Gordy here. Nothing else to do besides watch tropical fish in the aquarium and read. I got tired of watching the fish and I finished reading a book about Squanto, the Indian, who helped the Pilgrims after their first winter in what is now Massachusetts. You see, I’m grounded. I wouldn’t eat the potatoes put on my dish for our Sunday dinner. So, Mom said, “Think of all those poor, starving children in Europe.”
Dad said, “You can stay in your bedroom for the rest of the day.”
The bedroom.. That’s where I am. And I haven’t thought a bit about those kids in Europe. Since I’m bored, I thought I’d write in you again.
Johnny Nelson’s dad, Byron, gave Johnny and me a ride in their brand new 1951 green 4-door Chevrolet Styleline Deluxe all the way to Nepco Lake. Nepco stands for Nekoosa-Port Edwards Paper Company. Nekoosa and Port Edwards are two nearby cities, smaller than Wisconsin Rapids. Nekoosa stinks like Yellowstone geysers. Yuck. During winter, when we’re in a closed space like the Monkey Wards store, it’s easy to tell who’s from Nekoosa. Their wool coats stink just like their paper mill: Like geysers.
The Chevrolet is a real nice car. Not as fancy as our Olds. But the Chevrolet sure as heck smells better. Our car stinks from Dad chain smoking Old Gold or Chesterfield cigarettes all the time. Ashes drop all over the front seat and floor. The inside of our car smells like a morning ashtray, filled with smashed out butts. Yuck. Byron rolls his own cigarettes. He won’t smoke them in his home or car. He only smokes them while sitting on his front steps. Byron used to let Johnny and me place our rods and reels, tackle boxes, and cans of worms between us in the back seat. We can’t do that in the new car. We had to put everything in the trunk.
We didn’t catch many fish but on our way back home, we stopped at the Eighth Street A&W root beer stand. We each ordered one Chili dog plus Johnny and I ordered small root beer floats. Boy, did they taste good. Byron ordered a large root beer and when he watched us dig our orange plastic long-handled spoons into the two dips of vanilla ice cream, floating in the root beer, he said, “Maybe I should’ve gotten a root beer float.”
“Yeah, you should’ve,” said Johnny, licking his chops.
I grinned. I was glad I ordered a root beer float.
When we got back to the Nelson home, I grabbed my stuff and headed across the street, and as I dumped the worms on Mrs. Hahn’s garden, I heard Mrs. Hahn call out, “Gorrrrrrrrr-deeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
“Hi, Mrs, Hahn,” I yelled back.
“It’s time to serve my girls some Southern fried chicken,” she said.
“I’ll be right there,” I hollered back, “as soon as I put my fishing gear in our garage.”
Mrs. Hahn is our next door neighbor. She’s a sweet old lady whom everybody likes. (My teacher would give me an A for using “whom” correctly in that spot). Mrs. Hahn was born two years before the start of the American Civil War.
“I’ll be waiting,” she called back. She was smiling. For good reason. She wouldn’t have to catch chickens. That would be my job. For which she’d give me a nickel. That’s darned good pay for such easy work.
Over ninety years old, Mrs. Hahn is probably the oldest person in town. Hunched over, she slowly walks by our house on her way to Turbin’s grocery store or across the street to Peters and Martin’s.
By living such a long time, she’s learned a lot about life. She brims over with advice. And she gives me plenty. I don’t mind. She likes to talk about the good old days. And I listen intently to her stories. I really enjoy her stories about how her father was a lumberjack’s chef.
A fenced area surrounds her chicken house, which is on the far side of her garden. The near side of her garden is next to our driveway. In it, she plants all kinds of vegetables and also strawberries and raspberries. When the berries start to show, she covers them with old lace curtains. That way, the sunlight can get through but the birds can’t.
After I stored my fishing gear in the garage, I returned to my old friend.
“It’s time,” she said.
And I knew exactly what time it was. It was chopping off chickens’ heads’ time. She knew her part. And I knew mine. So, first I have to catch a chicken. One at a time. Chickens move too fast for an old lady to nab. And it isn’t easy for me to catch them, either. I think they know what’s going to happen. They probably have family and friends who had already met the chopping block.
Finally, when I do manage to catch one, I kind of talk to it, try to calm it down. But it doesn’t get very calm. If you’ve been around chickens at head-chopping time, you know what I mean. They squawk and flap their wings and run like heck and squawk some more.
I’ll hand the chicken to Mrs. Hahn. She holds its legs extra hard and calmly lays its head on the flat part of a large, two-foot-high and one-foot in diameter log, the chopping block, that’s been around since Methuselah. “Whack.” She chops off the chicken’s head and then hands me the axe handle.
“I don’t want the blade to get dirty,” she explained the first time she asked for my help. I didn’t mind holding the handle with the bloody blade, but it was kind of nasty looking in a way.
She then picks up the now headless chicken and puts it on the ground. Off it goes, running this way and that, bumping into her Model-T garage or nearby trees and bushes. That’s easy to understand. It can’t see. It’s minus its head and thus, eyes. Finally, it hits the ground. Its wings still flap, but soon even that stops.
“Bleed it out,” Mrs. Hahn told me the first time.
“Huh?”
“Hold it so it’s upside down.”
I lift the headless chicken by its legs. Blood spills out its neck. And then it, too, stops.
“Okay,” says Mrs. Hahn, “lay it down.”
I placed the headless chicken on the ground.
Next up, Number Two.
While Mrs. Hahn waits, I open the fence door, close it, and spot the next victim. It eyeballs me. Its head moves quickly from side to side. As I get nearer, it squawks and runs by me as fast as it can, feathers a’flyin’. I miss it but catch another chicken, instead. This one squawks to high heaven. I talk to it. It’s going crazy. And I don’t blame it.
We end up with four headless chickens, lying on the ground. Mrs. Hahn grabs old Daily Tribune newspaper pages, drops the heads on them, and bundles up the pages.
“Toss it in the burn barrel,” she told me the first time I helped her.
This time, I throw it in her steel burn barrel without being told. The burn barrel is nothing but an old 55-gallon drum barrel with holes cut in it. She wipes the blood off the axe blade.
I know she already has a big kettle on the stove in her kitchen, half filled with boiling water. I lead the way, carrying two headless chickens. She accepts them in the kitchen and dunks each in the hot water.
“Why do you do that?” I asked her the first time I helped.
“Makes it easier to pull out the feathers,” she explained.
“Oh.”
I went outdoors and got the other two chickens. They, too, were dunked in the hot water. She surely can pull out those feathers. And fast. Soon, each chicken was as bare as a newborn baby. Next, and this is the ugly part, she uses a knife to make a cut and reaches into their rear ends. A split second later, she pulls out all kinds of yucky things, like guts and stuff. They, also, get the tribune newspaper package treatment. I carry the paper package to her burn barrel with a couple wooden farmer matches she handed me. I strike a match on the rusty burn barrel and soon things get hot and smoky.
When I returned to the kitchen in order to get my pay, Mrs. Hahn had all four chickens cut into pieces. “I’m making fried chicken for my girls tonight,” said Mrs. Hahn.
“Her girls” are five young ladies not related to her, all workers, and pretty darned good looking. They rent sleeping rooms from Mrs. Hahn. They’re all high school graduates. Four work in the Consolidated paper mill while Marie is employed at the Preway stove factory. She’s the president’s private secretary.
Marcie, my favorite, says, “Mrs. Hahn is adorable. She’s like a mother hen to us, her chicks.”
I didn’t say anything, but I hoped Marcie was wrong. Mrs. Hahn’s chicks become hens and eventually get their heads cut off.
That night, Marcie and the other girls ate fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn meal muffins served with plenty of butter. The next night, Mrs. Hahn served her girls chicken noodle soup with vegetables. The night after, it was creamed chicken on toast. I know that. Because Marcie told me. And then she laughed, her hands grabbing her waist as she made her arms look like wings and she went, “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
We both laughed for a long time.
I like Marcie. Maybe someday I’ll marry her. But she has a boyfriend. And he has a neat car, a 1939 Packard 120 2-door red coupe. It has beautiful whitewall tires. The afternoon he showed Johnny Nelson and me what was under the hood, we whistled and “ooohed” and “ahhhhed” in amazement. Under that hood was a Rocket 88 V-8 Oldsmobile engine.
“How’d that get in there?” I asked.
“Me and a few of my buddies put it in there. With a block and tackle.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. How did you get that engine to put it in there in the first place?”
“Oh. Bought it from Wolcott’s Auto Salvage out on Eighth Street. It came out of a rollover. Thankfully, the engine was okay but the rest of the car was pure junk.”
When Marcie came out, she looked absolutely beautiful. She smiled and hugged her boyfriend. Even though he owned that nice 1939 red Packard 120 coupe, I didn’t like that. He opened the passenger side door. Smiling, Marcie got in. He closed the door and shook his head at Johnny and me and said, “Hubba-hubba. She’s a looker, ain’t she?”
“Sure is,” said Johnny. “Are you gonna lay some rubber?”
“Just might.” Marcie’s boyfriend opened the driver’s side door and got in. The engine roared to life. He put the car into gear, let the clutch out, and zoomed off. That car was certainly fast. And beautiful.
I didn’t say anything but headed toward our house.
“Where you going?” asked Johnny.
I shrugged. I knew right then I didn’t like Marcie’s boyfriend. And I never would. Even if he did own the prettiest car in town.
Dad said, “You can stay in your bedroom for the rest of the day.”
The bedroom.. That’s where I am. And I haven’t thought a bit about those kids in Europe. Since I’m bored, I thought I’d write in you again.
Johnny Nelson’s dad, Byron, gave Johnny and me a ride in their brand new 1951 green 4-door Chevrolet Styleline Deluxe all the way to Nepco Lake. Nepco stands for Nekoosa-Port Edwards Paper Company. Nekoosa and Port Edwards are two nearby cities, smaller than Wisconsin Rapids. Nekoosa stinks like Yellowstone geysers. Yuck. During winter, when we’re in a closed space like the Monkey Wards store, it’s easy to tell who’s from Nekoosa. Their wool coats stink just like their paper mill: Like geysers.
The Chevrolet is a real nice car. Not as fancy as our Olds. But the Chevrolet sure as heck smells better. Our car stinks from Dad chain smoking Old Gold or Chesterfield cigarettes all the time. Ashes drop all over the front seat and floor. The inside of our car smells like a morning ashtray, filled with smashed out butts. Yuck. Byron rolls his own cigarettes. He won’t smoke them in his home or car. He only smokes them while sitting on his front steps. Byron used to let Johnny and me place our rods and reels, tackle boxes, and cans of worms between us in the back seat. We can’t do that in the new car. We had to put everything in the trunk.
We didn’t catch many fish but on our way back home, we stopped at the Eighth Street A&W root beer stand. We each ordered one Chili dog plus Johnny and I ordered small root beer floats. Boy, did they taste good. Byron ordered a large root beer and when he watched us dig our orange plastic long-handled spoons into the two dips of vanilla ice cream, floating in the root beer, he said, “Maybe I should’ve gotten a root beer float.”
“Yeah, you should’ve,” said Johnny, licking his chops.
I grinned. I was glad I ordered a root beer float.
When we got back to the Nelson home, I grabbed my stuff and headed across the street, and as I dumped the worms on Mrs. Hahn’s garden, I heard Mrs. Hahn call out, “Gorrrrrrrrr-deeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”
“Hi, Mrs, Hahn,” I yelled back.
“It’s time to serve my girls some Southern fried chicken,” she said.
“I’ll be right there,” I hollered back, “as soon as I put my fishing gear in our garage.”
Mrs. Hahn is our next door neighbor. She’s a sweet old lady whom everybody likes. (My teacher would give me an A for using “whom” correctly in that spot). Mrs. Hahn was born two years before the start of the American Civil War.
“I’ll be waiting,” she called back. She was smiling. For good reason. She wouldn’t have to catch chickens. That would be my job. For which she’d give me a nickel. That’s darned good pay for such easy work.
Over ninety years old, Mrs. Hahn is probably the oldest person in town. Hunched over, she slowly walks by our house on her way to Turbin’s grocery store or across the street to Peters and Martin’s.
By living such a long time, she’s learned a lot about life. She brims over with advice. And she gives me plenty. I don’t mind. She likes to talk about the good old days. And I listen intently to her stories. I really enjoy her stories about how her father was a lumberjack’s chef.
A fenced area surrounds her chicken house, which is on the far side of her garden. The near side of her garden is next to our driveway. In it, she plants all kinds of vegetables and also strawberries and raspberries. When the berries start to show, she covers them with old lace curtains. That way, the sunlight can get through but the birds can’t.
After I stored my fishing gear in the garage, I returned to my old friend.
“It’s time,” she said.
And I knew exactly what time it was. It was chopping off chickens’ heads’ time. She knew her part. And I knew mine. So, first I have to catch a chicken. One at a time. Chickens move too fast for an old lady to nab. And it isn’t easy for me to catch them, either. I think they know what’s going to happen. They probably have family and friends who had already met the chopping block.
Finally, when I do manage to catch one, I kind of talk to it, try to calm it down. But it doesn’t get very calm. If you’ve been around chickens at head-chopping time, you know what I mean. They squawk and flap their wings and run like heck and squawk some more.
I’ll hand the chicken to Mrs. Hahn. She holds its legs extra hard and calmly lays its head on the flat part of a large, two-foot-high and one-foot in diameter log, the chopping block, that’s been around since Methuselah. “Whack.” She chops off the chicken’s head and then hands me the axe handle.
“I don’t want the blade to get dirty,” she explained the first time she asked for my help. I didn’t mind holding the handle with the bloody blade, but it was kind of nasty looking in a way.
She then picks up the now headless chicken and puts it on the ground. Off it goes, running this way and that, bumping into her Model-T garage or nearby trees and bushes. That’s easy to understand. It can’t see. It’s minus its head and thus, eyes. Finally, it hits the ground. Its wings still flap, but soon even that stops.
“Bleed it out,” Mrs. Hahn told me the first time.
“Huh?”
“Hold it so it’s upside down.”
I lift the headless chicken by its legs. Blood spills out its neck. And then it, too, stops.
“Okay,” says Mrs. Hahn, “lay it down.”
I placed the headless chicken on the ground.
Next up, Number Two.
While Mrs. Hahn waits, I open the fence door, close it, and spot the next victim. It eyeballs me. Its head moves quickly from side to side. As I get nearer, it squawks and runs by me as fast as it can, feathers a’flyin’. I miss it but catch another chicken, instead. This one squawks to high heaven. I talk to it. It’s going crazy. And I don’t blame it.
We end up with four headless chickens, lying on the ground. Mrs. Hahn grabs old Daily Tribune newspaper pages, drops the heads on them, and bundles up the pages.
“Toss it in the burn barrel,” she told me the first time I helped her.
This time, I throw it in her steel burn barrel without being told. The burn barrel is nothing but an old 55-gallon drum barrel with holes cut in it. She wipes the blood off the axe blade.
I know she already has a big kettle on the stove in her kitchen, half filled with boiling water. I lead the way, carrying two headless chickens. She accepts them in the kitchen and dunks each in the hot water.
“Why do you do that?” I asked her the first time I helped.
“Makes it easier to pull out the feathers,” she explained.
“Oh.”
I went outdoors and got the other two chickens. They, too, were dunked in the hot water. She surely can pull out those feathers. And fast. Soon, each chicken was as bare as a newborn baby. Next, and this is the ugly part, she uses a knife to make a cut and reaches into their rear ends. A split second later, she pulls out all kinds of yucky things, like guts and stuff. They, also, get the tribune newspaper package treatment. I carry the paper package to her burn barrel with a couple wooden farmer matches she handed me. I strike a match on the rusty burn barrel and soon things get hot and smoky.
When I returned to the kitchen in order to get my pay, Mrs. Hahn had all four chickens cut into pieces. “I’m making fried chicken for my girls tonight,” said Mrs. Hahn.
“Her girls” are five young ladies not related to her, all workers, and pretty darned good looking. They rent sleeping rooms from Mrs. Hahn. They’re all high school graduates. Four work in the Consolidated paper mill while Marie is employed at the Preway stove factory. She’s the president’s private secretary.
Marcie, my favorite, says, “Mrs. Hahn is adorable. She’s like a mother hen to us, her chicks.”
I didn’t say anything, but I hoped Marcie was wrong. Mrs. Hahn’s chicks become hens and eventually get their heads cut off.
That night, Marcie and the other girls ate fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn meal muffins served with plenty of butter. The next night, Mrs. Hahn served her girls chicken noodle soup with vegetables. The night after, it was creamed chicken on toast. I know that. Because Marcie told me. And then she laughed, her hands grabbing her waist as she made her arms look like wings and she went, “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”
We both laughed for a long time.
I like Marcie. Maybe someday I’ll marry her. But she has a boyfriend. And he has a neat car, a 1939 Packard 120 2-door red coupe. It has beautiful whitewall tires. The afternoon he showed Johnny Nelson and me what was under the hood, we whistled and “ooohed” and “ahhhhed” in amazement. Under that hood was a Rocket 88 V-8 Oldsmobile engine.
“How’d that get in there?” I asked.
“Me and a few of my buddies put it in there. With a block and tackle.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. How did you get that engine to put it in there in the first place?”
“Oh. Bought it from Wolcott’s Auto Salvage out on Eighth Street. It came out of a rollover. Thankfully, the engine was okay but the rest of the car was pure junk.”
When Marcie came out, she looked absolutely beautiful. She smiled and hugged her boyfriend. Even though he owned that nice 1939 red Packard 120 coupe, I didn’t like that. He opened the passenger side door. Smiling, Marcie got in. He closed the door and shook his head at Johnny and me and said, “Hubba-hubba. She’s a looker, ain’t she?”
“Sure is,” said Johnny. “Are you gonna lay some rubber?”
“Just might.” Marcie’s boyfriend opened the driver’s side door and got in. The engine roared to life. He put the car into gear, let the clutch out, and zoomed off. That car was certainly fast. And beautiful.
I didn’t say anything but headed toward our house.
“Where you going?” asked Johnny.
I shrugged. I knew right then I didn’t like Marcie’s boyfriend. And I never would. Even if he did own the prettiest car in town.
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