Grampa Frank and I walked down Baker Street every day that it didn't rain. We almost passed by Habeck's Standard gas station except Leonard Habeck—everybody calls him Len for short—stopped Grampa to talk about the old days. Len and his brother fought in Europe in World War One. That was a long time ago.
Finally, we started down the hill and walked by Haertel Monument Company. Their side yard looks just like a small cemetery with a bunch of tombstones. They are there for the same reason car dealers put cars for sale in front of their dealerships. During the day, Haertel tombstones aren't scary, but at night--
One night, Dork and I saw a movie at the Wisconsin Theater. It was called "The Beast with Five Fingers." Peter Lorre with his scary voice was in it. As we returned home, I told Dork we should go up Wisconsin Street hill instead of Baker Street hill.
"Woooooooooo," Dork moaned like Jacob Marley's ghost in the play, "Scrooge," put on by Lincoln High School students this past Christmas. "Gordy's scared, Gordy's scared," Dork sang out.
"No, I'm not."
"Woooooooooo, you are, too. Gordy Hoffman's a Scaredy Pants, ha ha ha ha."
You'd better believe I was scared, Diary, but I wouldn't tell Dork. No way would I. During the movie, he laughed when I jerked to look behind me when that hand jumped out of a safe that Lorre unlocked. The hand choked him to death. Yuck. Double yuck.
So, when Dork and I were closing in on Haertel's cemetery, I thought a hand—not a dead person—was hiding behind a large stone and would come out and scares us, maybe even kill us. "The beast with five fingers might be there," I said.
"Gordy's got an imagination, Gordy's got an imagination," Dork sang out and laughed.
I didn't think I said anything that was funny. Not funny, at all. Anyway, we made it by the cemetery. I kept looking behind me for a running hand coming after us. I prayed it would kill Dork. Not me. Then, we'd see who'd be laughing. I have to admit I finally felt safe only when we opened the front door of our house and I was indoors.
Back to Grampa and me. At the end of the Haertel cemetery is the end of a city block with a crosswalk. Grampa and I crossed Baker Street to its other side. Soon, we passed the county jail. Indians who drank too much on Saturday night were cutting grass and tending to bushes and flowers. White prisoners who were locked up yelled at us from the jail's second story bars. Not so the Indians. They kept working. They wanted to get drunk again next Saturday night. Grampa laughed each time we passed by the jail. He shook his head. "They're nuts," he said.
At the hill's bottom is the public library. We turned right and walked around the other side of the library to First Street. We crossed First Street. That's where a stone wall stops the river from overflowing during spring thaw. I call the river, "Coffee River," because it’s the same color as a cup of hot black coffee. Except the river's water is cold, not hot. Its real name is Wisconsin River.
Grampa stood at the wall. His elbows rested on top. He hardly said a word. Most of the time, the river slowly flowed by. That's because the dam gates were nearly closed. There were times, though, when the gates were wide open and the river cannonballed along, all foamy on top, looking as if it was angry as all get out.
Eventually, Grampa spoke. He talked about the way things were years ago before he sailed to America from Italy when he was a kid. Palma was always first. She was my grandma. She's dead now. Grampa really misses her. "She was my best-ah pal."
I said nothing because most guys I know don't have girl pals, unless you talk about high school boys who have sweethearts. Doc III has a sweetheart. Her name is Eunice Bankenbush. Guys my age avoid girls at all costs. Naturally, when I get older and am in high school, I'll probably have a sweetheart, too. Not now. Yuck.
Not too far from where we stood is our city's swimming pool at the bottom of a hill. At the kiddie end of the pool, there's a huge pipe where river water flows out. At the opposite "deep end" are two gates where water flows over. At summer's end, lifeguards turn steel wheels that open those gates wide open. No more water’s left in the pool, except tiny puddles. That's when you can see the pool's concrete bottom. Next spring, lifeguards will close those gates and turn on the water before swimming season starts again.
Dark green park benches, the color of rowboats, sit along the grassy hill overlooking the pool. Mostly old people sit on them. Grampa's old. He likes to sit on a bench and watch kids in the pool. I sit next to him.
"How old are you Grampa?"
"Too old. How old are you?"
"Ten and a-half, nearly eleven."
"When I was thirteen-ah years old," he said, "I wanted to be a New York City barber."
"Thirteen? That's young."
"Older than you."
"Yeah, but it's still young."
"That's how old I was when I left home."
"Where'd you go?"
"You weren't listening. I said New-ah York City."
"Your parents didn't come with you?"
"No. No brothers, no-ah sisters, no uncles, no aunts, no friends."
"If I was thirteen, I'd be too scared to leave for Italy. Besides, I don't understand Italian."
"I didn't speak English but I still sailed to America."
"You left Rome, right?"
"No."
"Mother says you and Grandma were from Rome."
"Your mama knows-ah nothing. Nothing," he repeated with a wave of his hand. "I lived with my-ah Mama and Papa in a small town. Smaller than this town, your town."
"But Wisconsin Rapids is a city, Grampa."
"New York's a city. Chicago's a city. This is a town."
"It's called the city of Wisconsin Rapids, Grampa."
"Have it your way."
"So, where were you from?"
"A smaller town than your-ah city." His right hand made a huge arc.
"What was its name?"
"Ausonia. It's near Naples, not Rome. I sailed out of Naples, not Rome. Your mama knows nothing."
"Assonia, huh?”
"No. Aw-sonia, Aw-sonia."
"I got it. Aw-sonia. So, when you were thirteen, you knew you wanted to be a barber?"
"Not really. When I was a little boy, Mama's second cousin, a barber in Ausonia, moved to New York City where he could make more money. He couldn't make much in Ausonia because it was a poor town. Eventually, he bought his own New York City barber shop. In one of the letters he wrote to Mama, he asked her if I'd be interested in becoming a barber apprentice."
"What's an apprentice?"
"That's a young person who learns a trade. A barber is a tradesman. It takes four years for an apprentice to become a tradesman."
"Oh," I said although I didn't understand.
"Mama thought it was a good idea. So, did Papa. I did too. They signed my apprenticeship agreement, and off I sailed to New York City in America. Mama's second cousin paid for the ship’s ticket."
"That's neat, but why didn’t you fly in a plane?"
“Because they weren’t invented yet.”
“Oh.”
"I didn't cut hair for three years. I had to clean up after four barbers, including Mama's second cousin, the boss. Every time they cut hair, I had to sweep it up. Sometimes, I had to sing Italian songs for customers. I slept in a room in back of the shop and in winter, I had to start a coal fire in the shop's stove before the barbers arrived. I washed windows. I swept floors. I mopped them. I cleaned mirrors in front of barber chairs, four, five times a day. I worked hard. Most thirteen year old boys in this country play all day long. Like-ah you."
"C'mon Grampa, I'm not thirteen. And I don't play all day long."
"Oh, no? You're kidding me. All I see you do is play.”
“It’s summer, Grampa. In summer, American kids don’t have school.”
“I said work, not study. Before I left for America, I promised to marry your ah-grandma, Palma Cappelli. In the fourth year, I started cutting customers' hair while another boy from Ausonia did the work I used to do. Then, when I completed my apprenticeship, the boss bought me a round-trip ticket to Naples. He expected me to return in exactly one year. A few months after I arrived in Ausonia, I married my sweet Palma."
Grampa wiped away tears that ran down his cheeks.
"Aw, Grampa, don't cry."
"Who's crying?" He seemed angry but the old man continued to wipe away tears.
Finally, we started down the hill and walked by Haertel Monument Company. Their side yard looks just like a small cemetery with a bunch of tombstones. They are there for the same reason car dealers put cars for sale in front of their dealerships. During the day, Haertel tombstones aren't scary, but at night--
One night, Dork and I saw a movie at the Wisconsin Theater. It was called "The Beast with Five Fingers." Peter Lorre with his scary voice was in it. As we returned home, I told Dork we should go up Wisconsin Street hill instead of Baker Street hill.
"Woooooooooo," Dork moaned like Jacob Marley's ghost in the play, "Scrooge," put on by Lincoln High School students this past Christmas. "Gordy's scared, Gordy's scared," Dork sang out.
"No, I'm not."
"Woooooooooo, you are, too. Gordy Hoffman's a Scaredy Pants, ha ha ha ha."
You'd better believe I was scared, Diary, but I wouldn't tell Dork. No way would I. During the movie, he laughed when I jerked to look behind me when that hand jumped out of a safe that Lorre unlocked. The hand choked him to death. Yuck. Double yuck.
So, when Dork and I were closing in on Haertel's cemetery, I thought a hand—not a dead person—was hiding behind a large stone and would come out and scares us, maybe even kill us. "The beast with five fingers might be there," I said.
"Gordy's got an imagination, Gordy's got an imagination," Dork sang out and laughed.
I didn't think I said anything that was funny. Not funny, at all. Anyway, we made it by the cemetery. I kept looking behind me for a running hand coming after us. I prayed it would kill Dork. Not me. Then, we'd see who'd be laughing. I have to admit I finally felt safe only when we opened the front door of our house and I was indoors.
Back to Grampa and me. At the end of the Haertel cemetery is the end of a city block with a crosswalk. Grampa and I crossed Baker Street to its other side. Soon, we passed the county jail. Indians who drank too much on Saturday night were cutting grass and tending to bushes and flowers. White prisoners who were locked up yelled at us from the jail's second story bars. Not so the Indians. They kept working. They wanted to get drunk again next Saturday night. Grampa laughed each time we passed by the jail. He shook his head. "They're nuts," he said.
At the hill's bottom is the public library. We turned right and walked around the other side of the library to First Street. We crossed First Street. That's where a stone wall stops the river from overflowing during spring thaw. I call the river, "Coffee River," because it’s the same color as a cup of hot black coffee. Except the river's water is cold, not hot. Its real name is Wisconsin River.
Grampa stood at the wall. His elbows rested on top. He hardly said a word. Most of the time, the river slowly flowed by. That's because the dam gates were nearly closed. There were times, though, when the gates were wide open and the river cannonballed along, all foamy on top, looking as if it was angry as all get out.
Eventually, Grampa spoke. He talked about the way things were years ago before he sailed to America from Italy when he was a kid. Palma was always first. She was my grandma. She's dead now. Grampa really misses her. "She was my best-ah pal."
I said nothing because most guys I know don't have girl pals, unless you talk about high school boys who have sweethearts. Doc III has a sweetheart. Her name is Eunice Bankenbush. Guys my age avoid girls at all costs. Naturally, when I get older and am in high school, I'll probably have a sweetheart, too. Not now. Yuck.
Not too far from where we stood is our city's swimming pool at the bottom of a hill. At the kiddie end of the pool, there's a huge pipe where river water flows out. At the opposite "deep end" are two gates where water flows over. At summer's end, lifeguards turn steel wheels that open those gates wide open. No more water’s left in the pool, except tiny puddles. That's when you can see the pool's concrete bottom. Next spring, lifeguards will close those gates and turn on the water before swimming season starts again.
Dark green park benches, the color of rowboats, sit along the grassy hill overlooking the pool. Mostly old people sit on them. Grampa's old. He likes to sit on a bench and watch kids in the pool. I sit next to him.
"How old are you Grampa?"
"Too old. How old are you?"
"Ten and a-half, nearly eleven."
"When I was thirteen-ah years old," he said, "I wanted to be a New York City barber."
"Thirteen? That's young."
"Older than you."
"Yeah, but it's still young."
"That's how old I was when I left home."
"Where'd you go?"
"You weren't listening. I said New-ah York City."
"Your parents didn't come with you?"
"No. No brothers, no-ah sisters, no uncles, no aunts, no friends."
"If I was thirteen, I'd be too scared to leave for Italy. Besides, I don't understand Italian."
"I didn't speak English but I still sailed to America."
"You left Rome, right?"
"No."
"Mother says you and Grandma were from Rome."
"Your mama knows-ah nothing. Nothing," he repeated with a wave of his hand. "I lived with my-ah Mama and Papa in a small town. Smaller than this town, your town."
"But Wisconsin Rapids is a city, Grampa."
"New York's a city. Chicago's a city. This is a town."
"It's called the city of Wisconsin Rapids, Grampa."
"Have it your way."
"So, where were you from?"
"A smaller town than your-ah city." His right hand made a huge arc.
"What was its name?"
"Ausonia. It's near Naples, not Rome. I sailed out of Naples, not Rome. Your mama knows nothing."
"Assonia, huh?”
"No. Aw-sonia, Aw-sonia."
"I got it. Aw-sonia. So, when you were thirteen, you knew you wanted to be a barber?"
"Not really. When I was a little boy, Mama's second cousin, a barber in Ausonia, moved to New York City where he could make more money. He couldn't make much in Ausonia because it was a poor town. Eventually, he bought his own New York City barber shop. In one of the letters he wrote to Mama, he asked her if I'd be interested in becoming a barber apprentice."
"What's an apprentice?"
"That's a young person who learns a trade. A barber is a tradesman. It takes four years for an apprentice to become a tradesman."
"Oh," I said although I didn't understand.
"Mama thought it was a good idea. So, did Papa. I did too. They signed my apprenticeship agreement, and off I sailed to New York City in America. Mama's second cousin paid for the ship’s ticket."
"That's neat, but why didn’t you fly in a plane?"
“Because they weren’t invented yet.”
“Oh.”
"I didn't cut hair for three years. I had to clean up after four barbers, including Mama's second cousin, the boss. Every time they cut hair, I had to sweep it up. Sometimes, I had to sing Italian songs for customers. I slept in a room in back of the shop and in winter, I had to start a coal fire in the shop's stove before the barbers arrived. I washed windows. I swept floors. I mopped them. I cleaned mirrors in front of barber chairs, four, five times a day. I worked hard. Most thirteen year old boys in this country play all day long. Like-ah you."
"C'mon Grampa, I'm not thirteen. And I don't play all day long."
"Oh, no? You're kidding me. All I see you do is play.”
“It’s summer, Grampa. In summer, American kids don’t have school.”
“I said work, not study. Before I left for America, I promised to marry your ah-grandma, Palma Cappelli. In the fourth year, I started cutting customers' hair while another boy from Ausonia did the work I used to do. Then, when I completed my apprenticeship, the boss bought me a round-trip ticket to Naples. He expected me to return in exactly one year. A few months after I arrived in Ausonia, I married my sweet Palma."
Grampa wiped away tears that ran down his cheeks.
"Aw, Grampa, don't cry."
"Who's crying?" He seemed angry but the old man continued to wipe away tears.
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