Hi, Diary. It's Gordy.
It's past my bedtime. I was sleeping, but their arguing and fighting woke me up. Dad's so drunk, he's yelling in a language nobody understands. I don't think he understands it, either.
My good friend, Johnny Nelson, who lives across the street, says Brian and Rose, his dad and mom, start talking at night after they hear my parents "raising hell." That's what Brian says. It's embarrassing enough when that old drunk, Ed Turbin, the owner of Turbin's grocery store, complains to me about the loud noise coming from our house at night.
That's enough about the people who claim they're my parents. So, I'm going to tell you something funny that happened in Sherwood Forest a couple of months ago. By the way, I don't mean the forest in England. I mean the one right here in Wisconsin Rapids. In the Old Grove.
After most kids in the neighborhood saw the movie, we started to make believe we were Robin Hood and his merry men instead of Sergeant Stryker and his Marines on the sands of Iwo Jima. So, instead of carrying BAR's, M1 rifles, and flame throwers, we now carried swords, bow and arrows, and clubs, and since no one else wanted to be Friar Tuck, I said I'd be him.
"Why" asked Bobby Kell. He always asks why when I say something.
"Because he's funny and uses his big belly to knock over the Sheriff of Nottingham's men."
"But you don't have a big belly."
"Of course, I don't. Make believe I have a big stomach just as I make believe that piece of wood you're carrying is a sword." That must've satisfied him because Bobby didn't say anything else about my being Friar Tuck.
As Robin Hood's merry men, we climbed trees and sat on branches while holding on ever so tightly. Once we're settled in, we start to whistle or make crow sounds. "Caw, caw, caw."
I prefer to climb the huge white birch tree that has all kinds of initials cut into its bark. High school boys, mainly, cut their initials into the bark with jackknives. Under their initials, they form a plus sign with the blade, and under the plus sign they form their girlfriends' initials. Over time, those letters and plus signs turn black and stand out on the white bark, there to be viewed forever more. By the way, Diary, that plus sign means they love each other. Yuck.
Anyway, there we were in our trees, making noises as we looked out for the Sheriff of Nottingham's goons, his archers and swordsmen. No one among us chose to be a goon just like nobody wanted to be a Nazi or a Nip whenever we played War.
Our former Sergeant Stryker, Jimmy Kell, insisted on being Little John.
"I don't think that's fair," said Glen Peterson, Paul's younger but bigger brother. "Why do you always have to be the big wheel? Don't none of us ever get a chance?"
"No," said Jimmy, "because I'm the biggest."
"Not by much," countered Glen who's pretty big, himself.
"Well, you wanna fight to see who gets to be Robin Hood?"
Glen kind of laughed. "Me? I'm not gonna fight you."
"As I've told you," I whispered to Glen, "you've got common sense."
"Then, everybody listen up," yelled Jimmy, "I'm Little John."
"Well, then, I'm Robin Hood."
Startled, we looked around. Somebody asked, "Who said that?"
"I did." We now stared at Bobby Kell, who had volunteered to be our leader.
"Okay," said his older brother. "Then, you and me are gonna fight each other over a creek." He pronounced it Crick.
"There's no creek here," said Bobby." He pronounced creek the way it's spelled.
"There's that marsh down there." Jimmy pointed below, slightly beyond the hill's bottom. Sure enough, the not so large marsh had cattails and standing water where we catch little black pollywogs each spring and bring them home in glass jars. Eventually, and unfortunately for them, they all kick the bucket.
"That's no creek," said Bobby. "And I don't see no bridge, either.”
"That marsh has got water in it, doesn't it?" queried Jimmy.
"Yeah," said his brother.
"All of us can drag a couple of downed tree trunks," said Jimmy, "and place them end to end so they reach both sides of the marsh. Then, you and me can duel with sticks."
"Yaaay," the rest of us called out. This could be fun, watching the Kell brothers fight their way over the water on those downed trees, Bobby, our Robin Hood, ending up a wet hen.
Sooner than you could say Robinson Crusoe, we had a bridge of sorts "built" across that marsh. I got a little wet, helping make it. So, too, did Roger Aton. We didn't care much. Giggling, we knew Little John was going to knock Robin Hood into the water because that's the way it happened in the movie—and the book.
So, after the brothers found some good-sized sticks, Bobby and Jimmy faced each other on opposite ends of the narrow marsh while straddling the logs. Slowly tipping this way and that as if they were high wire walkers, they made their way toward each other in the middle of the marsh over the downed tree trunks. Unbelievably, Bobby struck first. No one was more surprised than Little John. He teetered far left, then far right, then farther left, his stick finally flying in the air. "Pa-splosh."
Our Little John sat in that marsh, his eyes larger than hubcaps, arms behind him, hands on the marsh's yucky, muddy bottom. He lifted one and looked at it, blacker than the ace of spades, his face redder than a fire engine. "Goddammit," he yelled as he tried to get up. First, he had to turn on his side and kneel in the stinky, muddy water, his blue jeans soaked, looking more like black jeans. As Jimmy finally stood, he yelled, "That's not fair," at his brother. "I was supposed to knock you in the water."
"Nobody told me that," said Bobby, yuck-yucking only the way Bobby could yuck-yuck, which was followed by the rest of us, noisily laughing as we applauded our Robin Hood's cleverness.
Jimmy, I mean, Little John, was the angriest I've ever seen him. "To hell with you guys," he roared, glaring at his younger brother and splashing through the marsh. Not surprisingly, not long after he was on dry land, he left us for, most likely, home to change into dry clothes. His shoes squeaked with each step, sounding like rusty Radio Flyer wagon wheels, needing to be oiled.
Then, I'll be Little John," said Glen Peterson after Jimmy was out of sight. He added, "But I ain't gonna fight Robin Hood. No way." That's when we ran back to our trees, climbed them, and made crow noises.
After Jimmy Kell's disappointing and undignified incident, he never returned to the Old Grove to play make-believe. "I'm too busy," he said, "helping Delbert Gumm, the driver of the Vradenburg Dairy milk truck."
By the way, Diary, you won't believe this. Vradenburg Dairy of Vesper, Wisconsin, is pronounced "Rainberg." Can you beat that?
It's past my bedtime. I was sleeping, but their arguing and fighting woke me up. Dad's so drunk, he's yelling in a language nobody understands. I don't think he understands it, either.
My good friend, Johnny Nelson, who lives across the street, says Brian and Rose, his dad and mom, start talking at night after they hear my parents "raising hell." That's what Brian says. It's embarrassing enough when that old drunk, Ed Turbin, the owner of Turbin's grocery store, complains to me about the loud noise coming from our house at night.
That's enough about the people who claim they're my parents. So, I'm going to tell you something funny that happened in Sherwood Forest a couple of months ago. By the way, I don't mean the forest in England. I mean the one right here in Wisconsin Rapids. In the Old Grove.
After most kids in the neighborhood saw the movie, we started to make believe we were Robin Hood and his merry men instead of Sergeant Stryker and his Marines on the sands of Iwo Jima. So, instead of carrying BAR's, M1 rifles, and flame throwers, we now carried swords, bow and arrows, and clubs, and since no one else wanted to be Friar Tuck, I said I'd be him.
"Why" asked Bobby Kell. He always asks why when I say something.
"Because he's funny and uses his big belly to knock over the Sheriff of Nottingham's men."
"But you don't have a big belly."
"Of course, I don't. Make believe I have a big stomach just as I make believe that piece of wood you're carrying is a sword." That must've satisfied him because Bobby didn't say anything else about my being Friar Tuck.
As Robin Hood's merry men, we climbed trees and sat on branches while holding on ever so tightly. Once we're settled in, we start to whistle or make crow sounds. "Caw, caw, caw."
I prefer to climb the huge white birch tree that has all kinds of initials cut into its bark. High school boys, mainly, cut their initials into the bark with jackknives. Under their initials, they form a plus sign with the blade, and under the plus sign they form their girlfriends' initials. Over time, those letters and plus signs turn black and stand out on the white bark, there to be viewed forever more. By the way, Diary, that plus sign means they love each other. Yuck.
Anyway, there we were in our trees, making noises as we looked out for the Sheriff of Nottingham's goons, his archers and swordsmen. No one among us chose to be a goon just like nobody wanted to be a Nazi or a Nip whenever we played War.
Our former Sergeant Stryker, Jimmy Kell, insisted on being Little John.
"I don't think that's fair," said Glen Peterson, Paul's younger but bigger brother. "Why do you always have to be the big wheel? Don't none of us ever get a chance?"
"No," said Jimmy, "because I'm the biggest."
"Not by much," countered Glen who's pretty big, himself.
"Well, you wanna fight to see who gets to be Robin Hood?"
Glen kind of laughed. "Me? I'm not gonna fight you."
"As I've told you," I whispered to Glen, "you've got common sense."
"Then, everybody listen up," yelled Jimmy, "I'm Little John."
"Well, then, I'm Robin Hood."
Startled, we looked around. Somebody asked, "Who said that?"
"I did." We now stared at Bobby Kell, who had volunteered to be our leader.
"Okay," said his older brother. "Then, you and me are gonna fight each other over a creek." He pronounced it Crick.
"There's no creek here," said Bobby." He pronounced creek the way it's spelled.
"There's that marsh down there." Jimmy pointed below, slightly beyond the hill's bottom. Sure enough, the not so large marsh had cattails and standing water where we catch little black pollywogs each spring and bring them home in glass jars. Eventually, and unfortunately for them, they all kick the bucket.
"That's no creek," said Bobby. "And I don't see no bridge, either.”
"That marsh has got water in it, doesn't it?" queried Jimmy.
"Yeah," said his brother.
"All of us can drag a couple of downed tree trunks," said Jimmy, "and place them end to end so they reach both sides of the marsh. Then, you and me can duel with sticks."
"Yaaay," the rest of us called out. This could be fun, watching the Kell brothers fight their way over the water on those downed trees, Bobby, our Robin Hood, ending up a wet hen.
Sooner than you could say Robinson Crusoe, we had a bridge of sorts "built" across that marsh. I got a little wet, helping make it. So, too, did Roger Aton. We didn't care much. Giggling, we knew Little John was going to knock Robin Hood into the water because that's the way it happened in the movie—and the book.
So, after the brothers found some good-sized sticks, Bobby and Jimmy faced each other on opposite ends of the narrow marsh while straddling the logs. Slowly tipping this way and that as if they were high wire walkers, they made their way toward each other in the middle of the marsh over the downed tree trunks. Unbelievably, Bobby struck first. No one was more surprised than Little John. He teetered far left, then far right, then farther left, his stick finally flying in the air. "Pa-splosh."
Our Little John sat in that marsh, his eyes larger than hubcaps, arms behind him, hands on the marsh's yucky, muddy bottom. He lifted one and looked at it, blacker than the ace of spades, his face redder than a fire engine. "Goddammit," he yelled as he tried to get up. First, he had to turn on his side and kneel in the stinky, muddy water, his blue jeans soaked, looking more like black jeans. As Jimmy finally stood, he yelled, "That's not fair," at his brother. "I was supposed to knock you in the water."
"Nobody told me that," said Bobby, yuck-yucking only the way Bobby could yuck-yuck, which was followed by the rest of us, noisily laughing as we applauded our Robin Hood's cleverness.
Jimmy, I mean, Little John, was the angriest I've ever seen him. "To hell with you guys," he roared, glaring at his younger brother and splashing through the marsh. Not surprisingly, not long after he was on dry land, he left us for, most likely, home to change into dry clothes. His shoes squeaked with each step, sounding like rusty Radio Flyer wagon wheels, needing to be oiled.
Then, I'll be Little John," said Glen Peterson after Jimmy was out of sight. He added, "But I ain't gonna fight Robin Hood. No way." That's when we ran back to our trees, climbed them, and made crow noises.
After Jimmy Kell's disappointing and undignified incident, he never returned to the Old Grove to play make-believe. "I'm too busy," he said, "helping Delbert Gumm, the driver of the Vradenburg Dairy milk truck."
By the way, Diary, you won't believe this. Vradenburg Dairy of Vesper, Wisconsin, is pronounced "Rainberg." Can you beat that?
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