'll raise a hand and yell, "Halt."  The game stops.  Even if I want to watch, I must ride across the path that cuts the empty lot in half.  At other times, a kid will see me and yell, "You'll have to ride on the sidewalk, Gordy.  We're not gonna let you through."  Well, I didn't want to ride through, anyway, but that usually means the score is closer than a pair of high school lovebirds.
 
There are times older boys appear at the lot and pole vault or high jump.  Neighbors sit on their front or side porches, drink lemonade, and enjoy the competition.  After a fellow clears the horizontal bar, folks cheer, whistle, and clap.  If the young man knocks the bar off, they'll shout, "Nice try," or "Better luck next time."  The fellow shakes his head and dusts himself off.  
 
And don't forget the feral cats, Diary.  While games are being played on the field, I sit on my doodlebug and make believe I can see them, crouching in black holes and crevices, growling angrily.  Or do they shiver in fright?  Who knows?  Cats don't tell me.  They can't talk.  
 
Well, anyway, I wanted to tell you something about what's happening to the empty lot.  A couple weeks ago, a man showed up.  He was doing some measuring on the lot.  I got off my doodlebug.  
 
He looked at me and said, "Yeah?"
 
"What're you doing?" I asked.
 
"What's it look like?"  
 
I shrugged.  "Measuring, I guess.  But why are you measuring?"
 
"Cuz somebody is paying me to measure."  
 
"Oh."  That really wasn't the answer I wanted.  "What's your name, Mister?"
 
"Ed."
 
"Ed who?"
 
"Kinda nosy, ain't ya?"
 
"I guess."
 
"It's Kubisiak.  Ed Kubisiak."   
 
You won't believe this, Diary.  He pronounces his last name, KOO-bih-shock.  It should be Koo-BIS—ee-ack as most American sixth grade kids would pronounce K-u-b-i-s-i-a-k.  A person never knows how a Polish name should sound by looking at how they’re spelled.  For instance, Grandma and Grampa Tomaszewski, our neighbors across the street, pronounce their name Tom-ah-SHESS—kee.  Tom-ah-ZOO-skee is the way most Americans would  pronounce it.  
 
"And who are you?"
 
"Uh, I'm Gordon Hoffman.  Everyone calls me Gordy."
 
"Nice to meet you Gordy."  Ed stuck out his hand, as a large as a gorilla's paw.  Although my hand got lost in it, we shook anyway.  Ed smiled.  "Your dad's Doc Hoffman, right?"
 
"Right."
 
"He's our family doctor."  
 
And that was that.  Ed got busy with more measuring.  I watched for a while, but he soon left in his pickup truck.  I kind of forgot about him until one morning, not too long after Ed and I met, a dump truck showed up with a helper who rode "shotgun."  Anyway, that's what Gabby Hayes would tell Roy Rogers.  The helper got out of the truck, picked up rocks and chucked them into the truck's bed.  The driver just watched even though his helper was sweating.  Tossing rocks was definitely hard work.  Plus the noise.  I couldn't believe how noisy it was.  I covered my ears with both hands.  When he could see rocks piled above the truck's sides, the helper jumped into the cab.  The driver started his engine, put it into gear, and took off.  Later, the truck returned, empty.  The helper got out and started to toss rocks again.  Just before I was called in for supper, the empty lot was completely empty.  Not one rock lay on the ground.  "My cats," cried Crazy Annie as she sat at the kitchen table for supper.  "Where will my cats stay tonight?"
 
"Not in our garage," I said.  
 
"You're not funny, Gordy Hoffman."
 
"Who' trying to be funny?"  (I guess I was, Diary, but I wouldn't admit it).  
 
Neighborhood boys were as happy as could be.  No more need to have Rock Rules.  However, their joy didn't last long.  
 
"A house?  Who wants another house?  It's our field, been that way forever, and by golly should stay that way forever," insisted one kid.  
 
"And they should bring the rocks back so my cats have somewhere to live," yelled Crazy Annie.
 
"Cats?  Who cares about dumb cats?" asked the same kid.  
 
 
 
 
 
 

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordy.  

After I told Bobby Kell about the dustup I had with Pat Peck while fishing in the Wisconsin River, Bobby said, "Eugene Peck's in my seventh-grade class.  He's Pat's older brother.  Sister Beaky is our teacher."
 
"You're kidding.  That can't be her real name."
 
"You're a genius, all right, Hoffman.  Her real name is Sister Mary Rose, but we all call her Beaky."
 
"Not to her face, right?"
 
"Right.  I have to tell you something that Pat Peck did.  It's funnier than hell.  He—"  Stopping, with his face turning red, Bobby burst out in laughter.
 
"He what?" I urged. 
 
Wiping away tears, Bobby finally was able to say, "He got into big time trouble with Sister, Julius, Monsignor Gille (GUY-lee), and the Holy Ghost."
 
"How so?"
 
"Well, every Friday afternoon, SSPP (Saints Peter & Paul students call their school that) classes finish early so students can attend a Novena.  Beaky and the other nuns make a head count before they march us to the church next door.  When we're in front of the church, the drill sergeants stop us and make another head count.  Then, it's into the church we go.  No way can we skip out."
 
"But what about Pat Peck?  What did he do that's so funny?"
 
"I'm getting to that," said Bobby.  "After lunch period one day, while kids were on the playground before the start of afternoon classes, Eugene and Pat walked into the church.  Pat carried an empty cardboard box."
 
"What for?"
 
"I'm getting to that.  So, they made their way up the narrow stairs to the choir loft.  Up there, Pat put the cardboard box down and climbed a built-in ladder to the belfry where all kinds of pigeons live.  You can hear 'em cooing when nothing's going on inside the church.  When the nun who plays the pipe organ starts playing—or the huge bell starts gonging—birds fly outta there as fast as they can.  Must be the noise.  Anyway, Pat snagged a pigeon, feathers flying all over the place, and with the bird held to his chest in one hand, he climbed down using the other hand.  He made it to choir loft floor and put the bird into the box and hid it under a narrow pew in the rear."
 
I was already laughing.  "Why'd he do that?"
 
"I'm getting to that.  On Friday, Pat's sixth grade class was assigned to the choir loft for the Novena.  Monsignor Gille was dressed in pure white vestments and when he lifted the Monstrance—"
 
"What's that?"
 
"Hoffman, you're Catholic.  You know what a Monstrance is."
 
"No, I don't."
 
"It's that huge gold thing placed on the altar with a host in the center.  Glass covers the host.  It reminds me of the sun with its rays reaching out."
 
"Oh, yeah.  That's when the altar boys burn incense, right?  And the priest shakes the incense burner on chains?"
 
"You got it, Gordy.  That's when we all sing, 'Come, Holy Ghost.’   Bobby started singing, 
       "Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blest, 
        And in our souls, take up your rest.
        Come with your grace and heavenly aid
        To fill the hearts which you have made."
 
When Bobby finished, I said, "Yeah, we sing that during summer school."
 
"Now, you know what I'm talking about.  Once the choir started singing, Pat snuck off to that cardboard box, opened it, got the pigeon, carried it to the front of the loft and threw it."
 
"He threw the pigeon?"
 
"He did, and its wing started going crazy.  That bird flew all over the inside of that church, kids and teachers looking up, pointing and oohing and ahhhing, until—get this—it landed square on the altar while Monsignor and the rest of us were singing the fourth verse.  Gille, at first, had a shit fit because Sister Julius, Pat's teacher, yelled, "Patrick Peck, what did you do?"  However, Gille pointed at the bird and announced to everyone, "We sang that he come.  And here he is, the Holy Ghost." 
 
Nuns and students started laughing like all get out, but not that big Sister Julius or Pat Peck."
 
"What happened to Pat?"
 
"Oh, he got kicked out of school for only a week.  I don't think he was too upset about that, though."
 
I can tell you this, Diary:  I'm now more than happy that Pat Peck and I became friends that day at the river.  What a guy. 

===================== WEBMASTER NOTE =========================

Gordy will be taking a brief vacation after today's diary entry.  He will return on August 7.
​================================================================

Hi, Diary.  Gordy, here.  

​During summer vacation, I get out of the house right away, that is, after I put my wet sheets into the washing machine.  I might grab a shovel as I did yesterday.  I dug in what we call "the garden" for angle worms.  I needed them for catching bullheads in the Wisconsin River.  The Consolidated paper mill dam with its many gates is where I headed.  It's on a hill.  To the far left and down the hill is our cruddy swimming pool.  I rode down the grassy hill and set the Schwinn on its side.  Then, with rod and reel and can of worms in hand, I climbed the huge boulders overlooking the river next to the first gate.  It was partially open.  The falling water made a pleasant sound.  Almost made me sleepy.

I found a comfortable spot to sit—on top of a flat boulder.  I stabbed a gob of wriggly worms that weren't too happy to be put on the hook.  I wouldn't be pleased, either.  Then, I cast them and sinker into the foaming, coffee-colored water.  While waiting for a strike, I made a stringer out of a thin willow branch with my jackknife.  I kept watch on the rod's tip.  Finally, it jerked.  I picked up the rod slowly, careful not to tighten the line.  Then, when I felt the next jerk, I yanked the rod hard to set the hook.  "Hi, Gordy."  I recognized the voice but still looked behind me to make certain.  There he stood, tall and as thin as a bean pole, Ray Middlecamp. 

"Got a fish on," I yelled.

"Catch 'im, catch 'im."  Ray's hands shook.  His arms flapped.  When I reeled in the bullhead, I had my stringer ready.  I must be careful removing the hook.  Bullheads have "stickers" on each side and one on the top of their heads that hurt like heck if you hold the fish wrong.  I speared one stringer tip through the fish's mouth and out the gill.  The darned thing burped.  "You're not excused," I told it.  Then I brought both tips together, put the fish in the water, and placed a rock on the stringer's tips.  That way, caught fish can live but can't escape. 

Ray's hands shook as if he was trying to dry them.  But they're not wet at all.  He grins all the time.  Mother says he's like a four-year-old kid.  His sister, Rosie, is just like him.  They're over forty years old.  Rosie likes Crazy Annie the same way Ray likes me.  Ray and Rosie are retarded, but their mom and dad and brothers are as smart as can be.  They live on a corner, across from Irving grade school playground. 

Ray patted his oily, straight black hair with a shaking hand.  His goiter popped out every time he swallowed.  It looked as if a squirrel was inside his neck and was trying desperately to escape.  Alas, it could only go up and down like a yoyo.  His, large hook nose, an eagle's beak, constantly dripped.  When I got sick to my stomach watching each drip, I told him, "Use a handkerchief, Ray." 

Grinning, he pulled out a blue and white bandana.  When he blew, it sounded like the U. S. Cavalry trumpet in John Wayne's movie, "She wore a Yellow Ribbon." 

"You gonna eat 'im?  You gonna eat 'im?"  At least, that's what I thought he asked.  Smiling, I nodded and stabbed another gob of upset worms on the hook.  I cast them out.  While I watched the tip, Ray kept talking.  I nodded as if I understood him, but I didn't comprehend half of what he said.  Oops.  The rod's tip shuddered.  "Get 'im, get 'im," Ray yelled. 

I caught the second bullhead and put it on the stringer.  When I dropped both fish in the water, they swam in different directions.  Bullheads are dumb.  Two boys near my age joined us.  I didn't recognize them.  I figured they lived on the other side of the river.  They had rods and reels and worms.  Ray went over to them.  "Hey, if it ain't Dumb Ass," the taller boy said.  "How are you doin', Dumb Ass?"

Ray grinned.

"Get outta here, Dumb Ass," the shorter boy screeched.  "Get away from us.  You're a crazy man."

Ray looked to me and grinned.  His hands shook.  His arms flapped.  His eyes looked different, though, as if they were saying, "Help."

"Quit calling him names," I yelled.  "His name's Ray Middlecamp, and he can't help himself.  He's retarded."

"Yeah," said Ray, "I'm—what'd you say, Gordy?"

"Retarded."

Ray nodded.  "Yeah, that's it."

The larger of the two boys approached me.  "Hey, Shit Head," he snarled, "ya' wanna make somethin' outta it?"  He grabbed at me.  I grabbed at him.  We fell.  He was on top.   My back felt the hot, hard boulder.  Soon, I was on top.  I put my knees on his shoulders and wiggled them like Dork does to mine.  "I give.  I give," he yelled.  Which I usually yell, too.

"I'll let you up, but you first hafta apologize to Ray." 

"Okay, okay."  I let him up.  Although, he shot me an evil look, he turned to Ray.  "I'm sorry." 

"Gordy won.  Gordy won," yelled Ray whose arms flapped and hands jerked.  Next, he turned to the kid.  "What're you sorry about?"

"He's sorry he called you bad names," I told Ray.

"He didn't call me bad names," said Ray, grinning at the kid.  "You're a nice guy, ain't cha?"

The kid looked to me.  "See?  Even he says I didn't do nothing wrong."

"You guys wanna fish here?" I asked.

"Yeah, we wanna fish here."

"Then, don't call him Dumb Ass." 

Back to fishing, I caught more bullheads.  The older kid came over to me.  "Okay, I won't call him Dumb Ass no more.  I promise."

I smiled and offered him my hand.  He took it and we shook.  "I'm Gordy Hoffman."

"I'm Pat Peck."  He pointed to the younger kid.  "That's my brother, Armin."  Armin smiled and waved. 

"Where you from?" I asked Pat.

"Pepper Avenue.  Me and my brother go to Saints Peter and Paul grade school." 

"Hmmm, that's why I don't know you.  I go to Howe." 

Ray jumped up and down, shook his hands, and flapped his arms.  "Goody, goody, you guys are friends now, ain't cha?"

When it was time to return to my house, I lifted the stringer and hauled it to over my friends.  "Here, you guys can have these."

"Jeez, thanks," said Pat.  "What's your name again?"

"Gordy.  Gordy Hoffman."  On an extra-long way to my house, I walked my bike up the hill toward the Irving school playground and the Middlecamp house.  Ray was at my side, all the time talking and me, all the time nodding.  "Use your handkerchief, Ray." 

Once again, I heard the U. S. Cavalry bugle.  Now, it was my turn to grin. 

Hi, Diary.  Gordy here.

The next door empty lot has three huge rock piles.  Where they came from, not even ninety-year-old Mrs. Hahn knows.  I asked her how long the wild cats lived in them.  "You mean those feral cats?"
​
"I guess.  If feral means wild."  I pointed at a large tiger cat that glared at us.  "If we go any closer, it'll growl and scoot into a crevice."

"A what?" half screamed the old lady, hand to an ear.  "What are you talking about?"

She got me on feral but I got her on crevice.  I pointed.  "The dark holes between the rocks—they're crevices.  Can you spell Feral for me?"

"Begins with an F."

Duh.  Found it in my Thorndike.  It means wild or savage.  Crazy Annie, my stupid, younger sister started taking a bowl of milk outdoors for those wild cats and putting it on the ground.  I watched her through a dining room window.  Anyone with a half a brain could figure those beasts would like milk as much as tame cats.  Maybe more.  "What were you doing?" I asked when she came back indoors.

"Those are my pets.  I have a right to feed them."

"Your pets?  You're kidding, of course.  They're savage animals."  

She took a bowl outside the next morning, as well.  So, I told Mother who said, "Annette asked permission—unlike a certain boy does in this house.  His name begins with G and ends in N."

"You let her do it—on purpose?"  I could hardly believe it.

Soon, Crazy Annie remained outside.  She watched cats fight over and drink the milk.  They didn't seem to mind she was there if she gave them the milk.  Then, horror of horrors, one morning I watched her hold and pet one of those menacing creatures.

"Look," I yelled and pointed at Crazy Annie as Dad passed by to go to the bathroom so he could shave.  "Annie's petting a wild cat."

Dad stopped, smiled, and patted my back.  "And so she is."

As he made his way to the bathroom, I said, "Don't you care if your only daughter is clawed to death?"

Dad quietly shut the bathroom door.  "I can't believe these people," I said to no one there.  I shook my head in disgust.  If no one else seemed to care, why should I?  

Since winter was coming, Dad ordered Doc III and Dork to take off the screens and put up storm windows.  "It's got to be done this weekend."

So, on Saturday, both high schoolers moaned and groaned as they performed their tasks.  With Mother as supervisor, they washed and cleaned the windows.  Finally, they put them up.  Where the storm windows had leaned against the inside of the garage, the screens took their place with enough room for the Oldsmobile.  During warm weather, Dad parked the car on the driveway, often catty-wampus since he drove, drunk as a skunk.  A week later, with my silver and maroon jacket buttoned, I hurried outdoors and picked up the Schwinn.  I was going to ride over to Bobby Kell's house.  His tiger cat had another batch of tame kittens.

"Gordy."  I jerked to the sound.  Crazy Annie looked as if she had just found a hundred-dollar bill and was going to tell me where it was.  "I want to show you something," she said. "but you can't tell anyone else."

"Okay, I promise."  She didn't see me crossing fingers behind my back.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, she opened the right-side garage door and waved me in.  And what did I see?  A zoo.  A zoo in our garage.  A horrible sight.  I couldn't believe my ears, either.  Yowling, howling, squealing feral cats, all going nuts, trying to escape Crazy Annie's prison, made up of a dozen screens.  "They're my pets."

"Your pets?  They're crazy.  And so are you.  They want to get out and return to their rock piles.  Do they really look like pets?"

My stupid sister had to think about the answer.  "Not now, but they'll be fine in a few days."

Those cats were so upset, they peed and crapped all over the floor, showing their true selves, defiling the garage as the savages they are.  The next day I told Crazy Annie, "It smells like our bathroom after Dork gets done, taking a crap.  What're you going to do about that stink?"

"I'll clean it."

"Hah.  Remember how you puked and cried when I asked you to help me clean my hamster cage?"

"No."

"And you didn't even help.  You were puking and crying and I felt sorry for you but I'm not gonna help you with this mess.  Plus you're going to spend every afternoon after school in your bedroom for a year, maybe for the rest of your life."

Crazy Annie clamped hands to ears.  "Remember, Gordy, you promised."

"Somebody will find out soon enough."

It happened the next day.  Dad heard the cats and released them.  He had cat poop all over his shoes.  Of course, since Crazy Annie is his favorite, he ordered Doc III, Dork, and me to clean the garage.

"No way, said Doc III.  Even Dork, Brown Nose Extraordinaire, refused.  Of course, I also declined the privilege.  We were sent to our bedrooms.  No supper.  Big deal.  That stinky garage would've cost us our appetites for life.  Mother cleaned the garage with much fanfare.

Louie Abler still laughs and always asks, "How are Annette and the cats?"  I laugh, too, because those beasts are back in the rock piles where they steadfastly refuse all offers of free milk.