Awakened by what sounded like hail hitting against my bedroom's storm window, I rose from my bed and snapped open the window shade. There, standing on our driveway and winding up to toss yet another tiny pebble at the window stood my friend, Bobby Kell. "What's up?" I asked through bottom holes drilled into the wood-based window.
"I'll tell you what's up. Bob Martin's dead."
That announcement did not smooth arousal's path.
Bobby continued, "He shot his wife dead and then killt his self."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. Bob Martin killt his wife and then killt himself. Dad says Bob's wife was a bitch. She always wanted expensive things Bob couldn't afford."
The horrible news did not add up but I knew Bobby wouldn't say something that awful about our friend Bob, partner of Peters and Martin's grocery store, if it wasn't true.
In those days of long ago, we kids addressed adults with the title of Mister or Mrs. followed by their surnames. It was different with Bob Martin. To us, he was Bob. And that was that. We weren't crossing some invisible line into forbidden adult territory. Soft spoken and usually smiling, the dark-haired Bob was strong with forearms like Popeye. He was the neighborhood's friendliest adult. He liked everyone, including other adults, and everyone liked him back, which is why I couldn't fathom Bobby's incredible news.
Peters & Martin's grocery store was on the corner of Baker and Eleventh Streets, only a half block away from Bobby's and my homes. Bob was the store's butcher while his partner, Mr. Peters, was the grocer.
Kids didn't care much for Mr. Peters. Because we didn't carry many pennies hidden in our tightly closed hands, we wanted each and every one to count. So, it took time to make important decisions. As if he were a platoon sergeant dealing with a recruit who didn't know his left foot from his right, Mr. Peters shouted as we examined boxes of candy behind slabs of glass. "Hurry up, or else go to Turbin's and waste Ed's time."
Turbin's grocery store was directly across Baker Street from Peters and Martin's. Proprietor Ed Turbin, normally drunk, had less patience than Mr. Peters.
One day, six of us marched into Peters and Martin's. Before he opened the door, Jimmy Kell, Bobby's older brother, announced, "Sure hope Bob's there to wait on us."
"Yeah, double check that," said my older brother, Always Right Billy (even if he wasn't).
Bob was extraordinarily patient as he awaited our decisions before accepting our sweaty pennies. And there he was behind the candy counter, smiling, as if he had been purposely waiting for us all along. "Hey, there. How ya' guys doing, huh?"
"Okeydokey," announced Hen House Helen, Jimmy and Bobby's younger sister.
On one side of the candy counter stood kites in a wood barrel. They cost a dime each while box kites on the counter's other side were a quarter apiece, more money than our group had altogether.
"We're fine," Blobby told Bob as the rest of us focused our sights on colorful red, blue, green, and yellow penny balloons; Doo Dads, black and red twisted licorice sticks looking like the Kells' father's drill bits; chocolate Dots; Hearts with cutesy messages written on them; Jujus; individually wrapped root beer barrels and Tootsie Rolls; wax mustaches blacker than funeral cars; wax buck teeth; and Red Hots, sharp cinnamon bits, reminiscent of pirates' blood in the latest Hollywood Technicolor action movie.
"What're you gonna get?" Scaredy Cat Annette, my younger sister, innocently asked.
"How do I know?" I crustily returned.
Although Bob's smile was wider than a carnival sideshow's fat lady's butt, his eyes told me he wasn't exactly proud of the way I treated my sister. No matter, I turned my attention to Baby Ruth and Power House candy bars; bags of Planter's peanuts; and giant Jaw Breakers. I had but four cents. With an extra penny, I could've chosen a box of Cracker Jacks with a paper-covered Tootsie Toy "hidden" inside.
"Hey," I yelled at Always Right Billy who surged in front. "I was here first, and now I can't see nothing."
"Anything," corrected Hen House Helen, the group's ever ready grammarian.
"I got something special for you," Bob told Scaredy Cat, Bob yet giving me that look.
"What about me?" the rest of us pleaded together. I wasn't as loud as the others.
"Not today," said Bob as he turned to face the ice cream cooler behind him and grabbed a round black knob in the center of a circular-shaped lid and lifted. Vaporous clouds rose from the freezer as we oooohed and ahhhhed while Bob's free hand reached in. Out came a drumstick. Scaredy Cat Annette accepted it, at once tearing away the paper covering, revealing a nutty chocolate-covered vanilla scoop of ice cream atop a dark brown quilted sugar cone. "How ya' doin', Carrot Top?" Bob asked me.
"Okay, Bob," I softly said, wishing I didn't have red hair and wouldn't have been so brusque with my sister, figuring Bob gave her the reward and not me because I needed to learn a lesson in good manners. Naturally, it took a few moments but I forgave him because he was truly the very best adult friend a kid could ever have or want.
"I'll tell you what's up. Bob Martin's dead."
That announcement did not smooth arousal's path.
Bobby continued, "He shot his wife dead and then killt his self."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What did you say?"
"You heard me. Bob Martin killt his wife and then killt himself. Dad says Bob's wife was a bitch. She always wanted expensive things Bob couldn't afford."
The horrible news did not add up but I knew Bobby wouldn't say something that awful about our friend Bob, partner of Peters and Martin's grocery store, if it wasn't true.
In those days of long ago, we kids addressed adults with the title of Mister or Mrs. followed by their surnames. It was different with Bob Martin. To us, he was Bob. And that was that. We weren't crossing some invisible line into forbidden adult territory. Soft spoken and usually smiling, the dark-haired Bob was strong with forearms like Popeye. He was the neighborhood's friendliest adult. He liked everyone, including other adults, and everyone liked him back, which is why I couldn't fathom Bobby's incredible news.
Peters & Martin's grocery store was on the corner of Baker and Eleventh Streets, only a half block away from Bobby's and my homes. Bob was the store's butcher while his partner, Mr. Peters, was the grocer.
Kids didn't care much for Mr. Peters. Because we didn't carry many pennies hidden in our tightly closed hands, we wanted each and every one to count. So, it took time to make important decisions. As if he were a platoon sergeant dealing with a recruit who didn't know his left foot from his right, Mr. Peters shouted as we examined boxes of candy behind slabs of glass. "Hurry up, or else go to Turbin's and waste Ed's time."
Turbin's grocery store was directly across Baker Street from Peters and Martin's. Proprietor Ed Turbin, normally drunk, had less patience than Mr. Peters.
One day, six of us marched into Peters and Martin's. Before he opened the door, Jimmy Kell, Bobby's older brother, announced, "Sure hope Bob's there to wait on us."
"Yeah, double check that," said my older brother, Always Right Billy (even if he wasn't).
Bob was extraordinarily patient as he awaited our decisions before accepting our sweaty pennies. And there he was behind the candy counter, smiling, as if he had been purposely waiting for us all along. "Hey, there. How ya' guys doing, huh?"
"Okeydokey," announced Hen House Helen, Jimmy and Bobby's younger sister.
On one side of the candy counter stood kites in a wood barrel. They cost a dime each while box kites on the counter's other side were a quarter apiece, more money than our group had altogether.
"We're fine," Blobby told Bob as the rest of us focused our sights on colorful red, blue, green, and yellow penny balloons; Doo Dads, black and red twisted licorice sticks looking like the Kells' father's drill bits; chocolate Dots; Hearts with cutesy messages written on them; Jujus; individually wrapped root beer barrels and Tootsie Rolls; wax mustaches blacker than funeral cars; wax buck teeth; and Red Hots, sharp cinnamon bits, reminiscent of pirates' blood in the latest Hollywood Technicolor action movie.
"What're you gonna get?" Scaredy Cat Annette, my younger sister, innocently asked.
"How do I know?" I crustily returned.
Although Bob's smile was wider than a carnival sideshow's fat lady's butt, his eyes told me he wasn't exactly proud of the way I treated my sister. No matter, I turned my attention to Baby Ruth and Power House candy bars; bags of Planter's peanuts; and giant Jaw Breakers. I had but four cents. With an extra penny, I could've chosen a box of Cracker Jacks with a paper-covered Tootsie Toy "hidden" inside.
"Hey," I yelled at Always Right Billy who surged in front. "I was here first, and now I can't see nothing."
"Anything," corrected Hen House Helen, the group's ever ready grammarian.
"I got something special for you," Bob told Scaredy Cat, Bob yet giving me that look.
"What about me?" the rest of us pleaded together. I wasn't as loud as the others.
"Not today," said Bob as he turned to face the ice cream cooler behind him and grabbed a round black knob in the center of a circular-shaped lid and lifted. Vaporous clouds rose from the freezer as we oooohed and ahhhhed while Bob's free hand reached in. Out came a drumstick. Scaredy Cat Annette accepted it, at once tearing away the paper covering, revealing a nutty chocolate-covered vanilla scoop of ice cream atop a dark brown quilted sugar cone. "How ya' doin', Carrot Top?" Bob asked me.
"Okay, Bob," I softly said, wishing I didn't have red hair and wouldn't have been so brusque with my sister, figuring Bob gave her the reward and not me because I needed to learn a lesson in good manners. Naturally, it took a few moments but I forgave him because he was truly the very best adult friend a kid could ever have or want.
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