Hi, Diary. It’s Friday afternoon. My stomach is bloated (a word I learned in last month’s Reader’s Digest “Word Power” page). It means “stuffed,” and boy am I ever stuffed. I ate so much ice cream that I can hardly move. That’s why I’m in my bedroom during the day and took you out of your hiding spot and am now writing in you.
About ten minutes ago, I left Herschleb’s Ice Cream Company on Sixteenth Street where I spent thirty-five cents. That’s a lot of money for a kid to spend. With one additional penny—a total of thirty-six cents—I could’ve paid for three Saturday or Sunday matinee tickets at the Wisconsin, Palace, or the Rapids movie theaters.
The Rapids is our newest theater, owned by Tom Poulos. He’s from Greece. He also owns the Sugar Bowl restaurant across the street from the Wood County Bank. Just about everyone I know calls the Sugar Bowl, “The Greasy Spoon.”
Maybe that’s so because a lot of “Greasers” and bad girls hang out in front of the Sugar Bowl on Friday nights. I’m told they’re looking for trouble but I’ve never seen them do much but stand there and shout at other high school kids driving by in their cars. Sometimes, Greasers stick up their “bad” fingers.
Greaser boys wear “Duck Ass” haircuts, which means they comb their oil-slicked hair on the sides all the way to the rear of their heads where both sides meet and, for certain, look like ducks’ behinds. The hair on top is usually cut short and worn in “flat top” style.
Most Greasers and their girlfriends wear black leather motorcycle jackets or blue denim jackets with a jumble of chrome buttons attached to them. Blue jeans with cuffs rolled up are a must. Black engineer boots with shiny chrome chains wrapped around the ankles are definitely must-wear items for Greaser boys.
Bobby Kell told me, “Greasers use those chains as weapons when they rumble (fight) with regular high school kids.” Truthfully, I’ve never seen them fight or know anyone else who has. Rumble is a big city term.
It’s kind of odd, at least to me, that standing silently (and I mean absolutely soundless) in front of the corner shoe store next to the Sugar Bowl is a pair of adult Jehovah’s Witnesses, holding in front of their chests pamphlets bearing the title, “Awake.” I steer away from them because I’m Catholic. And that’s the way I’m going to stay.
Well, anyway, I bought a two-scoop chocolate ice cream cone for a dime at Herschleb’s. Then, I ordered a quarter size vanilla malted milk shake. The real big ones are thirty-five cents. Actually, I have to eat their milk shakes with a long spoon they hand to me because their shakes are so thick.
I realize thirty-five cents is a lot of money for an eleven-year-old kid to spend, but I had more than enough money because I collected a dollar and twenty-four cents from the owners of the Baker Street A&W Root Beer stand located just behind Herschleb’s.
The reason they gave me a dollar and twenty-four cents is because last night I sold sixty-two bags of fifteen cent popcorn at the City Band outdoor concert for them.
You see, the A&W folks have an old glass enclosed popcorn stand on wheels they tow behind their car which they haul to the area where our City Band plays concerts every Thursday night during the summer.
I carry a wood box with straps. The A&W folks fill the box with bags of popcorn. One bag is worth two cents to me because that’s my pay. And I don’t have to say anything but answer, “Fifteen cents” in a soft voice when people ask me how much a bag costs. Most people know how much a bag costs. When they give me the money, I say, “Thank you.” Very softly. And that’s it. Some people give me a tip. Most of the time it’s a penny or two. Twice, I received a nickel.
The band plays on a temporary stage that’s put up by city workers during late spring on the lawn to the right of the red-brick Wood County Jail and the left of the Christian Science church, that is, if you stand on the Baker Street sidewalk that’s next to the jail.
The band’s leader is insurance salesman Bernard “Bernie” T. Ziegler. He’s one of the most likeable men in our city. He’s bald and wears black plastic frame eyeglasses. Most citizens get a kick out of him because he’s such a showman. Whenever he drives his car anywhere in town, he beeps his car’s horn and waves. People wave back. “Hey Bernie,” they shout. I just wave.
Bernie smiles even while he leads the band. I get the feeling band members love him as much as the audience does.
Whenever the band finishes a musical piece, especially John Philip Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” people who sit in their parked cars and listen to the band, show their appreciation with a clamor of competing, blaring, car and pickup truck horns, mostly in different notes. Horns aren’t made to sound nice but to warn either careless drivers or kids who don’t look both ways before they cross a street.
A lot of people living on our side of the river walk to the concerts. Women and girls carry sweaters they might need as the night becomes cooler. Men carry foldup lawn chairs to sit on. If not, they bring blankets they spread out on the lawn in order for the entire family to sit on. Usually, Ma and Pa and their kids fit on one blanket unless their last name is Passineau (PAZZ-ih-naw). They’re a two-blanket family. They have twelve kids.
While the horns honk, people on the lawn stand and applaud after each musical piece is finished. Added to that, a few high school boys place both index finger tips between their lips and whistle shrilly. When they do that, I hold tightly both ears with my hands.
Bernie faces the audience and bows while band members stand, as well, and applaud their director. Bernie, in turn, points to the band members as being the real heroes, or something like that. People call out, “Bravo, Bravo.”
Not only do I get to listen to the band play some fine oompah music each Thursday unless it rains real hard, I also get to make enough money to save for fall, winter, and spring.
By the way, Diary, even now I still feel bloated. But I’m tired of writing.
About ten minutes ago, I left Herschleb’s Ice Cream Company on Sixteenth Street where I spent thirty-five cents. That’s a lot of money for a kid to spend. With one additional penny—a total of thirty-six cents—I could’ve paid for three Saturday or Sunday matinee tickets at the Wisconsin, Palace, or the Rapids movie theaters.
The Rapids is our newest theater, owned by Tom Poulos. He’s from Greece. He also owns the Sugar Bowl restaurant across the street from the Wood County Bank. Just about everyone I know calls the Sugar Bowl, “The Greasy Spoon.”
Maybe that’s so because a lot of “Greasers” and bad girls hang out in front of the Sugar Bowl on Friday nights. I’m told they’re looking for trouble but I’ve never seen them do much but stand there and shout at other high school kids driving by in their cars. Sometimes, Greasers stick up their “bad” fingers.
Greaser boys wear “Duck Ass” haircuts, which means they comb their oil-slicked hair on the sides all the way to the rear of their heads where both sides meet and, for certain, look like ducks’ behinds. The hair on top is usually cut short and worn in “flat top” style.
Most Greasers and their girlfriends wear black leather motorcycle jackets or blue denim jackets with a jumble of chrome buttons attached to them. Blue jeans with cuffs rolled up are a must. Black engineer boots with shiny chrome chains wrapped around the ankles are definitely must-wear items for Greaser boys.
Bobby Kell told me, “Greasers use those chains as weapons when they rumble (fight) with regular high school kids.” Truthfully, I’ve never seen them fight or know anyone else who has. Rumble is a big city term.
It’s kind of odd, at least to me, that standing silently (and I mean absolutely soundless) in front of the corner shoe store next to the Sugar Bowl is a pair of adult Jehovah’s Witnesses, holding in front of their chests pamphlets bearing the title, “Awake.” I steer away from them because I’m Catholic. And that’s the way I’m going to stay.
Well, anyway, I bought a two-scoop chocolate ice cream cone for a dime at Herschleb’s. Then, I ordered a quarter size vanilla malted milk shake. The real big ones are thirty-five cents. Actually, I have to eat their milk shakes with a long spoon they hand to me because their shakes are so thick.
I realize thirty-five cents is a lot of money for an eleven-year-old kid to spend, but I had more than enough money because I collected a dollar and twenty-four cents from the owners of the Baker Street A&W Root Beer stand located just behind Herschleb’s.
The reason they gave me a dollar and twenty-four cents is because last night I sold sixty-two bags of fifteen cent popcorn at the City Band outdoor concert for them.
You see, the A&W folks have an old glass enclosed popcorn stand on wheels they tow behind their car which they haul to the area where our City Band plays concerts every Thursday night during the summer.
I carry a wood box with straps. The A&W folks fill the box with bags of popcorn. One bag is worth two cents to me because that’s my pay. And I don’t have to say anything but answer, “Fifteen cents” in a soft voice when people ask me how much a bag costs. Most people know how much a bag costs. When they give me the money, I say, “Thank you.” Very softly. And that’s it. Some people give me a tip. Most of the time it’s a penny or two. Twice, I received a nickel.
The band plays on a temporary stage that’s put up by city workers during late spring on the lawn to the right of the red-brick Wood County Jail and the left of the Christian Science church, that is, if you stand on the Baker Street sidewalk that’s next to the jail.
The band’s leader is insurance salesman Bernard “Bernie” T. Ziegler. He’s one of the most likeable men in our city. He’s bald and wears black plastic frame eyeglasses. Most citizens get a kick out of him because he’s such a showman. Whenever he drives his car anywhere in town, he beeps his car’s horn and waves. People wave back. “Hey Bernie,” they shout. I just wave.
Bernie smiles even while he leads the band. I get the feeling band members love him as much as the audience does.
Whenever the band finishes a musical piece, especially John Philip Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” people who sit in their parked cars and listen to the band, show their appreciation with a clamor of competing, blaring, car and pickup truck horns, mostly in different notes. Horns aren’t made to sound nice but to warn either careless drivers or kids who don’t look both ways before they cross a street.
A lot of people living on our side of the river walk to the concerts. Women and girls carry sweaters they might need as the night becomes cooler. Men carry foldup lawn chairs to sit on. If not, they bring blankets they spread out on the lawn in order for the entire family to sit on. Usually, Ma and Pa and their kids fit on one blanket unless their last name is Passineau (PAZZ-ih-naw). They’re a two-blanket family. They have twelve kids.
While the horns honk, people on the lawn stand and applaud after each musical piece is finished. Added to that, a few high school boys place both index finger tips between their lips and whistle shrilly. When they do that, I hold tightly both ears with my hands.
Bernie faces the audience and bows while band members stand, as well, and applaud their director. Bernie, in turn, points to the band members as being the real heroes, or something like that. People call out, “Bravo, Bravo.”
Not only do I get to listen to the band play some fine oompah music each Thursday unless it rains real hard, I also get to make enough money to save for fall, winter, and spring.
By the way, Diary, even now I still feel bloated. But I’m tired of writing.
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