Hi, Diary. Of course, it's me, Gordy Hoffman.
Our sixth-grade teacher says I should write or say, "It's I, Gordy Hoffman." The heck with that. Everybody I know says, "It's me." Besides, who wants to sound like a teacher? Well, the morning after Bobby Kell and I agreed to free the no name Indian's soul, who we call No Name, the sun was out and the sky was blue as blue can be. I was in my bedroom, wearing earphones and listening to WFHR radio station on my crystal set while watching tropical fish. "Gordon."
Startled, I looked around. Mother stood there. I took off the headphones. "What'd I do now?"
"Nothing. Bobby Kell's outside. He has a shovel."
"Whoops." In no time at all, Bobby and I were walking to the Old Grove, shovel handles biting into our shoulders, which is why I changed shoulders a lot. Bobby changed shoulders once. Not only is he practical, he's strong. Eventually, we made it to the stone. Bobby stood on it. "We first have to move this."
I didn't say a thing. My imagination, like spring flowers, was in full bloom. I was getting cold feet.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Uh, what happens if we dig 'im up and instead of going to the Happy Hunting Grounds, No Name comes in our bedrooms at night and kills us or—”
"Hoffman, you're crazy. How can anyone who's dead do anything?"
"Jesus did."
"That's different."
"In my brother's Inner Sanctum comic books, there are plenty of dead people who kill live people."
"Comic books are make believe. So, let's move this stone."
No way, Diary, could we even budge that huge rock. It would take ten men and maybe twenty kids to even scooch that huge lump on the ground a full half-inch. Finally, Bobby, The Practical, said, "We'll dig next to it and then when we get far enough down, we can scoop dirt from the side of the hole and under the rock."
"Won't it fall on us?"
"Hoffman, do you think I'm stupid? No way, are we going to dig in far enough to let that rock fall on us."
"Okay," I said, not wanting to dig at all although last night I thought I'd be a hero for doing so. Another thing. It was hard work. As we dug, the shovels put on the brakes and sang out, "Chingggggg," as they were suddenly stopped by yet another rock. Also, we sweat like crazy and swatted at chiggers, stink bugs, mosquitoes, horseflies, and bluebottle flies, all revolting creatures. Who needs them? I don't. Then, the kindly white haired retired minister—plus he’s Wisconsin Rapids' premier owl artist—who always wears his roman collar, showed up with his brown and white springer spaniel. "What are you boys doing?"
After Bobby and I explained the whole story of No Name, the reverend smiled, "That's an admirable thing you are doing, boys, but I don't think anyone's buried there."
"Do you know that for sure?" asked Bobby.
"This used to be an Indian cemetery," I said.
The reverend chuckled. "You boys could be right."
After he and his dog left and then passed us by again on their way home, Bobby and I continued digging. Other kids stopped by and asked what we were doing and then we had to go through the whole story, once again. "Found any bones yet?" one high school kid asked.
"Not yet."
"Don't think you will."
I hoped he was right. A while later, I guess Bobby thought the same thing as the high school kid. "I don't think anyone’s buried here," he said.
"You think so?"
"Pretty sure. We'll dig one more foot, and that's that."
“One more foot?” I complained. “We could quit now.”
But, of course, my practical friend wouldn’t do that. We dug one more foot and didn't find any white anything. Except more rocks. And that, Diary, was that. I got out of the hole, put my shovel on a shoulder, ready to return to my house. "What're you doing?" asked Bobby.
"What's it look like? I’m ready to leave."
"Somebody could walk on the path at night, fall into this hole and break their neck."
"You really think so?"
"So, who d'ya think is gonna fill it back up so that doesn't happen?"
As I told you, Diary, Bobby's way too practical, but I knew what I had to say. "We are, I guess."
"Hoffman, you're a genius." As we started dragging and scooping and shoveling dirt and rocks back into the hole and getting attacked by all kinds of nasty bugs, Bobby cackled as only he could. "Yeah, Hoffman, you're a genius, all right."
I could’ve said something, but I didn’t say one word. I was too tired from all the work.
Our sixth-grade teacher says I should write or say, "It's I, Gordy Hoffman." The heck with that. Everybody I know says, "It's me." Besides, who wants to sound like a teacher? Well, the morning after Bobby Kell and I agreed to free the no name Indian's soul, who we call No Name, the sun was out and the sky was blue as blue can be. I was in my bedroom, wearing earphones and listening to WFHR radio station on my crystal set while watching tropical fish. "Gordon."
Startled, I looked around. Mother stood there. I took off the headphones. "What'd I do now?"
"Nothing. Bobby Kell's outside. He has a shovel."
"Whoops." In no time at all, Bobby and I were walking to the Old Grove, shovel handles biting into our shoulders, which is why I changed shoulders a lot. Bobby changed shoulders once. Not only is he practical, he's strong. Eventually, we made it to the stone. Bobby stood on it. "We first have to move this."
I didn't say a thing. My imagination, like spring flowers, was in full bloom. I was getting cold feet.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Uh, what happens if we dig 'im up and instead of going to the Happy Hunting Grounds, No Name comes in our bedrooms at night and kills us or—”
"Hoffman, you're crazy. How can anyone who's dead do anything?"
"Jesus did."
"That's different."
"In my brother's Inner Sanctum comic books, there are plenty of dead people who kill live people."
"Comic books are make believe. So, let's move this stone."
No way, Diary, could we even budge that huge rock. It would take ten men and maybe twenty kids to even scooch that huge lump on the ground a full half-inch. Finally, Bobby, The Practical, said, "We'll dig next to it and then when we get far enough down, we can scoop dirt from the side of the hole and under the rock."
"Won't it fall on us?"
"Hoffman, do you think I'm stupid? No way, are we going to dig in far enough to let that rock fall on us."
"Okay," I said, not wanting to dig at all although last night I thought I'd be a hero for doing so. Another thing. It was hard work. As we dug, the shovels put on the brakes and sang out, "Chingggggg," as they were suddenly stopped by yet another rock. Also, we sweat like crazy and swatted at chiggers, stink bugs, mosquitoes, horseflies, and bluebottle flies, all revolting creatures. Who needs them? I don't. Then, the kindly white haired retired minister—plus he’s Wisconsin Rapids' premier owl artist—who always wears his roman collar, showed up with his brown and white springer spaniel. "What are you boys doing?"
After Bobby and I explained the whole story of No Name, the reverend smiled, "That's an admirable thing you are doing, boys, but I don't think anyone's buried there."
"Do you know that for sure?" asked Bobby.
"This used to be an Indian cemetery," I said.
The reverend chuckled. "You boys could be right."
After he and his dog left and then passed us by again on their way home, Bobby and I continued digging. Other kids stopped by and asked what we were doing and then we had to go through the whole story, once again. "Found any bones yet?" one high school kid asked.
"Not yet."
"Don't think you will."
I hoped he was right. A while later, I guess Bobby thought the same thing as the high school kid. "I don't think anyone’s buried here," he said.
"You think so?"
"Pretty sure. We'll dig one more foot, and that's that."
“One more foot?” I complained. “We could quit now.”
But, of course, my practical friend wouldn’t do that. We dug one more foot and didn't find any white anything. Except more rocks. And that, Diary, was that. I got out of the hole, put my shovel on a shoulder, ready to return to my house. "What're you doing?" asked Bobby.
"What's it look like? I’m ready to leave."
"Somebody could walk on the path at night, fall into this hole and break their neck."
"You really think so?"
"So, who d'ya think is gonna fill it back up so that doesn't happen?"
As I told you, Diary, Bobby's way too practical, but I knew what I had to say. "We are, I guess."
"Hoffman, you're a genius." As we started dragging and scooping and shoveling dirt and rocks back into the hole and getting attacked by all kinds of nasty bugs, Bobby cackled as only he could. "Yeah, Hoffman, you're a genius, all right."
I could’ve said something, but I didn’t say one word. I was too tired from all the work.
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