Hi, Diary.
On Wednesday while the Peterson brothers, Paul and Glen, and I stood on Grand Avenue bridge, kind of bored, the three of us staring at our foamy, coffee-colored river slowly moving under us, we suddenly were aware of Julius "Snowball" Peters who, as usual, whenever he was around, was raising a ruckus.
Although it's normal for Snowball to call attention to himself, only he knows the answer why, and I doubt even he knows. Most likely, it's due to all the wine he "swills" (like a pig. Thank you, Reader's Digest "Word Power" page).
Snowball was behind the J C Penney store, which faces the river. He was screaming and cussing a blue streak and tossing into the river huge chunks of cardboard which must've had brand new refrigerators or stoves or washing machines or clothes dryers in them. As if the Wisconsin River wasn't dirty enough.
All the kids in town call him Snowball. Sometimes, he says nothing when we call him that. Other times, he goes wild and cusses a blue streak. And make no doubt about it, he's the dirtiest man in town. Never takes a bath. Never wears clean clothes. He's even dirtier than our long hair and bearded very silent oddball bike rider, Reuben Lindstrom, who thinks he's Jesus Christ. At least, that's what some people say.
The most miraculous thing: As filthy as Snowball is, his hair is as white as the whipped cream Mother spreads on top of her Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. Thus, his nickname. How Snowball's hair stays so white is anyone's guess because the rest of him is grime, grime, and more grime. I stood close to him one time and noticed his hands and fingers were darned near black and his fingernails were extra thick and yellowed like the a hundred-year-old piano with ivory keys made from elephants' tusks
I don't think either Snowball or Reuben own a bar of soap between them maybe because their mothers a long, long time ago washed their mouths out with Lifebuoy or Fels Naptha each and every day because they cussed so much as children. Both of them must've hated soap ever since.
"Look at that wino," yelled Paul. Paul doesn't just talk. He yells all the time.
"What's he saying?" asked his brother.
"It's 'Goddamn this and Goddamn that'," yelled Paul. "That's all he ever does is cuss besides guzzle cheap wine."
"Why's he tossing all that cardboard in the river?" I asked without needing a response. "Isn't it dirty enough?"
"The store owners probably pay him a few quarters for doing so. Then, he can buy a bottle of Mogen Davis," explained Glen.
"That's Mogen David," I said.
"Glen knows that," yelled Paul who, like Dork, thinks he knows everything. Truth is, neither does.
"You guys know where Snowball lives?"
"The Grand Rapids town dump," yelled Paul.
"Nah," I said, "how can he live in a dump? You're joshing."
"No, I'm not. Doesn't Snowball live in the dump?" Paul yelled at his brother.
"That's what Dad says," affirmed Glen.
"See?" Paul yelled at me.
"How does your dad know?" I asked.
"He knows just about everything," was Paul's extra loud response.
"That's true," affirmed Glen, "Dad knows more than what's in all the encyclopedias in our public library."
"If that's true," I thought to myself, "then why does he carry a lunch pail and walk to work at the Preway stove factory?" Of course, I kept that thought to myself. If I hadn't, I'd have to fight both Paul and Glen. I can whip Paul, but not Glen. "Why don't we ride out to the dump and see for ourselves?" I said.
"You know," Paul yelled, eyeballing Glen, "that ain't such a bad idea. Maybe we can find some parts there for a soap box derby racer."
"Yeah," said Glen who always agrees with his brother, "that's a good idea."
"Let's go this afternoon," yelled his brother.
"Why this afternoon?" I asked.
"Because Snowball's in town. He doesn’t own a car or a bike. It'll take him a while to walk all the way out to that dump."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Glen.
"That's why you need me. I got the brains of this outfit," yelled Paul.
"Yeah," said Glen, turning to me. "He gets straight A's all the time."
"Don't I know?" (Paul brags about how smart he is, even in the way he chews a Hershey candy bar at a Saturday matinee, teeny bites at a time and as slow as a snail. So, when everybody else is finished, he still has almost a whole bar left and then brags about it).
So, we walked up Baker Street hill to Leonard Habeck's Standard gas station on the corner of Eighth and Baker. We always stop there. Mainly because the owner, Len Habeck, cusses, and he doesn't mind us kids cussing, either. He's the only adult in town who allows us to cuss. Which is why we go there.
When we first approach him, he reaches out for our crotches and says, "Take a bow." He calls me "Doc," and we call him "Hot Pecker." He doesn't mind. Len's balder than a cue ball. He must make a lot of money at that station because he paid carpenters to build one of those newfangled ranch homes for him and his wife out by Children's Choice grade school near Lake Wazeecha.
"How's Doc today, and the two Polacks?"
"We ain't Polacks," Paul retorted loudly and forcefully.
"The hell ya ain't," said Len, chuckling. "I heard both of your mother's boyfriends came from Poland."
"That's baloney," screamed Paul. "My mother doesn't have boyfriends. She has a husband who is me and my brother's father."
Len shook his head and chuckled some more.
"Take that back," Paul warned, "or I'm gonna tell my dad. He'll kick your ass from here to Timbuktu. And I ain't shittin' you."
"Aw, ya know I was just kidding," said the older man.
"Take it back, then."
"Okay, okay, I take it back. Ya don't have to have a shit fit, for Chrissake. Ya got mighty thin skin, don't ya?" Len then suddenly changed the subject. "Whacha guys up to, huh?"
"We're gonna ride out to the Grand Rapids dump," I said "so we can find parts for a soap box derby racer."
"That dump, why? Why not go to the city dump? It has more shit than the Grand Rapids dump."
"Besides, Paul and Glen's dad says Snowball lives out there, and we want to see his shack."
"Hmmph," said Len, "I hear Snowball has a double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun, loaded with rock salt which he uses to shoot kids who dare enter that dump. Ya know how much rock salt hurts when it breaks the skin?"
We three shook our heads.
"Well, I'll tell you. If it doesn't kill ya, it hurts like hell until a doctor removes every bit of that salt from your hides. And I mean every bit."
I looked at my pals. "Maybe we shouldn't go. I don't want to be shot."
Paul laughed. "Habeck's bullshitting us, aren't you?"
"Me?" questioned Len. "Never happen."
"I'm not scared if you're not scared," I told Paul."
"Then, let's go and get our bikes," yelled Paul.
"If ya dumb shits get rock salt shot up your asses," said Len, "I'll visit ya in the hospital or at Krohn and Berard funeral home. Either way, I ain't buying flowers."
On Wednesday while the Peterson brothers, Paul and Glen, and I stood on Grand Avenue bridge, kind of bored, the three of us staring at our foamy, coffee-colored river slowly moving under us, we suddenly were aware of Julius "Snowball" Peters who, as usual, whenever he was around, was raising a ruckus.
Although it's normal for Snowball to call attention to himself, only he knows the answer why, and I doubt even he knows. Most likely, it's due to all the wine he "swills" (like a pig. Thank you, Reader's Digest "Word Power" page).
Snowball was behind the J C Penney store, which faces the river. He was screaming and cussing a blue streak and tossing into the river huge chunks of cardboard which must've had brand new refrigerators or stoves or washing machines or clothes dryers in them. As if the Wisconsin River wasn't dirty enough.
All the kids in town call him Snowball. Sometimes, he says nothing when we call him that. Other times, he goes wild and cusses a blue streak. And make no doubt about it, he's the dirtiest man in town. Never takes a bath. Never wears clean clothes. He's even dirtier than our long hair and bearded very silent oddball bike rider, Reuben Lindstrom, who thinks he's Jesus Christ. At least, that's what some people say.
The most miraculous thing: As filthy as Snowball is, his hair is as white as the whipped cream Mother spreads on top of her Thanksgiving pumpkin pie. Thus, his nickname. How Snowball's hair stays so white is anyone's guess because the rest of him is grime, grime, and more grime. I stood close to him one time and noticed his hands and fingers were darned near black and his fingernails were extra thick and yellowed like the a hundred-year-old piano with ivory keys made from elephants' tusks
I don't think either Snowball or Reuben own a bar of soap between them maybe because their mothers a long, long time ago washed their mouths out with Lifebuoy or Fels Naptha each and every day because they cussed so much as children. Both of them must've hated soap ever since.
"Look at that wino," yelled Paul. Paul doesn't just talk. He yells all the time.
"What's he saying?" asked his brother.
"It's 'Goddamn this and Goddamn that'," yelled Paul. "That's all he ever does is cuss besides guzzle cheap wine."
"Why's he tossing all that cardboard in the river?" I asked without needing a response. "Isn't it dirty enough?"
"The store owners probably pay him a few quarters for doing so. Then, he can buy a bottle of Mogen Davis," explained Glen.
"That's Mogen David," I said.
"Glen knows that," yelled Paul who, like Dork, thinks he knows everything. Truth is, neither does.
"You guys know where Snowball lives?"
"The Grand Rapids town dump," yelled Paul.
"Nah," I said, "how can he live in a dump? You're joshing."
"No, I'm not. Doesn't Snowball live in the dump?" Paul yelled at his brother.
"That's what Dad says," affirmed Glen.
"See?" Paul yelled at me.
"How does your dad know?" I asked.
"He knows just about everything," was Paul's extra loud response.
"That's true," affirmed Glen, "Dad knows more than what's in all the encyclopedias in our public library."
"If that's true," I thought to myself, "then why does he carry a lunch pail and walk to work at the Preway stove factory?" Of course, I kept that thought to myself. If I hadn't, I'd have to fight both Paul and Glen. I can whip Paul, but not Glen. "Why don't we ride out to the dump and see for ourselves?" I said.
"You know," Paul yelled, eyeballing Glen, "that ain't such a bad idea. Maybe we can find some parts there for a soap box derby racer."
"Yeah," said Glen who always agrees with his brother, "that's a good idea."
"Let's go this afternoon," yelled his brother.
"Why this afternoon?" I asked.
"Because Snowball's in town. He doesn’t own a car or a bike. It'll take him a while to walk all the way out to that dump."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Glen.
"That's why you need me. I got the brains of this outfit," yelled Paul.
"Yeah," said Glen, turning to me. "He gets straight A's all the time."
"Don't I know?" (Paul brags about how smart he is, even in the way he chews a Hershey candy bar at a Saturday matinee, teeny bites at a time and as slow as a snail. So, when everybody else is finished, he still has almost a whole bar left and then brags about it).
So, we walked up Baker Street hill to Leonard Habeck's Standard gas station on the corner of Eighth and Baker. We always stop there. Mainly because the owner, Len Habeck, cusses, and he doesn't mind us kids cussing, either. He's the only adult in town who allows us to cuss. Which is why we go there.
When we first approach him, he reaches out for our crotches and says, "Take a bow." He calls me "Doc," and we call him "Hot Pecker." He doesn't mind. Len's balder than a cue ball. He must make a lot of money at that station because he paid carpenters to build one of those newfangled ranch homes for him and his wife out by Children's Choice grade school near Lake Wazeecha.
"How's Doc today, and the two Polacks?"
"We ain't Polacks," Paul retorted loudly and forcefully.
"The hell ya ain't," said Len, chuckling. "I heard both of your mother's boyfriends came from Poland."
"That's baloney," screamed Paul. "My mother doesn't have boyfriends. She has a husband who is me and my brother's father."
Len shook his head and chuckled some more.
"Take that back," Paul warned, "or I'm gonna tell my dad. He'll kick your ass from here to Timbuktu. And I ain't shittin' you."
"Aw, ya know I was just kidding," said the older man.
"Take it back, then."
"Okay, okay, I take it back. Ya don't have to have a shit fit, for Chrissake. Ya got mighty thin skin, don't ya?" Len then suddenly changed the subject. "Whacha guys up to, huh?"
"We're gonna ride out to the Grand Rapids dump," I said "so we can find parts for a soap box derby racer."
"That dump, why? Why not go to the city dump? It has more shit than the Grand Rapids dump."
"Besides, Paul and Glen's dad says Snowball lives out there, and we want to see his shack."
"Hmmph," said Len, "I hear Snowball has a double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun, loaded with rock salt which he uses to shoot kids who dare enter that dump. Ya know how much rock salt hurts when it breaks the skin?"
We three shook our heads.
"Well, I'll tell you. If it doesn't kill ya, it hurts like hell until a doctor removes every bit of that salt from your hides. And I mean every bit."
I looked at my pals. "Maybe we shouldn't go. I don't want to be shot."
Paul laughed. "Habeck's bullshitting us, aren't you?"
"Me?" questioned Len. "Never happen."
"I'm not scared if you're not scared," I told Paul."
"Then, let's go and get our bikes," yelled Paul.
"If ya dumb shits get rock salt shot up your asses," said Len, "I'll visit ya in the hospital or at Krohn and Berard funeral home. Either way, I ain't buying flowers."
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