Every kid in the neighborhood, Diary, wondered what we should do when the funeral car carrying Bob Martin passed by us on Baker Street on its way to the cemetery. "We should stand and salute when Bob goes by," I suggested.
"Was he in the Army?" asked Johnny Farish.
"I don't think so," said Jimmy Kell.
"You can salute, anyway, even if he wasn't in Army," offered Johnny Nelson.
"I agree," said Bobby Kell. "A salute means you're showing respect."
"We could stand on the sidewalk and make believe we're watching a parade," yelled Paul Peterson. Even Paul's whispers are loud.
"That's stupid," said Hen House Helen Kell. "It's a funeral, a time for silence and respect."
"Does anyone even know when he's going to pass by?" asked Crazy Annie, my sister, the very first time she proved to me she had a brain. The rest of us shrugged. "Are you guys ever dumb," said my sister.
Giggling, the youngest Kell, Betty Ann, said, "Don't you think you ought to find out when the hearse is going by?"
"And how do we do that?" demanded Glen Peterson, moving toward Betty Ann, attempting to bully her with his size.
"It'll most likely be announced in the Tribune," said Hen House.
"The Chicago Tribune?" I asked.
"What a dumbbell," laughed Hen House, looking straight at me with arms akimbo. (Thank you, RDWP). "Why would anyone in Chicago be interested when Bob Martin's body is being taken to the cemetery? I meant our Daily Tribune."
At that moment, I recalled what Leonard Habeck at the Standard gas station told me: "Doc, a man should never argue with a woman. If he's right, she'll cry. If he's wrong, she'll either call him a dumb ass or think he's one. Either way, he loses."
"Okay," I said, "I'll tell you what. I'll go down to Baker Mortuary and find out."
The others looked at me as if I was crazy. "You'll do what?" yelled Paul.
"They won't let kids in there," warned Johnny Nelson.
"You'll see," I said, "I'll find out."
The next morning, shortly after nine O'clock, I mounted the Schwinn and made my way down the hill to First Street, once again. This time, I saw the tall man with white hair and red face, walking toward me. He wore dark blue trousers, white shirt, striped tie, and shiny black shoes. I put on the brakes and dismounted. He smiled. "You again?"
"Yes, sir."
"Were you able to say your farewell on that rock?"
I nodded.
"That's good. What's your name, son?"
"Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman."
The man with red face and white hair chuckled good naturedly. "I assume your father is Doctor Hoffman."
"Yes, sir."
As he extended his hand, I pushed out mine. With my hand hidden in his, he nearly shook my arm off. "I'm George Baker." He pointed to the white building with pillars. "And that belongs to me and my wife."
"So, you're the undertaker."
He chuckled again. "I prefer Funeral Director."
"Yes, sir, funeral director. Can you tell me when you'll be taking Bob to the cemetery? All of us kids who live near Peters and Martin's grocery store want to show how much we cared for Bob."
"I assume he must've been a kind and generous man."
As I nodded, I felt unwanted tears form. "Yes, sir," I managed. "He was a good man, a friend to all us kids and Romie Nelson with cerebral palsy. And everybody else. Bob called me Carrot Top." I managed to smile.
The funeral director nodded. "His passing must have been a shock to you all."
"Yes, sir, it was." By this time, I was bawling.
"Tell your friends to be on Baker Street shortly before two O'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, sir. Thank you very much." I spread the news in the afternoon.
The next day, Crazy Annie and I and all the Kell kids, plus additional kids and adults we didn't even know, stood on both sides of Baker Street, waiting. Paul and Glen and both Johnnies didn't show up. Mrs. Kell waited on the front steps.
Finally, Betty Ann was the first to spot the police car that led the slow-moving cortege. (Thank you, RDWP). Mister Baker wasn't driving the funeral car, but he must've told the driver to slow almost to a halt as he reached us. I saluted. Everyone was sad and silent. Me included. A moment later, that changed. I figured the cop turned on the squad's siren, but after the last car with its headlights on passed by, I discovered it wasn't a siren at all. Instead, it was Romie Nelson. He was crying uncontrollably as his dad stood by his side, barely holding Romie upright. Other men rushed to help his dad hold up his distraught son.
Fifteen minutes later, we played hide and seek at the Kell house. I hid in the garage. Nobody found me, of course, in that messy garage as I thought about how I'd miss Bob Martin for the rest of my life.
"Was he in the Army?" asked Johnny Farish.
"I don't think so," said Jimmy Kell.
"You can salute, anyway, even if he wasn't in Army," offered Johnny Nelson.
"I agree," said Bobby Kell. "A salute means you're showing respect."
"We could stand on the sidewalk and make believe we're watching a parade," yelled Paul Peterson. Even Paul's whispers are loud.
"That's stupid," said Hen House Helen Kell. "It's a funeral, a time for silence and respect."
"Does anyone even know when he's going to pass by?" asked Crazy Annie, my sister, the very first time she proved to me she had a brain. The rest of us shrugged. "Are you guys ever dumb," said my sister.
Giggling, the youngest Kell, Betty Ann, said, "Don't you think you ought to find out when the hearse is going by?"
"And how do we do that?" demanded Glen Peterson, moving toward Betty Ann, attempting to bully her with his size.
"It'll most likely be announced in the Tribune," said Hen House.
"The Chicago Tribune?" I asked.
"What a dumbbell," laughed Hen House, looking straight at me with arms akimbo. (Thank you, RDWP). "Why would anyone in Chicago be interested when Bob Martin's body is being taken to the cemetery? I meant our Daily Tribune."
At that moment, I recalled what Leonard Habeck at the Standard gas station told me: "Doc, a man should never argue with a woman. If he's right, she'll cry. If he's wrong, she'll either call him a dumb ass or think he's one. Either way, he loses."
"Okay," I said, "I'll tell you what. I'll go down to Baker Mortuary and find out."
The others looked at me as if I was crazy. "You'll do what?" yelled Paul.
"They won't let kids in there," warned Johnny Nelson.
"You'll see," I said, "I'll find out."
The next morning, shortly after nine O'clock, I mounted the Schwinn and made my way down the hill to First Street, once again. This time, I saw the tall man with white hair and red face, walking toward me. He wore dark blue trousers, white shirt, striped tie, and shiny black shoes. I put on the brakes and dismounted. He smiled. "You again?"
"Yes, sir."
"Were you able to say your farewell on that rock?"
I nodded.
"That's good. What's your name, son?"
"Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman."
The man with red face and white hair chuckled good naturedly. "I assume your father is Doctor Hoffman."
"Yes, sir."
As he extended his hand, I pushed out mine. With my hand hidden in his, he nearly shook my arm off. "I'm George Baker." He pointed to the white building with pillars. "And that belongs to me and my wife."
"So, you're the undertaker."
He chuckled again. "I prefer Funeral Director."
"Yes, sir, funeral director. Can you tell me when you'll be taking Bob to the cemetery? All of us kids who live near Peters and Martin's grocery store want to show how much we cared for Bob."
"I assume he must've been a kind and generous man."
As I nodded, I felt unwanted tears form. "Yes, sir," I managed. "He was a good man, a friend to all us kids and Romie Nelson with cerebral palsy. And everybody else. Bob called me Carrot Top." I managed to smile.
The funeral director nodded. "His passing must have been a shock to you all."
"Yes, sir, it was." By this time, I was bawling.
"Tell your friends to be on Baker Street shortly before two O'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"Yes, sir. Thank you very much." I spread the news in the afternoon.
The next day, Crazy Annie and I and all the Kell kids, plus additional kids and adults we didn't even know, stood on both sides of Baker Street, waiting. Paul and Glen and both Johnnies didn't show up. Mrs. Kell waited on the front steps.
Finally, Betty Ann was the first to spot the police car that led the slow-moving cortege. (Thank you, RDWP). Mister Baker wasn't driving the funeral car, but he must've told the driver to slow almost to a halt as he reached us. I saluted. Everyone was sad and silent. Me included. A moment later, that changed. I figured the cop turned on the squad's siren, but after the last car with its headlights on passed by, I discovered it wasn't a siren at all. Instead, it was Romie Nelson. He was crying uncontrollably as his dad stood by his side, barely holding Romie upright. Other men rushed to help his dad hold up his distraught son.
Fifteen minutes later, we played hide and seek at the Kell house. I hid in the garage. Nobody found me, of course, in that messy garage as I thought about how I'd miss Bob Martin for the rest of my life.