In the time between my sixth and tenth years, Wisconsin Rapids' Old Grove was my refuge as well as the primary sanctuary for many kids my age. During summer vacation, we became free range children. Parents weren't as excitable in those days as parents are now. Mother was boss. She insisted I be home in time for the evening meal when everyone would be present, including father. Or else. Other than that, I was on my own.
The Old Grove was at the northern edge of Tenth Street. In fact, the Grove was the edge. Paths in the upper part with fewer trees twisted like blind snakes. A few feet north of those paths plummeted the steepest wooded hill in the city, with a worn path down its midsection. During winter, we kids flew down that path on sleds and cardboard and hard wood toboggans. My Flexible Flyer with steel runners was fastest, by far, and could outsteer any other sled on the hill. At least, that's what I claimed.
When first introduced to the Grove, I was advised the place was an Indian burial ground before white families settled Ahdawagam. Because we trampled on their bones, Indian souls haunted the Grove at night. No child dared venture there after dark, or he or she would never be heard from again.
Although the Old Grove was but a fifth-mile wide and an eighth-mile long, it was an entire world of all its own to us. At the hill's base, we'd hunt and catch frogs and pollywogs in a marsh surrounded by cattails and tall reeds. In the fall, strong north winds struck those reeds, prompting them to sound like beating wings of a frightened partridge.
A bespectacled, retired Protestant minister with a walking stick, followed by his loyal liver and white springer spaniel, made daily treks along the upper paths. Of medium build, he wore wire-rimmed glasses, had cirrus cloud-colored hair and salmon pink cheeks. He wore a dark suit coat and under it sported either a black or gray shirt without buttons. Around his neck he wore a white Roman collar. He bore a kind, satisfied face, one that kids could trust. Smiling, he greeted us with a nice, "Hello," and that was that. His dog paid us no heed.
After we'd return our salutations, he and dog continued their walk while we'd follow, hopefully without their knowledge. Trim and fit with the gait of a younger man, the reverend every once in a while stopped and looked around. I am certain he knew we shadowed him. In mere seconds, he scratched the path with his walking stick. Then, good-naturedly, master and dog continued on their way.
We waited for a while and when they were out of sight, we rushed to the spot where they had stopped. Expectedly, the minister had, once more, sketched three wide-eyed owls, father, mother, and baby, roosting on a tree branch. Silently, they stared up at us.
Because many feet wore away those paths, not with anger or resentment, but with a certain naturalness, the path owls didn't last long. No matter, each day we found fresh etchings and covered them with leaves and grass, hoping our acts might save the art work. Unfortunately, as with all the others, those birds vanished but happily newer ones appeared on subsequent days along the paths. Such a creative, kind, and generous man nobody should ever forget.
Some days, the Grove became our Sherwood Forest. Bobby insisted he was Little John while he appointed me as Robin Hood. Although I gave him orders and could shoot an arrow straighter than anyone else, Little John with stick in hand easily pushed me into the cattail fringed marsh, an act he accomplished with ease and too much glee as far as I was concerned.
Every boy in the grove became Tarzan at least once. We'd shout our offerings of Johnny Weismuller's jungle yodels but a couple of octaves higher. We hung from low branches, summoning either Cheetah, our rascally pet chimp, or our dependable elephant herd which arrived in the nick of time for our rescue, as did the Calvary toward the end of Saturday cowboy and Indian matinees at our three theaters, the Palace, Wisconsin, and Rapids.
Bobby's younger sister and mine, Hen House Helen and Scaredy Cat Annette, weren't too pleased to be Jane and Jean, twin sisters, since it was their boring but necessary roles to produce a tree house on the ground and tidy it up. Also, they fried fish we snatched from a pool beneath our house, that is, after we fought off crocodiles and killed them with sharpened Bowie knives.
At other times, I was Lash Larue, dressed in black with a black hat. I was astride an oil-slick black horse. Neither law abider nor outlaw but somewhere in between, I chomped on a half stogie as I faced outlaws with revolvers in hand.
I laid out my make-believe fifteen foot bull whip behind me, looking like a slick scaled python. With a horrendous back snap of my arm, I threw that asp forward just like the real Hollywood Lash, whacking and striking outlaws' hands that held pistols. The guns dropped to the ground as if they were molten steel and too hot to the touch. The outlaws grabbed their gun hands with free hands while screaming in pain. Moments later, all hands jerked for the sky. These bad guys, like all bad guys, were finished, all right. Good always wins out, or that's what we thought. Back then.
Bobby was Lash's twin brother, dressed in good-guy light clothing, rode a Palomino. I laughed at times because I thought my twin was a sissy.
There were days when we became Marines and brought along with us water-filled Army canteens our parents purchased at the Army-Navy surplus store. We held our rifles or pistols tightly as we crawled on the ground, hiding behind logs, shooting at Japs on the sands of Iwo Jima. Leading us ever onward was John Wayne, Jimmy Kell, Bobby's older brother. Jimmy was invariably top dog since he was bigger and more powerful than we. Bobby and I knew that might was indeed right.
Those were the days, the long ago days of kids in a world of their own, making their own fun, playing their own games, unsupervised and unaccompanied by adults. Thankfully.
The Old Grove was at the northern edge of Tenth Street. In fact, the Grove was the edge. Paths in the upper part with fewer trees twisted like blind snakes. A few feet north of those paths plummeted the steepest wooded hill in the city, with a worn path down its midsection. During winter, we kids flew down that path on sleds and cardboard and hard wood toboggans. My Flexible Flyer with steel runners was fastest, by far, and could outsteer any other sled on the hill. At least, that's what I claimed.
When first introduced to the Grove, I was advised the place was an Indian burial ground before white families settled Ahdawagam. Because we trampled on their bones, Indian souls haunted the Grove at night. No child dared venture there after dark, or he or she would never be heard from again.
Although the Old Grove was but a fifth-mile wide and an eighth-mile long, it was an entire world of all its own to us. At the hill's base, we'd hunt and catch frogs and pollywogs in a marsh surrounded by cattails and tall reeds. In the fall, strong north winds struck those reeds, prompting them to sound like beating wings of a frightened partridge.
A bespectacled, retired Protestant minister with a walking stick, followed by his loyal liver and white springer spaniel, made daily treks along the upper paths. Of medium build, he wore wire-rimmed glasses, had cirrus cloud-colored hair and salmon pink cheeks. He wore a dark suit coat and under it sported either a black or gray shirt without buttons. Around his neck he wore a white Roman collar. He bore a kind, satisfied face, one that kids could trust. Smiling, he greeted us with a nice, "Hello," and that was that. His dog paid us no heed.
After we'd return our salutations, he and dog continued their walk while we'd follow, hopefully without their knowledge. Trim and fit with the gait of a younger man, the reverend every once in a while stopped and looked around. I am certain he knew we shadowed him. In mere seconds, he scratched the path with his walking stick. Then, good-naturedly, master and dog continued on their way.
We waited for a while and when they were out of sight, we rushed to the spot where they had stopped. Expectedly, the minister had, once more, sketched three wide-eyed owls, father, mother, and baby, roosting on a tree branch. Silently, they stared up at us.
Because many feet wore away those paths, not with anger or resentment, but with a certain naturalness, the path owls didn't last long. No matter, each day we found fresh etchings and covered them with leaves and grass, hoping our acts might save the art work. Unfortunately, as with all the others, those birds vanished but happily newer ones appeared on subsequent days along the paths. Such a creative, kind, and generous man nobody should ever forget.
Some days, the Grove became our Sherwood Forest. Bobby insisted he was Little John while he appointed me as Robin Hood. Although I gave him orders and could shoot an arrow straighter than anyone else, Little John with stick in hand easily pushed me into the cattail fringed marsh, an act he accomplished with ease and too much glee as far as I was concerned.
Every boy in the grove became Tarzan at least once. We'd shout our offerings of Johnny Weismuller's jungle yodels but a couple of octaves higher. We hung from low branches, summoning either Cheetah, our rascally pet chimp, or our dependable elephant herd which arrived in the nick of time for our rescue, as did the Calvary toward the end of Saturday cowboy and Indian matinees at our three theaters, the Palace, Wisconsin, and Rapids.
Bobby's younger sister and mine, Hen House Helen and Scaredy Cat Annette, weren't too pleased to be Jane and Jean, twin sisters, since it was their boring but necessary roles to produce a tree house on the ground and tidy it up. Also, they fried fish we snatched from a pool beneath our house, that is, after we fought off crocodiles and killed them with sharpened Bowie knives.
At other times, I was Lash Larue, dressed in black with a black hat. I was astride an oil-slick black horse. Neither law abider nor outlaw but somewhere in between, I chomped on a half stogie as I faced outlaws with revolvers in hand.
I laid out my make-believe fifteen foot bull whip behind me, looking like a slick scaled python. With a horrendous back snap of my arm, I threw that asp forward just like the real Hollywood Lash, whacking and striking outlaws' hands that held pistols. The guns dropped to the ground as if they were molten steel and too hot to the touch. The outlaws grabbed their gun hands with free hands while screaming in pain. Moments later, all hands jerked for the sky. These bad guys, like all bad guys, were finished, all right. Good always wins out, or that's what we thought. Back then.
Bobby was Lash's twin brother, dressed in good-guy light clothing, rode a Palomino. I laughed at times because I thought my twin was a sissy.
There were days when we became Marines and brought along with us water-filled Army canteens our parents purchased at the Army-Navy surplus store. We held our rifles or pistols tightly as we crawled on the ground, hiding behind logs, shooting at Japs on the sands of Iwo Jima. Leading us ever onward was John Wayne, Jimmy Kell, Bobby's older brother. Jimmy was invariably top dog since he was bigger and more powerful than we. Bobby and I knew that might was indeed right.
Those were the days, the long ago days of kids in a world of their own, making their own fun, playing their own games, unsupervised and unaccompanied by adults. Thankfully.
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