Hi, Diary. Gordy, here.
During summer vacation, I get out of the house right away, that is, after I put my wet sheets into the washing machine. I might grab a shovel as I did yesterday. I dug in what we call "the garden" for angle worms. I needed them for catching bullheads in the Wisconsin River. The Consolidated paper mill dam with its many gates is where I headed. It's on a hill. To the far left and down the hill is our cruddy swimming pool. I rode down the grassy hill and set the Schwinn on its side. Then, with rod and reel and can of worms in hand, I climbed the huge boulders overlooking the river next to the first gate. It was partially open. The falling water made a pleasant sound. Almost made me sleepy.
I found a comfortable spot to sit—on top of a flat boulder. I stabbed a gob of wriggly worms that weren't too happy to be put on the hook. I wouldn't be pleased, either. Then, I cast them and sinker into the foaming, coffee-colored water. While waiting for a strike, I made a stringer out of a thin willow branch with my jackknife. I kept watch on the rod's tip. Finally, it jerked. I picked up the rod slowly, careful not to tighten the line. Then, when I felt the next jerk, I yanked the rod hard to set the hook. "Hi, Gordy." I recognized the voice but still looked behind me to make certain. There he stood, tall and as thin as a bean pole, Ray Middlecamp.
"Got a fish on," I yelled.
"Catch 'im, catch 'im." Ray's hands shook. His arms flapped. When I reeled in the bullhead, I had my stringer ready. I must be careful removing the hook. Bullheads have "stickers" on each side and one on the top of their heads that hurt like heck if you hold the fish wrong. I speared one stringer tip through the fish's mouth and out the gill. The darned thing burped. "You're not excused," I told it. Then I brought both tips together, put the fish in the water, and placed a rock on the stringer's tips. That way, caught fish can live but can't escape.
Ray's hands shook as if he was trying to dry them. But they're not wet at all. He grins all the time. Mother says he's like a four-year-old kid. His sister, Rosie, is just like him. They're over forty years old. Rosie likes Crazy Annie the same way Ray likes me. Ray and Rosie are retarded, but their mom and dad and brothers are as smart as can be. They live on a corner, across from Irving grade school playground.
Ray patted his oily, straight black hair with a shaking hand. His goiter popped out every time he swallowed. It looked as if a squirrel was inside his neck and was trying desperately to escape. Alas, it could only go up and down like a yoyo. His, large hook nose, an eagle's beak, constantly dripped. When I got sick to my stomach watching each drip, I told him, "Use a handkerchief, Ray."
Grinning, he pulled out a blue and white bandana. When he blew, it sounded like the U. S. Cavalry trumpet in John Wayne's movie, "She wore a Yellow Ribbon."
"You gonna eat 'im? You gonna eat 'im?" At least, that's what I thought he asked. Smiling, I nodded and stabbed another gob of upset worms on the hook. I cast them out. While I watched the tip, Ray kept talking. I nodded as if I understood him, but I didn't comprehend half of what he said. Oops. The rod's tip shuddered. "Get 'im, get 'im," Ray yelled.
I caught the second bullhead and put it on the stringer. When I dropped both fish in the water, they swam in different directions. Bullheads are dumb. Two boys near my age joined us. I didn't recognize them. I figured they lived on the other side of the river. They had rods and reels and worms. Ray went over to them. "Hey, if it ain't Dumb Ass," the taller boy said. "How are you doin', Dumb Ass?"
Ray grinned.
"Get outta here, Dumb Ass," the shorter boy screeched. "Get away from us. You're a crazy man."
Ray looked to me and grinned. His hands shook. His arms flapped. His eyes looked different, though, as if they were saying, "Help."
"Quit calling him names," I yelled. "His name's Ray Middlecamp, and he can't help himself. He's retarded."
"Yeah," said Ray, "I'm—what'd you say, Gordy?"
"Retarded."
Ray nodded. "Yeah, that's it."
The larger of the two boys approached me. "Hey, Shit Head," he snarled, "ya' wanna make somethin' outta it?" He grabbed at me. I grabbed at him. We fell. He was on top. My back felt the hot, hard boulder. Soon, I was on top. I put my knees on his shoulders and wiggled them like Dork does to mine. "I give. I give," he yelled. Which I usually yell, too.
"I'll let you up, but you first hafta apologize to Ray."
"Okay, okay." I let him up. Although, he shot me an evil look, he turned to Ray. "I'm sorry."
"Gordy won. Gordy won," yelled Ray whose arms flapped and hands jerked. Next, he turned to the kid. "What're you sorry about?"
"He's sorry he called you bad names," I told Ray.
"He didn't call me bad names," said Ray, grinning at the kid. "You're a nice guy, ain't cha?"
The kid looked to me. "See? Even he says I didn't do nothing wrong."
"You guys wanna fish here?" I asked.
"Yeah, we wanna fish here."
"Then, don't call him Dumb Ass."
Back to fishing, I caught more bullheads. The older kid came over to me. "Okay, I won't call him Dumb Ass no more. I promise."
I smiled and offered him my hand. He took it and we shook. "I'm Gordy Hoffman."
"I'm Pat Peck." He pointed to the younger kid. "That's my brother, Armin." Armin smiled and waved.
"Where you from?" I asked Pat.
"Pepper Avenue. Me and my brother go to Saints Peter and Paul grade school."
"Hmmm, that's why I don't know you. I go to Howe."
Ray jumped up and down, shook his hands, and flapped his arms. "Goody, goody, you guys are friends now, ain't cha?"
When it was time to return to my house, I lifted the stringer and hauled it to over my friends. "Here, you guys can have these."
"Jeez, thanks," said Pat. "What's your name again?"
"Gordy. Gordy Hoffman." On an extra-long way to my house, I walked my bike up the hill toward the Irving school playground and the Middlecamp house. Ray was at my side, all the time talking and me, all the time nodding. "Use your handkerchief, Ray."
Once again, I heard the U. S. Cavalry bugle. Now, it was my turn to grin.
During summer vacation, I get out of the house right away, that is, after I put my wet sheets into the washing machine. I might grab a shovel as I did yesterday. I dug in what we call "the garden" for angle worms. I needed them for catching bullheads in the Wisconsin River. The Consolidated paper mill dam with its many gates is where I headed. It's on a hill. To the far left and down the hill is our cruddy swimming pool. I rode down the grassy hill and set the Schwinn on its side. Then, with rod and reel and can of worms in hand, I climbed the huge boulders overlooking the river next to the first gate. It was partially open. The falling water made a pleasant sound. Almost made me sleepy.
I found a comfortable spot to sit—on top of a flat boulder. I stabbed a gob of wriggly worms that weren't too happy to be put on the hook. I wouldn't be pleased, either. Then, I cast them and sinker into the foaming, coffee-colored water. While waiting for a strike, I made a stringer out of a thin willow branch with my jackknife. I kept watch on the rod's tip. Finally, it jerked. I picked up the rod slowly, careful not to tighten the line. Then, when I felt the next jerk, I yanked the rod hard to set the hook. "Hi, Gordy." I recognized the voice but still looked behind me to make certain. There he stood, tall and as thin as a bean pole, Ray Middlecamp.
"Got a fish on," I yelled.
"Catch 'im, catch 'im." Ray's hands shook. His arms flapped. When I reeled in the bullhead, I had my stringer ready. I must be careful removing the hook. Bullheads have "stickers" on each side and one on the top of their heads that hurt like heck if you hold the fish wrong. I speared one stringer tip through the fish's mouth and out the gill. The darned thing burped. "You're not excused," I told it. Then I brought both tips together, put the fish in the water, and placed a rock on the stringer's tips. That way, caught fish can live but can't escape.
Ray's hands shook as if he was trying to dry them. But they're not wet at all. He grins all the time. Mother says he's like a four-year-old kid. His sister, Rosie, is just like him. They're over forty years old. Rosie likes Crazy Annie the same way Ray likes me. Ray and Rosie are retarded, but their mom and dad and brothers are as smart as can be. They live on a corner, across from Irving grade school playground.
Ray patted his oily, straight black hair with a shaking hand. His goiter popped out every time he swallowed. It looked as if a squirrel was inside his neck and was trying desperately to escape. Alas, it could only go up and down like a yoyo. His, large hook nose, an eagle's beak, constantly dripped. When I got sick to my stomach watching each drip, I told him, "Use a handkerchief, Ray."
Grinning, he pulled out a blue and white bandana. When he blew, it sounded like the U. S. Cavalry trumpet in John Wayne's movie, "She wore a Yellow Ribbon."
"You gonna eat 'im? You gonna eat 'im?" At least, that's what I thought he asked. Smiling, I nodded and stabbed another gob of upset worms on the hook. I cast them out. While I watched the tip, Ray kept talking. I nodded as if I understood him, but I didn't comprehend half of what he said. Oops. The rod's tip shuddered. "Get 'im, get 'im," Ray yelled.
I caught the second bullhead and put it on the stringer. When I dropped both fish in the water, they swam in different directions. Bullheads are dumb. Two boys near my age joined us. I didn't recognize them. I figured they lived on the other side of the river. They had rods and reels and worms. Ray went over to them. "Hey, if it ain't Dumb Ass," the taller boy said. "How are you doin', Dumb Ass?"
Ray grinned.
"Get outta here, Dumb Ass," the shorter boy screeched. "Get away from us. You're a crazy man."
Ray looked to me and grinned. His hands shook. His arms flapped. His eyes looked different, though, as if they were saying, "Help."
"Quit calling him names," I yelled. "His name's Ray Middlecamp, and he can't help himself. He's retarded."
"Yeah," said Ray, "I'm—what'd you say, Gordy?"
"Retarded."
Ray nodded. "Yeah, that's it."
The larger of the two boys approached me. "Hey, Shit Head," he snarled, "ya' wanna make somethin' outta it?" He grabbed at me. I grabbed at him. We fell. He was on top. My back felt the hot, hard boulder. Soon, I was on top. I put my knees on his shoulders and wiggled them like Dork does to mine. "I give. I give," he yelled. Which I usually yell, too.
"I'll let you up, but you first hafta apologize to Ray."
"Okay, okay." I let him up. Although, he shot me an evil look, he turned to Ray. "I'm sorry."
"Gordy won. Gordy won," yelled Ray whose arms flapped and hands jerked. Next, he turned to the kid. "What're you sorry about?"
"He's sorry he called you bad names," I told Ray.
"He didn't call me bad names," said Ray, grinning at the kid. "You're a nice guy, ain't cha?"
The kid looked to me. "See? Even he says I didn't do nothing wrong."
"You guys wanna fish here?" I asked.
"Yeah, we wanna fish here."
"Then, don't call him Dumb Ass."
Back to fishing, I caught more bullheads. The older kid came over to me. "Okay, I won't call him Dumb Ass no more. I promise."
I smiled and offered him my hand. He took it and we shook. "I'm Gordy Hoffman."
"I'm Pat Peck." He pointed to the younger kid. "That's my brother, Armin." Armin smiled and waved.
"Where you from?" I asked Pat.
"Pepper Avenue. Me and my brother go to Saints Peter and Paul grade school."
"Hmmm, that's why I don't know you. I go to Howe."
Ray jumped up and down, shook his hands, and flapped his arms. "Goody, goody, you guys are friends now, ain't cha?"
When it was time to return to my house, I lifted the stringer and hauled it to over my friends. "Here, you guys can have these."
"Jeez, thanks," said Pat. "What's your name again?"
"Gordy. Gordy Hoffman." On an extra-long way to my house, I walked my bike up the hill toward the Irving school playground and the Middlecamp house. Ray was at my side, all the time talking and me, all the time nodding. "Use your handkerchief, Ray."
Once again, I heard the U. S. Cavalry bugle. Now, it was my turn to grin.
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