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.

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordy.  Who else?  

Dad came home yesterday and although he sat down in his chair and grabbed the newspaper, I said, "Dad, did you know some hobo scratched a caduceus on the curb out front so other hobos would know this is where their doctor lives?"

Dad's forehead scrunched.   "Hmmmmmmm, let's go out and have a look see."  Which we did.  "Somebody has to have one hell of an imagination to believe that's a caduceus," said Dad, smiling.

"The hobo who sold Mother the jewelry box, said any hobo can take one look at it and know this is where their doctor lives."

"Their doctor, huh?  Still doesn't look like a caduceus to me." 

So, we went indoors.  When he sat down on his chair and grabbed the Daily Tribune, I took a risk.  "Dad, why are you the hobos' doctor?" 

His eyebrows almost met.  He was perplexed, which means puzzled.  "What is this, Son, Twenty Questions?"

"No, but do you know a huge and loud Winnebago Indian named Helushka?"

"Yes.  I made a couple of house calls to see how he was doing after I first treated him."

"Did you make house calls in a boxcar?"

"Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman, are you telling me you were you in Bums' Jungle?"

Whenever I get the full GBH treatment from either parent, I know I'm in trouble.  So, I made the big confession, ending with, "He scared us with his yelling."

"When the cops brought him to my office," explained Dad, "I thought his pain caused the screams, but I learned the harshness never subsides.  So, he's back in town, eh?"

I nodded.  "His scar looks like a lightning bolt," I said.  "Gee, I never thought about it until now but his voice makes sense:  It's the thunder." 


“You’re going to become a poet,” said Dad as he turned on the radio, sat on his chair, and started reading.  He was waiting for Gabriel Heatter to say, "There's good news tonight."  Instead, he pushed two one-dollar bills at me.  "Gordy, would you go to Turbin's and buy a carton of Old Golds?" 

I grabbed the money, ran on the path through the next door empty lot, got the cigarettes, and gave the carton and change to Dad.  It was time for everyone to be quiet so he could hear Mr. Heatter.  When Ol' Gabe was finished, it was supper time.  After Dad finished eating, he said, "Gordy, you want to come with me?" 

I nodded. 

"Can I go, too?" begged Crazy Annie.

"Not this time, sweetheart," Dad said to his favorite child, my goofy sister.  "Gordy and I are going to visit a patient who might scare you."

"Then I don't want to go.  Take Gordy."

"Who are you going to see, Jim?" Mother asked Dad.

"A patient, and it won't be in a box car."  Dad winked at me. 

"What?" questioned Mother.

“I’ll explain later.”

Dork and Doc III, both big deal high school students, didn't want to come along.  When I got in the Olds, Dad handed me the Old Golds.  He drove past Irving school and parked next to the large open field that led to the patch of woods everyone calls Bums' Jungle.  The Winnebago tuba saw Dad and me right away.  "Doc.  How are you doing, Doc?" he bellowed.

The hobos' camp reminded me of Robin Hood and his merry men.  Three men I hadn't seen before, plus Abner, greeted Dad, who opened the Old Gold carton and handed each man two packs of cigarettes.  They thanked Dad.  Endlessly.  Dad threw the empty carton into a fire.  The three men I hadn't seen before were attending to tin cans made into pots and pans, stirring, I figured, their supper. 

"Say you guys," roared Helushka, “the Doc fixed this."  He displayed his lightning bolt.

"Jeez, Doc," Abner told Dad after he lit an Old Gold, "you didn't hafta give us these smokes, but thanks anyway."  The other men treated Dad as if he was God, or something.  I listened to them and Dad talk and joke and laugh.  Finally, Dad said, "Son, I think we'd better get going." 

That's when Chief Tuba Voice bear-hugged Dad.  The other men chuckled and stood, removed their hats, held them at their chests, and offered their farewells, thanking Dad once again for the cigarettes.  Once we were in the car, I asked, "Why are you their doctor?" 

"Because I took the Hippocratic Oath."

"You're not a hypocrite, Dad." 

Dad laughed.  Now, I know why he laughed because this afternoon after school, I rode to the library.  The elegant librarian helped me find the oath in an encyclopedia.  And you know what?  I felt different.  It took me a while to figure it out as I pedaled home.  I was proud of the man who says he's my father instead of being angry at him or frightened of him.  I am proud he treats hobos for free, even pays for their medicine and bandages and stuff, plus cigarettes, too.  And I figured that's one reason we don't live in an expensive house while all the other doctors and their families live in fancy places.  Plus he charges farmers fifty cents for house calls because they’re poor.  He charges folks in town a dollar.  Mother says it's because Dad spends too much money on his drinking.  If only she'd stop smelling his breath when he comes home and yelling at him, maybe he'd be as nice to her as he is to the hobos.   

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordy.  

I thought I was going to get killed.  Especially after the huge Indian offered us his unwelcome roar in Bums' Jungle, east of Preway stove factory and west of Robinson Park, here in Wisconsin Rapids.  "Wuh-wuh-wuh-we came to talk to Julius," I tried.

The Indian's eyes bulged out as large as tennis balls.  "Julius, you say?  He rode the rails yesterday to the Bay."

"Did you say Bay?" asked Paul Peterson.

The giant jerked to eyeball the taller of the two Petersons.  "You got shit in them ears?"

"No," said Paul.  "Uh, I—I didn't mean—" Paul backed away and stood behind his younger but larger brother, Glen.  Paul finished, "—no disrespect."

"Nobody got balls big enough to disrespect me, Kid, or I'd kick their asses all the way to Chicago.  How'd you guys know about Julius?"

Paul looked at Glen and then pointed at me.  "He told us."

The giant jerked to face me, once again.  "So, you know Julius, eh?"  Too scared to answer, all I could do was nod.  "Did your mother feed him a helluva meal and buy a jewelry box?"  I continued with head nods.  "Be you the Doc's kid?"  Not able to answer, I instead prayed this howling, roaring, madman wasn't a bum.  "Does your old man wear glasses and have a mustache?"  How did he know about Dad? 

"Huh-huh-how'd you know?"

The giant lifted a pants leg, exposing a foot-long, vertical jagged scar that looked like a lightning bolt.  "Gashed this jumping off a freight.  Bled like hell.  Cops took me to this berg's Doc, your father, who made it all good again.  And get this.  He told me to charge salve and bandages to his account in the drugstore below his office.  He's a good man.  That he is.  Treated me like I was a lawyer or banker instead of—"  He jerked and faced the direction from where we saw him appear.  "Abner."  The giant waited.  Nothing.  "Hey, Abner.  Coast is clear." 

Poof.  Just like that, an older, thin white man appeared before us as if he was a skinny relative to the Genie who came out of Aladdin's lamp.  Gray and black stubble on cheeks and chin, he was dressed in dark work pants and shirt.  He was so thin I could see cheek and arm bones.  Beneath his neck, horizontal bones stuck out.  He cautiously scanned the ground ahead of him each time he placed one foot in front of the other. 

The Indian grabbed my shoulder.  "Abner, ya know who this is?"

"How could I?" Abner softly asked.

"He's the local Doc's kid."

"The Doc's kid, eh?" 

"Yeah, his father fixed me up."  The giant lifted the pants leg and displayed the lightning rod.

"That's a helluva scar, Sammy."  

I now knew the giant's name.

"And get this?" roared Sammy, the loud, giant Indian.  "Besides fixing me up, he let me charge bandages and salve and tape in a drugstore, enough to last me even after he removed the stitches."

I thought Abner was going to cry.  But he didn't.  "Your father must be a good man."

Yes, I thought, Dad is a good man.  Sober, he's soft spoken and kind.  His patients love him, and he tends to hobos for free.  Drunk, he's crazy, angry, out of control.  And get this:  Mother's crazier than he is.  Why?  Because Dad drinks.  So, they howl and cuss at each other, loud enough to wake everyone in the neighborhood.  She breaks China.  He knocks out her teeth, one at a time.  The next morning, black and blue, Mother warns especially me not to say anything to neighbors or friends because it would hurt Dad's medical practice.  She doesn't warn Doc III, Dork, Crazy Annie, or little Pete.  Doesn't she realize Dad's drinking is no secret?  That we’re living a lie?  Especially when cops bring him home because he's too drunk to drive.  They carry him into the house.  Dump him on the sofa.  Dad falls off and thumps to the floor with a thud, moaning and groaning and crying.  I’m so angry I want to go to the parlor and kick him.  The cops keep their squad car’s engine running.  Headlights remain on.  Bright red roof light continues to twirl, whirl, swirl.  Byron Nelson, Johnny's dad, comes out of his house in his pajamas.  He and cops jabber and laugh.  "What's so funny?" I ask myself.  "Nothing's funny," I answer back through tears. 

"Hey, Kid," roared the giant. 

"Wha-what?"

"You look as if you were in London, England, or Paris, France, or—who knows where?"

"Is your name really Sammy?"

"Where'd that come from?"  I shrugged.  "It's what my white school chums called me.  It's not my real name, though.  They thought my Winnebago name was too long or hard for them to say."  The giant's eyes glared.  Oh, oh, I thought, I’m going to get my ass kicked all the way to Chicago.  A moment later, he instead grinned and said, "Helushka.  My name’s Heluska."  The man who could only roar brought both arms up and bent them.  His muscles wanted to bust through skin.  "It means," he yelled, "Fighter." 

"He's a fighter, all right," said Abner.  "Sammy ran off four bums yesterday.  They skedaddled so fast they left their vittles, didn't they, Sammy?"

Helushka laughed.  "An' me an' Abner ate every damn bit of 'em.  Why don't you kids sit down so we can talk?" 

Paul looked at me and shook his head.  "Nah," he said, "we have to go, don’t we, Gordy?" 

"Yeah, I said, "but we'll be back."  After Glen nodded his agreement, we made our way out of the woods that was Bums' Jungle.  We ran to our bikes and mounted them as fast as we could.  I figured we must've skedaddled as the four bums did the day before.  But we were on bikes.  So, we skedaddled faster. 

Hi, Diary.  

"My dad says there's no such thing as a Hobos' Jungle," announced Paul Peterson.  As usual his brother, Glen, didn't say much. 
 
"I'm just telling you what the hobo, Julius, told me," I said.  "I didn't make that up."
 
Paul continued as if he hadn't heard a word.  "Dad says Bum Jungles, not Hobo Jungles, have been in towns with railroad tracks ever since tracks were first laid.  Bums stay close to the tracks because they either hop into empty boxcars and wait for the train to take off, or they hop on slow moving boxcars until railroad detectives catch 'em and toss 'em off.  That's what Dad says, and he knows everything."
 
I laughed.
 
"Why are you laughing?" demanded Paul.
 
"I'm not laughing."
 
"You are too."
 
"Am not."
 
"Too."
 
"Okay, I was laughing.  If your dad knows everything, how come he works at Preway?"
 
"Not everybody is born with a silver spoon in his mouth like your old man, Gordy Hoffman."
 
"Hah.  Grampa Hoffman is a Chicago street car conductor.  Does that sound like my dad came from a wealthy family?"
 
That's when Glen finally spoke.  "My, uh, our dad, Paul's and mine, he had to quit high school so he could help his ma and pa with the money he earned.  They didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out.  Did your dad hafta quit high school?"
 
"No."
 
"So, there," both said. 
 
"Okay," I said, "I'm sorry for laughing—pffffffffffft."  You won't believe it, Diary, but my front tire was suddenly flatter than a squished squirrel, run over by a concrete truck.  I got off the bike, turned it upside down, and sat it on the handlebars and saddle.  I was then able to twirl the front wheel.  "I found it.  A nail," I groaned.  "Would you believe it?  I'm going to have to go to Habeck's and get it patched.  I felt the two dimes in my blue jeans pocket.  Lucky I got the money for a cold pa—"
 
"We don't wanna wait at Habeck's until you get the tube patched," shrieked Paul in his usual blaring voice.  
 
Glen nodded.  "Me, neither.  Who wants to watch?  Waiting for you to get that flat fixed would be boring."
 
"So, Glen and me,” said Paul, “we'll go behind Preway to find slugs to use in candy and pop machines."
 
"They never work," I said.  "We tried them before.  Besides, aren't we supposed to be going to the Hobos’ Jungle?"
 
"Bums' Jungle," corrected Paul.  "Glen and me agreed we'd go to Preway after we went to Bums' Jungle, but now we'll go to Preway first, instead." 
 
Nobody said another word for a long, long time.  I figured the Petersons were waiting for me to say something.  So, reluctantly, I said, "Okay."  That's when we went our separate ways, me pushing my bike, Paul and Glen, riding theirs.  Darn it.  When I arrived at Habeck’s, Leonard Habeck was busy, washing windshields, lifting hoods, checking dipsticks, filling tires with air, and pumping into fuel tanks ethyl or regular gas.  "Sure, Doc.  Go inside the bay and get whatever you need, but you better return 'em or I'll cut off your nuts."
 
I laughed.  Dad recently said, "Leonard is morally unrestrained but a good man."  Len's a rounder, all right.  "You don't have to worry about me," I told Len.  So, I found a needle nose pliers to remove the nail plus a crescent and an open-end wrench to loosen both wheel nuts, and, of course, a screwdriver to pry the tire off the rim so I could reach in and pull out the inner tube.  I didn't work fast, and neither did Len, who charged me fifteen cents for the patch job.  Down to a single nickel to my name, I finally made it to the Preway yard behind the factory, close to the Green Bay and Western railroad roundhouse. 
 
"We struck gold," said Paul, wearing a big, wide grin, and showing me a handful of slugs, each nearly the size of a nickel.  Their pockets were bulging
 
"Let's go," I said. 
 
"Don't you wanna get some slugs?" Glen asked.
 
"Nah, they don't work.  We tried 'em, remember?"
 
"These might, though," said Paul. 
 
"Then, you're richer than I am because I only have one nickel.  You have a hundred.  So, let's go."   Finally, Diary, finally we made it to the open field, but it was only two blocks down the right turn past Irving Grade School, not three.  We laid our bikes in some tall weeds and walked to the woods that hid the railroad tracks from sight.  Once inside, we discovered Hobo Jungle was cool and dark, brush and weeds and grass worn away.  Hard, compacted (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power Page) dirt remained.  Smoke rose lazily from a few fire pits.  Lying on the ground around them were pots and pans made from different-sized tin cans.  I figured some hobo must’ve made a single cut down the side of a can and where he ended that cut, he cut sideways until there was about an uncut inch left.  Then, he bent the strip's ends over, which became a handle.  Paul lifted what looked like a fry pan.  "Neat-oh," he said. 
 
"What're you doing here?" roared what sounded like a lion, escaped from a circus.  Shaking like leaves in a tornado, we couldn't move as we beheld a big, tall American Indian, meaner looking than a spitting black cobra, pictured in the latest National Geographic magazine.  And I thought that cobra was the meanest thing I'd ever seen.  Boy, was I wrong.
 

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordy.  

There I was, sitting next to a bum on our front stairs because Mother ordered me to stay with him while she warmed leftovers in the oven so she could get a jewelry box for five dollars instead of ten.  He placed the bottle of Hires root beer I brought to him on the stair below the one on which we sat.  "Now, don't kick it," he warned me.

"I won't," I promised.  "Are you a bum?"

His head snapped.  I was certain his eyes burned with the flames of hell.  "Never," he roared.  "Never would I wish to be called a bum.  If you was a man, it would be a fighting word.  Me, I'm a Bo, that's what, short for hobo.  To earn money, we work at jobs nobody else would do.  Or some of us whittle things, like my tramp art.  That's why folks call us tramps.  We prefer to be called Bo's, but never, ever bums.  They're garbage, beg for food, steal from everyone, including from other bums.  Some do things to children that no man should ever do.  We turn them into the cops.  Cops know the difference between a bum and a Bo.  We don't beg.  We don't steal.  We respect cops and try to be gentlemen all the time.  Now, don't get me wrong.  We won't turn down free eats if they're offered."

"So, why did you stop here to sell your stuff?"

"Because of what's scratched into your curb, a caduceus."

"Ka-dook-us.  What's that?"

"It's a straight pole with two snakes wrapped around it.  They face each other at the top.  Above them is a pair of wings, ready to take flight.  It means a sawbones lives here." 

"How do you spell it?"

"Don't know.  I only went as far as the third grade.  After that, I helped Pa with farm chores.  It means the sawbones who lives here treats Bo's for free."

"My dad does that?"

"If your pa's a sawbones, he takes care of whatever ails Bo's, free of charge, no questions asked, no answers given."

"Here you are," said the voice behind us, which belonged to Mother.  "It's hot."  She carried a large serving plate, filled with food.  She also brought a cloth napkin.  "Gordon, would you open the door?"

"Let me," said the Bo.  He rose and accepted the plate, spoon, fork, and napkin from Mother. 

"I'm going to go look at that ka-dook-us," I told them. 

"Whatever are you talking about, Gordon?" asked Mother.

"This is quite a spread," said the Bo.  "Thank you, Ma'am."  He sat down carefully, put the napkin on his lap and then the plate of food on the napkin.  After he swallowed his first bite, he went, "Ummmm-ummmm, this is delicious, Ma'am."

"I'll go get your money." Mother disappeared into the house. 

"Go ahead and look," he told me.

What I found was an almost picture, scraped into the curb by spike or nail or maybe jackknife blade.  I returned to the stairs.  "You have to have quite an imagination to see what you say is there, Mister."

"You certainly are a smart young man with a lot of questions but no sense of fine art."  He stabbed a chunk of meatloaf and dipped it into gravy, opened his mouth and plunked the meat into it. 

"My teacher said the only dumb question is the one that wasn't asked."

"I'll betcha she wasn't talking about you."  Now, it was my turn to laugh.  "This is delicious.  Your ma is a fine cook.  Well, I'm gonna stop talking for a bit until I'm finished."  True to his word, he ate everything on the plate and downed the entire bottle of root beer.  Finally, at the same time he finished, Mother was at the door. 

"Here's your money." 

He opened the door and accepted the five-dollar bill.  "Thank you, Ma’am."  Putting the plate on a stair, he reached into his gray sack and pulled out the jewelry box.  He handed it to Mother.

"I'm going to keep it on the dresser in our bedroom."

He reached into the bag and pulled out a picture frame.  "You can have this as a bonus."

"Why, thank you, Sir."

"Julius," he said.

"Thank you, Julius," said Mother.  "That's a nice man's name."

"Sure is, Ma'am.  Carried it with me all my life." 

"I'm going to take these things inside now.  Gordon will take the plate and napkin into the kitchen." 

Which I did.  When I returned, Julius was already on the sidewalk, holding onto his gray bag, preparing to leave.  "I wish you could stay and talk some more."

"Can't.  I got to get going and do more selling.  If you got any more questions, hold 'em.  You know where the railroad tracks are by that school over yonder?"  He pointed in the direction of Irving school.

"Yes."

"Well, pass by that school and take a right at the next road.  Don’t go down the hill to the tracks.  Instead, go three city blocks and you'll see a big empty field on the left.  Cross that field toward the tracks.  There'll be a woods down below.  That's what us Bo's call our jungle.  That's where I live when I'm in your town.  You ask anyone there about Julius, they'll know me.  Bo's everywhere know me.  But stay away from bums, you hear?"
​
"How will I know the difference?"

"You'll know.  You're a smart kid." 

After he left, I went to my bedroom and searched for the word in my Thorndike.  No way.  So, I asked our elegant lady librarian if she ever heard of  word, "Ka-dook-us.  It’s symbolized by a pole with two snakes wrapped around it.  They face each other on top and above them is a pair of wings.  It means a doctor?"
 
"Or anything medical,” she added.  “I think you mean Ka-deuce-ee-us," she said.
 
"Could you spell it for me?"
 
"I could, but why don't you sound it out and spell it yourself?"  Her smile was so pleasant and her voice so soft, it almost made me feel good and sleepy.  I got as far as the first letter.  "What's another letter that sounds like a K?" she asked.
 
"A hard c?"
 
"Continue." 
 
"C-a-d-u-c-e-u-s" I spelled out. 
 
The next morning, Paul and Glen Peterson and I headed our bikes to what Paul said was "Bum's Jungle." I told him Julius, who had mispronounced caduceus as ka-dook-us would prefer to call it Hobo's Jungle, instead. 
 

Hi, Diary.  GBH here.  

I figured Mother must've been busy in the kitchen when she yelled, "Gordon, see who's at the front door."   
 
"Yeah, okay," I yelled back.  I was also busy, here in my bedroom, watching angry angelfish, (At least, they always look angry to me) happy, darting guppies, bright-colored neon tetras, a solemn maroon Siamese fighter that hovers mainly in one spot, a feisty pair of orange and black swordtails, and the bottom feeder, old Mr. Grumpy, (he doesn't like anybody) all tropical fish Mrs. Majewski, my piano teacher, had given to me.  
 
When I made it to the parlor, I was surprised to see an old-timer, standing on the top stair outside the screen door.  He needed a shave, his stubble pure white.  On top of his head perched a brown, crumpled felt hat.  If Dad saw it, he would've said, "That hat needs Shorty, the Greek midget, to perform his magic."  Shorty cleans and blocks Dad's Stetson hats and has a lot of Greek newspapers in his little hole-in-a-wall shop.  Shorty's newspapers' letters look funny.  
 
Back to the old-timer.  He wore a faded blue work shirt with open collar, most of it hidden by an equally crumply checkered double-breasted suit coat that hadn't seen a steam iron in ages.  His un-pleated pleated trousers didn't match the suit coat at all.  They were a much different color, and the legs had no creases whatsoever.  Dad says that trousers' creases "should be sharp enough to cut a cheap steak."  The belt holding up the old man's trousers sported a Roy Rogers and Trigger chrome buckle.  Of course, he didn't wear a tie.  At first, I figured he was one of Dad's farmer-patients, but he held on to a large, gray cloth sack with a load of stuff inside.
 
"Yes?" I said after I opened the door.  
 
He removed his hat.  "Hello, young man.  Would either the master or the mistress of the house be interested in buying tramp art?"  
 
"What did you say?"
 
"Tramp art, items like fine jewelry boxes or picture frames or what-nots.  I have them for sale."  
 
I turned to face the kitchen and yelled.  "Mother, a man wants to talk to you." 
 
"I don't need a vacuum cleaner.  Tell him ours works just fine," she yelled back.
 
"He's not selling vacuum cleaners.  He wants to talk to you."
 
She took off her glasses, blew on the lenses, put the glasses back on, and slowly examined the man from her spot in the kitchen.  "That isn't our Fuller Brush salesman, is it?"
 
"Uh-uh."
 
"Can't you tell him I'm busy?".
 
I turned back to the man.  "My mother's busy and my dad isn't home.  He's at the office."
 
The man smiled, adding wrinkles to cheeks and the sides of both eyes.  "What's your name, young man?"
 
"Gordon.  I mean Gordy."
 
He smiled.  "That's a nice name.  Gordy, do you think you can talk to your mother and ask her if she's interested in buying—"  He reached into his bag and pulled out something really neat looking.  -–"this fine jewelry box I, myself, whittled?"  
 
"That's keen."  I left him and made my way to the kitchen.  "Mother, he's selling tramp art."
 
"A what?" she asked as if she were deaf.
 
"Not so loud," I whispered.  "He'll hear you.  He's a tramp and wants to sell you a jewelry box he made.  It's neat looking."
 
"Tramp art," said Mother, wiping her hands.  "I'll go see."
 
I followed her.  Mother opened the door.  "Ohhh, that is beautiful.  My number three son said you made it.  Is that correct?"  
 
"Yes, Ma'am, he is correct.  I cannot deny it.  I made it and other fine items I have with me in my bag."  He handed the box to mother and added, "Whittled it myself with my jackknife."
 
Mother smiled.  "It really is beautiful.  You're a talented artist."  
 
"Why, thank you, Ma'am.  You not only can put jewelry in it, you could store keepsakes, as well.  And, uh, mementos."
 
"Hmmmmm, how much are you asking?"
 
"Ten dollars, Ma'am.  And it's cheap, at that, with all the work I put into it."
 
"That's awfully pricey."  Mother handed the box to me.  I agreed that it was neat looking.  "It is pretty, though, isn't it?" 
 
"Yeah," I said.  
 
She turned to the tramp.  "Would you take three and a half for it?  I can afford that, but I can't afford a whole ten dollars."
 
The tramp shook his head.  "I don't think so, Ma'am.  I need the money to buy vittles.  I haven't eaten in a day or so ago."
 
"Tell you what," said Mother.  "I've got leftovers from last night's supper, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, and green beans.  Do you think a warmed-up meal like that could satisfy you?"
 
"I believe so, Ma'am.  That certainly sounds good to me."
 
"You sure you won't sell that box for three and a half dollars?"
 
"Tell you what, Ma'am, if you warm up those leftovers and if it's a satisfying meal as I think it should be, I'll sell you this fine jewelry box I whittled myself for five dollars.  How does that sound to you?"
 
"It' still high, buh—"
 
"It's worth ten, at least, a manmade, fine jewelry box like this.  Tramp art it is."
 
"Yes, you're right.  It is a fine piece.  Five dollars, you say?"
 
"Yes, Ma'am, plus a warmed-up meal of last night's leftovers."
 
"Then, it's a deal."  Mother looked to me.  "Follow me, Gordon."  Which I did.  Into the kitchen.  Mother opened the Frigidaire door, took out a bottle of Hires root beer, and popped off the cap with a church key.  "Take this to him and talk to him while I warm up his meal in the oven, will you?"
 
"Aw, Mom.  I don't—"
 
"Do it, Gordon, or else he'll change his mind and go somewhere else."
 
"Aw, geez."  I tramped out to the front porch, opened the front door again, stepped out, and gave the old man the bottle of pop.  
 
He sat on a stair and I sat next to him.  "Thank you, Gordy, for the pop, but I'll hold off and drink it with the meal.  That way, I'll be able to eat more."
 
I was going to ask him how he knew my name but I remembered I had told him.  Duh, sometimes, Gordy, you're as dumb as a rock. "You're welcome," I returned.  "Do you carve lots of things?"
 
"I do."  He reached into his cloth bag and pulled out a picture frame he must've whittled because it had the same layers of shiny wooden diamonds, triangles, and rectangles as the jewelry box.   
 
After that, we had a long talk because it took a while for the oven to heat his meal of leftovers properly.  But that's all I'm going to write this time, Diary.  I'm tired.  I'm going to go to sleep.  So, this is GBH, signing off for now.  

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordy.  

It's past my bedtime.  I was sleeping, but their arguing and fighting woke me up.  Dad's so drunk, he's yelling in a language nobody understands.  I don't think he understands it, either.  
 
My good friend, Johnny Nelson, who lives across the street, says Brian and Rose, his dad and mom, start talking at night after they hear my parents "raising hell."  That's what Brian says.  It's embarrassing enough when that old drunk, Ed Turbin, the owner of Turbin's grocery store, complains to me about the loud noise coming from our house at night.  
 
That's enough about the people who claim they're my parents.  So, I'm going to tell you something funny that happened in Sherwood Forest a couple of months ago.  By the way, I don't mean the forest in England.  I mean the one right here in Wisconsin Rapids.  In the Old Grove.  
 
After most kids in the neighborhood saw the movie, we started to make believe we were Robin Hood and his merry men instead of Sergeant Stryker and his Marines on the sands of Iwo Jima.  So, instead of carrying BAR's, M1 rifles, and flame throwers, we now carried swords, bow and arrows, and clubs, and since no one else wanted to be Friar Tuck, I said I'd be him.  
 
"Why" asked Bobby Kell.  He always asks why when I say something.  
 
"Because he's funny and uses his big belly to knock over the Sheriff of Nottingham's men."
 
"But you don't have a big belly."
 
"Of course, I don't.  Make believe I have a big stomach just as I make believe that piece of wood you're carrying is a sword."  That must've satisfied him because Bobby didn't say anything else about my being Friar Tuck.  
 
As Robin Hood's merry men, we climbed trees and sat on branches while holding on ever so tightly.  Once we're settled in, we start to whistle or make crow sounds.  "Caw, caw, caw."  
 
I prefer to climb the huge white birch tree that has all kinds of initials cut into its bark.  High school boys, mainly, cut their initials into the bark with jackknives.  Under their initials, they form a plus sign with the blade, and under the plus sign they form their girlfriends' initials.  Over time, those letters and plus signs turn black and stand out on the white bark, there to be viewed forever more.  By the way, Diary, that plus sign means they love each other.  Yuck.  
 
Anyway, there we were in our trees, making noises as we looked out for the Sheriff of Nottingham's goons, his archers and swordsmen.  No one among us chose to be a goon just like nobody wanted to be a Nazi or a Nip whenever we played War.    
 
Our former Sergeant Stryker, Jimmy Kell, insisted on being Little John.  
 
"I don't think that's fair," said Glen Peterson, Paul's younger but bigger brother.  "Why do you always have to be the big wheel?  Don't none of us ever get a chance?"
 
"No," said Jimmy, "because I'm the biggest."
 
"Not by much," countered Glen who's pretty big, himself.
 
"Well, you wanna fight to see who gets to be Robin Hood?" 
 
Glen kind of laughed.  "Me?  I'm not gonna fight you."  
 
"As I've told you," I whispered to Glen, "you've got common sense."  
 
"Then, everybody listen up," yelled Jimmy, "I'm Little John."
 
"Well, then, I'm Robin Hood."  
 
Startled, we looked around.  Somebody asked, "Who said that?"
 
"I did."  We now stared at Bobby Kell, who had volunteered to be our leader.
 
"Okay," said his older brother.  "Then, you and me are gonna fight each other over a creek."  He pronounced it Crick.  
 
"There's no creek here," said Bobby."  He pronounced creek the way it's spelled.
 
"There's that marsh down there."  Jimmy pointed below, slightly beyond the hill's bottom.  Sure enough, the not so large marsh had cattails and standing water where we catch little black pollywogs each spring and bring them home in glass jars.  Eventually, and unfortunately for them, they all kick the bucket.  
 
"That's no creek," said Bobby.  "And I don't see no bridge, either.”
 
"That marsh has got water in it, doesn't it?" queried Jimmy.  
 
"Yeah," said his brother.
 
"All of us can drag a couple of downed tree trunks," said Jimmy, "and place them end to end so they reach both sides of the marsh.  Then, you and me can duel with sticks."
 
"Yaaay," the rest of us called out.  This could be fun, watching the Kell brothers fight their way over the water on those downed trees, Bobby, our Robin Hood, ending up a wet hen.  
 
Sooner than you could say Robinson Crusoe, we had a bridge of sorts "built" across that marsh.  I got a little wet, helping make it.  So, too, did Roger Aton.  We didn't care much.  Giggling, we knew Little John was going to knock Robin Hood into the water because that's the way it happened in the movie—and the book.
 
So, after the brothers found some good-sized sticks, Bobby and Jimmy faced each other on opposite ends of the narrow marsh while straddling the logs.  Slowly tipping this way and that as if they were high wire walkers, they made their way toward each other in the middle of the marsh over the downed tree trunks.  Unbelievably, Bobby struck first.  No one was more surprised than Little John.  He teetered far left, then far right, then farther left, his stick finally flying in the air.  "Pa-splosh."  
 
Our Little John sat in that marsh, his eyes larger than hubcaps, arms behind him, hands on the marsh's yucky, muddy bottom.  He lifted one and looked at it, blacker than the ace of spades, his face redder than a fire engine.  "Goddammit," he yelled as he tried to get up.  First, he had to turn on his side and kneel in the stinky, muddy water, his blue jeans soaked, looking more like black jeans.  As Jimmy finally stood, he yelled, "That's not fair," at his brother.  "I was supposed to knock you in the water."
 
"Nobody told me that," said Bobby, yuck-yucking only the way Bobby could yuck-yuck, which was followed by the rest of us, noisily laughing as we applauded our Robin Hood's cleverness.  
 
Jimmy, I mean, Little John, was the angriest I've ever seen him.  "To hell with you guys," he roared, glaring at his younger brother and splashing through the marsh.  Not surprisingly, not long after he was on dry land, he left us for, most likely, home to change into dry clothes.  His shoes squeaked with each step, sounding like rusty Radio Flyer wagon wheels, needing to be oiled.  
 
Then, I'll be Little John," said Glen Peterson after Jimmy was out of sight.  He added, "But I ain't gonna fight Robin Hood.  No way."  That's when we ran back to our trees, climbed them, and made crow noises.  
 
After Jimmy Kell's disappointing and undignified incident, he never returned to the Old Grove to play make-believe.  "I'm too busy," he said, "helping Delbert Gumm, the driver of the Vradenburg Dairy milk truck."  
 
By the way, Diary, you won't believe this.  Vradenburg Dairy of Vesper, Wisconsin, is pronounced "Rainberg."  Can you beat that?

Hi, Diary.  It's Gordy again.  

This school year, our city fathers—Dad calls them Big Wheels—set up a Saturday afternoon matinee program between members of the school board and theater owners so grade school kids like yours truly could watch "classic" movies.  
 
The blue tickets, much larger than normal-sized tickets, aren't torn in two by the usher as he usually rips up normal-sized theater tickets and returns a half-piece.  All we do is show him these tickets.  He nods.  And then we put them away.  I put mine inside my wallet with a pair of six guns and a saddle on the outside.  The tickets cost a dollar and a half each, or as Lee Anunson says, "A buck fifty a pop."  
 
The tickets are good for each Saturday during the entire nine-month long school year.  Most parents paid that price.  Some parents couldn't.  We didn't know who they were, but the poor kids got free tickets that looked exactly like ours, thanks to an "anonymous benefactor," according to a front-page story in the Wisconsin Rapids Daily Tribune.  Nobody knows who that benefactor was, but Tim Lattimore and Karen Clinkenbeard guessed it was Stanton Mead, the richest man in town.  He owns the huge Consolidated paper mill, which makes the shiny paper for Life magazine.  
 
"No way," said Mother, after I told her what Karen and Tim said.  
 
"Why not?" I asked.  "Mister Mead has plenty of money.  He's a multi-millionaire."
 
"And how, young man, do you think he got to be that wealthy?" 
 
I shrugged.  "Having Mister Kell and hundreds of other men in town making paper for him to sell, of course."
 
"Partially correct.  I'll tell you how he really made his money.  The man's cheap.  A skinflint.  That's what.  Old man Mead holds his nickels so tight, the buffaloes squeal."
 
Naturally, I pictured in my mind a bunch of buffaloes squealing.  I couldn't help but laugh. 
 
Back to those Saturday movies.  What a deal, eh?  "The Adventures of Robin Hood," starring Errol ("In like Flynn") Flynn.  (That's what Dad calls him).  It was the first movie we got to see.  My friends and I really liked it.  Lots.  Robin of Locksley was not only a great archer, he was a fantastic swordsman.  Added to that, he stole from the rich and gave to the poor.  That wouldn't go too well with Stanton Mead, would it?  So, maybe Mother's right.  He wasn't the benefactor. 
 
Other characters in the movie included Friar Tuck with his gravelly voice and big belly.  Boy, was he ever funny.  Little John wasn't so little.  He was a lot bigger than Robin but he lost a stick battle with Robin over a creek and fell in.  Robin liked Maid Marion a lot, and she liked him back.  Yuck.  The Sheriff of Nottingham was a real nasty guy and we cheered like mad when he finally lost a sword fight with Robin although it was touch and go for a long time.  Paul Peterson screamed, "Kill 'im, the bastard."  
 
Oops. That brought the usher who shined his flashlight on Paul, placing an index finger perpendicular to his lips.  "Sorry," said Paul.
 
"Do that again, and you're out," warned the usher, a tall high school kid.  
 
Early Monday morning following that movie, our teacher, Miss Wren, asked us how we liked the movie.  I think my hand was the first to shoot up.  "Yes, Gordon?"
 
"The movie.  It was great."
 
"Thank you, Gordon, but I must tell all of you, the book on which the movie is based is far more interesting and exciting than the movie, and I'm going to give each student a chance to earn extra credit."
 
Judy Palmer's hand shot up.  "Yes, Judy?" Miss Wren called on the smartest, sweetest girl in our class.  
 
"Miss Wren, how can we earn extra credit?"
 
Oh, no, I thought, who wants extra credit?
 
"By reading the book the movie is based on and handing in a written book report."
 
That very afternoon after school, the librarian at the public library added my name to a long list.  Paul Peterson, Billy Schroeder, and Roger Aton were ahead of me but Tim Lattimore and Lee Anunson were behind me.  "This is certainly a popular book," said the librarian.   
 
"That's because our teacher is giving us extra credit for reading it."  
 
The librarian who wore her hair in a tight bun smiled.  If you ask me, I'd tell you she is the most elegant lady in Wisconsin Rapids.  But you didn't ask.  Because you can't.  You're a diary.  
 
Weeks later, I had almost forgotten about the book and the list, but Mother told me after I returned home from school, "Gordy, the city librarian telephoned this afternoon.  She said you must pick up the Robin Hood book before closing time, or you'll be put to the bottom of the list, and the next person after your name will be able to check it out." 
 
I couldn't let Lee or Tim get that book before me.  "Then, I better get going."  So, I turned around, flew down the front stairs, and picked up the Schwinn from which I recently removed both fenders.  I figured it would be lighter and faster.  As usual, I had dropped it on the front lawn.  I rode to the library as quickly as I could and was out of breath when I approached the librarian's station.  "And what can I do for you, young man?" the librarian half-whispered.
 
I kind of felt she knew what I wanted but I whispered back.  "I'm Gordy Hoffman, and my mom told me I should come here for the Robin Hood book, or else my name will be put on the bottom of the list."

"Gordy Hoffman, hmmmm?  No.  No name like that here, but I do have a Gordon Hoffman." 
 
See what I mean?  Elegant.  
 
"That's me."
 
"That is I," she corrected.  
 
"Yeah, that's right."
 
"And here is the book, Gordon."  She lifted it up but didn't give it to me.  
 
I read the title aloud.  "The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood of Great Renown in Nottingham."
 
"You said it perfectly."
 
"That's an awfully long title.  Isn't it?"
 
Smiling, she removed the due date card from the paper pocket on the inside rear cover and stamped it with the date stamp, that is, after she pounded the stamp on an ink pad.  "Instead of the normal two-week period, you will be allowed to keep this book for only one week, Gordon."  She pointed to the date.  "See?" 
 
"That's because of Miss Wren."
 
"Your teacher, I assume."
 
"Yes."  I accepted the book and carried the treasure home and finished it in two nights.  I would've finished it in one night, but the batteries in my boy scout flashlight burned out.  Later, I mean, who could go to sleep and resist flying arrows and lurking danger around every Nottingham forest tree?  I couldn't.  So, I got up from my bed and tiptoed into the bathroom, turned on the light, closed the door, sat on the throne, and read until I became too tired.  I'm sure I fell asleep a couple of times while I sat on the throne.  
 
Although I liked the movie better, when I handed in my book report, I told my teacher, "You were right.  The book was much more interesting than the movie."  I hoped my lie might give me as much extra credit as Judy Palmer would certainly receive.  
 
Miss Wren smiled as she sucked on a piece of hard candy.  She's always sucking on a chunk of hard candy which makes one cheek or the other pop out.  "That is exactly what I expected, Gordon."  Ugh.  Miss Wren has the most terrible breath in the world, and that's why my classmates and I don't like it when she gets too close to us whenever she talks.  Well, anyway, Errol Flynn's Robin Hood was quite the swashbuckler and daredevil.  Most any boy would naturally like to be like him, Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman included.
 
That's why the Old Grove's hillside, with its many trees to either climb or hide behind and underbrush, in which to conceal ourselves became not only the place to play War on Iwo Jima's beach or France or Germany's towns and cities and fields, it magically became Nottingham's Sherwood Forest on those many days during the summer following our watching the movie and reading the book about Robin Hood and his merry men.