Hi, Diary. Jimmy, Bobby, and Hen House Helen Kell along with Dork, Crazy Annie, and yours truly went to Peters and Martin Grocery store the other afternoon. Mainly because we had money to spend. And we were hungry for candy.
With our sweaty pennies and nickels, we could buy all kinds. Most of all, we looked forward to be waited on by Bob. His real name is Mr. Bob Martin, half owner of Peters and Martin's grocery store.
Jimmy led the way across busy Baker Street because he's the biggest. Drivers slowed down or stopped their cars when Jimmy pushed out his hand like a traffic cop. Maybe someday, he'll be a cop. Who knows?
After Jimmy opened the store's front door and the bell attached above the door's top went "Ding-a-ling," Mr. Peters took one look at us, frowned, and turned to the smiling man behind the meat counter. "Bob, could you handle those kids?"
"Okey-dokey," said Bob. Before he took his place behind the glass candy counter, he washed his hands in a sink and wiped them on the white butcher's apron he wore.
Kids knew we could call Bob, "Bob." No doubt about it. We didn't even know Mr. Peters' first name. And we didn't want to know it, either. It should've been Mr. Peters who waited on us because he's responsible for the store's groceries while, as I told you, Bob is responsible for the meat. Mr. Peters doesn't like to wait on kids.
Whenever he does, because Bob is too busy with meat-buying customers, old man Peters keeps on yelling, "Hurry up, hurry up, you kids. Make a decision, will you?" He never says that to the older people who take their time making up their minds. It's simple. He hates kids.
Bob, on the other hand, likes kids. He likes older people, too. He even likes Roman "Romey" Nelson who lives in a house behind the store. Romey's an older guy, maybe as old as thirty, who was born with Cerebral Palsy. Dad said that means something bad happened to his brain while Romey was in his mother's stomach.
Romey can't walk like you and me. When he does try, it's a chore. He doesn't have much control. His arms flap like wings of a Canada goose, broken by a shotgun blast during the last hunting season. His legs don't seem to do what they should do, either. They flip and flop. They eventually take him to where I think he was heading. He stops a lot while his arms flip and flap, helping him from not falling flat on his face. Or his butt.
And it's hard to understand what Romey's saying. He stutters like yours truly. But the words that escape between his lips don't sound like words. To me, that is. Sometimes they do. Most of the time, they don't. Whenever I help Romey with baling paper and cardboard pieces in his baler, he gets madder than a wet hen because I always say, "What?" or "Huh?"
The next words that come out of his mouth I do understand: "God damn it."
Romey sells the baled paper and cardboard to our paper mill in town. The mill re-uses the stuff to make new paper and cardboard. That's how Romey earns his money. He even bought a big tricycle with the profits. He can ride that trike pretty well.
Whenever there aren't any customers in the store, Bob slips out the back and helps Romey by tearing cardboard boxes and such into smaller pieces that will then fit in the baler. Bob's arms are like Popeye's. He can rip apart meat boxes just like that. One, two, three, done.
Bob lives in Biron. If you follow the Wisconsin River Road, you'll eventually end up in Biron. It's a smaller town than ours. And its paper mill is smaller than ours, too. We don't know where Mr. Peters lives. And we don't care.
Well, anyway, when Bob waits on us, he chats with us all the time, asking us things as to how we're doing. "How ya' doin' Carrot Top?" Here we go again. I think he says that because he knows what I'm going to tell him.
"I don't have green hair."
"What do ya mean?"
"A carrot's top is green."
"Ya know, ya might be right," he says and then chuckles. He really enjoys us. You can feel that he likes all kids. Even Dork. Which means Bob isn't perfect, after all. Just close to it.
"So, what do ya kids want today? Candy, eh?"
"Yes," we said together. We investigated the candy behind the glass. There were plenty of different pieces, the size of aspirins, attached in rows of five to what looked like adding machine paper. The kind that Dad's adding machine uses.
Dork pointed to the Red Hots and candy hearts. "I'll have three cents worth of Red Hots and two cents worth of candy hearts."
"Gotcha," said Bob as he filled Dork's order. Dork handed Bob a nickel. Bob handed Dork a small paper bag with the candy.
Jimmy asked, "How many Doo Dads do you get for three cents?"
"Quite a bit," Bob says.
"Then, give me a three cents' worth."
"Gotcha."
Jimmy gave Bob three pennies and Bob gave Jimmy a small bag, bulging with Doo Dads.
Meanwhile, I couldn't make up my mind. Which is normal. I looked at the wax lips that would fit over my lips. They're redder than pirates' blood in a Hollywood Technicolor movie at a Saturday matinee. I also liked the wax harmonicas, filled with a colorful, sugary liquid. It tasted good and then you could chew on the wax until all the flavor was gone. That's when I spit out a gob of wax. When nobody's looking.
There were wax handlebar mustaches that were blacker than Krohn and Berard's funeral car that headed down Baker Street really, really slow on its way to Calvary Cemetery with a dead body inside a casket in the back. Cars with their headlights on followed. Just as slow.
My eyes settled for a moment on two-cent Babe Ruth and Power House candy bars, boxes of Cracker Jacks with a Tootsie Toy prize inside, Giant Jaw Breakers, and Juju's. Root beer barrels were three for a penny, each wrapped in see-through cellophane. Cellophane bags of Planters Peanuts were two cents. Balloons cost a penny.
Alongside the candy counter was a barrel, filled with kites that were ready to be put together by some kid. Mainly me. Common, everyday kites were a nickel apiece. Box kites which I stared at each time I walked in that store were a quarter apiece. No kid I knew ever had a quarter. Except if her or his parents gave her or him one. A quarter's a lot of money. Paul Peterson bought a box kite for a quarter. His dad gave it to him. Paul bragged a lot about that. I always wanted a box kite because it flies higher than a regular kite.
While staring at all the goodies, Bobby and Hen House argued. Meanwhile, I kept asking Bob, "How much is this?" and "How much is that?" Even though I knew how much things cost.
"Whaddya goin' to get?" Jimmy asked his younger brother.
"Dunno," said Bobby. "Haven't made up my mind yet."
"Neither have I," I said.
"Who was asking you?" Jimmy asked me
I shrugged. "Nobody."
"Nor have I made up my mind," said Hen House, our group's grammarian. "How much are the Tootsie Rolls?" she asked Bob.
"For you? A special price. Five for a penny."
Helen bought a penny's worth and Bob handed her a bag. He then looked at my sister. "I got something special for ya," he said. "Real special."
Crazy Annie's eyes lit up like a neon sign on Halloween at midnight. "You do?"
"I sure do," said Bob.
Bob walked to the chrome ice cream freezer that had eight circular covers with black handles in the center. He lifted one cover above the freezer. A cloud rose from the hole. A manmade cloud. An indoor fog.
We "Ooooooohed" and "Ahhhhhed" along with Crazy Annie as Bob pulled out the surprise, a nickel drumstick with chocolate-covered bits of nuts on top.
"How much?" asked Crazy Annie.
"Free of charge," said Bob, wearing that nice smile of his.
"Wowwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeee," the rest of us exclaimed. Crazy Annie was one lucky gal.
There'd be no more free stuff, though, because Bob gave one free candy piece every once in a while. Not every time. But only one. And it would be given to a different kid. Each time.
"Well, Carrot Top, have ya made up your mind yet?"
"Not yet, Bob."
"Well, take your time, then."
Bob Martin was like that. His respect for children made him a very special person in our neighborhood. All kids loved Bob.
And we hated Mr. Peters.
With our sweaty pennies and nickels, we could buy all kinds. Most of all, we looked forward to be waited on by Bob. His real name is Mr. Bob Martin, half owner of Peters and Martin's grocery store.
Jimmy led the way across busy Baker Street because he's the biggest. Drivers slowed down or stopped their cars when Jimmy pushed out his hand like a traffic cop. Maybe someday, he'll be a cop. Who knows?
After Jimmy opened the store's front door and the bell attached above the door's top went "Ding-a-ling," Mr. Peters took one look at us, frowned, and turned to the smiling man behind the meat counter. "Bob, could you handle those kids?"
"Okey-dokey," said Bob. Before he took his place behind the glass candy counter, he washed his hands in a sink and wiped them on the white butcher's apron he wore.
Kids knew we could call Bob, "Bob." No doubt about it. We didn't even know Mr. Peters' first name. And we didn't want to know it, either. It should've been Mr. Peters who waited on us because he's responsible for the store's groceries while, as I told you, Bob is responsible for the meat. Mr. Peters doesn't like to wait on kids.
Whenever he does, because Bob is too busy with meat-buying customers, old man Peters keeps on yelling, "Hurry up, hurry up, you kids. Make a decision, will you?" He never says that to the older people who take their time making up their minds. It's simple. He hates kids.
Bob, on the other hand, likes kids. He likes older people, too. He even likes Roman "Romey" Nelson who lives in a house behind the store. Romey's an older guy, maybe as old as thirty, who was born with Cerebral Palsy. Dad said that means something bad happened to his brain while Romey was in his mother's stomach.
Romey can't walk like you and me. When he does try, it's a chore. He doesn't have much control. His arms flap like wings of a Canada goose, broken by a shotgun blast during the last hunting season. His legs don't seem to do what they should do, either. They flip and flop. They eventually take him to where I think he was heading. He stops a lot while his arms flip and flap, helping him from not falling flat on his face. Or his butt.
And it's hard to understand what Romey's saying. He stutters like yours truly. But the words that escape between his lips don't sound like words. To me, that is. Sometimes they do. Most of the time, they don't. Whenever I help Romey with baling paper and cardboard pieces in his baler, he gets madder than a wet hen because I always say, "What?" or "Huh?"
The next words that come out of his mouth I do understand: "God damn it."
Romey sells the baled paper and cardboard to our paper mill in town. The mill re-uses the stuff to make new paper and cardboard. That's how Romey earns his money. He even bought a big tricycle with the profits. He can ride that trike pretty well.
Whenever there aren't any customers in the store, Bob slips out the back and helps Romey by tearing cardboard boxes and such into smaller pieces that will then fit in the baler. Bob's arms are like Popeye's. He can rip apart meat boxes just like that. One, two, three, done.
Bob lives in Biron. If you follow the Wisconsin River Road, you'll eventually end up in Biron. It's a smaller town than ours. And its paper mill is smaller than ours, too. We don't know where Mr. Peters lives. And we don't care.
Well, anyway, when Bob waits on us, he chats with us all the time, asking us things as to how we're doing. "How ya' doin' Carrot Top?" Here we go again. I think he says that because he knows what I'm going to tell him.
"I don't have green hair."
"What do ya mean?"
"A carrot's top is green."
"Ya know, ya might be right," he says and then chuckles. He really enjoys us. You can feel that he likes all kids. Even Dork. Which means Bob isn't perfect, after all. Just close to it.
"So, what do ya kids want today? Candy, eh?"
"Yes," we said together. We investigated the candy behind the glass. There were plenty of different pieces, the size of aspirins, attached in rows of five to what looked like adding machine paper. The kind that Dad's adding machine uses.
Dork pointed to the Red Hots and candy hearts. "I'll have three cents worth of Red Hots and two cents worth of candy hearts."
"Gotcha," said Bob as he filled Dork's order. Dork handed Bob a nickel. Bob handed Dork a small paper bag with the candy.
Jimmy asked, "How many Doo Dads do you get for three cents?"
"Quite a bit," Bob says.
"Then, give me a three cents' worth."
"Gotcha."
Jimmy gave Bob three pennies and Bob gave Jimmy a small bag, bulging with Doo Dads.
Meanwhile, I couldn't make up my mind. Which is normal. I looked at the wax lips that would fit over my lips. They're redder than pirates' blood in a Hollywood Technicolor movie at a Saturday matinee. I also liked the wax harmonicas, filled with a colorful, sugary liquid. It tasted good and then you could chew on the wax until all the flavor was gone. That's when I spit out a gob of wax. When nobody's looking.
There were wax handlebar mustaches that were blacker than Krohn and Berard's funeral car that headed down Baker Street really, really slow on its way to Calvary Cemetery with a dead body inside a casket in the back. Cars with their headlights on followed. Just as slow.
My eyes settled for a moment on two-cent Babe Ruth and Power House candy bars, boxes of Cracker Jacks with a Tootsie Toy prize inside, Giant Jaw Breakers, and Juju's. Root beer barrels were three for a penny, each wrapped in see-through cellophane. Cellophane bags of Planters Peanuts were two cents. Balloons cost a penny.
Alongside the candy counter was a barrel, filled with kites that were ready to be put together by some kid. Mainly me. Common, everyday kites were a nickel apiece. Box kites which I stared at each time I walked in that store were a quarter apiece. No kid I knew ever had a quarter. Except if her or his parents gave her or him one. A quarter's a lot of money. Paul Peterson bought a box kite for a quarter. His dad gave it to him. Paul bragged a lot about that. I always wanted a box kite because it flies higher than a regular kite.
While staring at all the goodies, Bobby and Hen House argued. Meanwhile, I kept asking Bob, "How much is this?" and "How much is that?" Even though I knew how much things cost.
"Whaddya goin' to get?" Jimmy asked his younger brother.
"Dunno," said Bobby. "Haven't made up my mind yet."
"Neither have I," I said.
"Who was asking you?" Jimmy asked me
I shrugged. "Nobody."
"Nor have I made up my mind," said Hen House, our group's grammarian. "How much are the Tootsie Rolls?" she asked Bob.
"For you? A special price. Five for a penny."
Helen bought a penny's worth and Bob handed her a bag. He then looked at my sister. "I got something special for ya," he said. "Real special."
Crazy Annie's eyes lit up like a neon sign on Halloween at midnight. "You do?"
"I sure do," said Bob.
Bob walked to the chrome ice cream freezer that had eight circular covers with black handles in the center. He lifted one cover above the freezer. A cloud rose from the hole. A manmade cloud. An indoor fog.
We "Ooooooohed" and "Ahhhhhed" along with Crazy Annie as Bob pulled out the surprise, a nickel drumstick with chocolate-covered bits of nuts on top.
"How much?" asked Crazy Annie.
"Free of charge," said Bob, wearing that nice smile of his.
"Wowwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeee," the rest of us exclaimed. Crazy Annie was one lucky gal.
There'd be no more free stuff, though, because Bob gave one free candy piece every once in a while. Not every time. But only one. And it would be given to a different kid. Each time.
"Well, Carrot Top, have ya made up your mind yet?"
"Not yet, Bob."
"Well, take your time, then."
Bob Martin was like that. His respect for children made him a very special person in our neighborhood. All kids loved Bob.
And we hated Mr. Peters.
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