Sound the trumpets. Introducing the one and only Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman. Yes, it's I, Diary. I haven't retrieved you from your hiding place in a long time because this Crazy Hoffman House has me totally bewildered. So, why am I writing this night of all nights, then?
Trumpets, repeat the call. It's a long story. Part of today's reason for writing is the date. May 8th. My birthday. I'm no longer an eleven-year-old kid. I'm twelve. Only six more years until I'm in the United States Navy.
However, you wouldn't have known it was my special day today. Seems I was the only Hoffman in the world who knew I turned a year older. My parents said nothing in the morning. Older brothers ignored me, which is nothing unusual for Doc III and Precious Will-yum. Crazy Annie and Little Pete also kept their yaps shut.
"Is there something you want to wish me?" I asked Little Pete.
Eyeballing me as if I was Looney Tunes, he walked away, mumbling incoherently.
Around four O'clock in the afternoon, I was feeling kind of sorry for myself as my buddies, the Peterson and Kell brothers, and I played mumbly peg on our front lawn.
As usual, Mother had warned especially me not to tell anyone about Dad's being in Alcoholics Anonymous. "It would hurt your father's medical practice," she said.
He never kept his drinking a secret. And it seems like everything hurts Dad's medical practice, according to Mother. So, I decided to get even with my so-called family. Not only did I tell my friends it was my birthday, I also told them about Dad.
"Bill K. and Dick B. take him to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings at the Elks Club. That's where Dad did a lot of his drinking until he realized he could buy his own bottles, get drunker than a skunk, and save a lot of money. He stored them in his X-ray room and returned there after he finished his house calls to drink ."
I continued with glee. "He and Mother get along now. Kind of. Dad even took her out to a supper club one night, celebrating his being sober. They arrived home late, laughing so hard I thought they were arguing and yelling again."
"So, who cares about that?" asked Jimmy Kell. "What I want to know is what 'd ya get?"
"What do you mean, what did I get?"
"Damn it. For your birthday?"
"Oh, that. Nothing."
"Nothing, why?"
I shrugged.
"Are you certain it's your birthday?" asked Johnny.
"I should know it's my own birthday. Shouldn't I?"
"Maybe everyone else forgot," offered Jimmy.
"You think?' I said angrily. "Did your dad or mom or Betty Ann or Hen House Helen or Bobby ever forget yours?"
Jimmy didn't answer. His brother, Bobby, did. "Your family members are human," explained our neighborhood philosopher, "and humans make mistakes. Since there are five Hoffman kids, it could be easy to forget one kid's birthday."
"Tell me," I said, "did your parents or sister ever forget your birthday?"
Silence.
"I didn't think so," I said.
"And don't stab my shoe because you're pissed off," screamed Paul, my mumbly peg opponent, whose normal tone of voice is a series of screams.
I poised my jackknife with one good blade, preparing to throw. Doc III broke the other two blades, trying to pry open Crazy Annie's piggy bank. Ever so slowly, I aimed my eyes at a spot on the lawn exactly one foot away from Paul's left shoe, but no more than a foot because the throw wouldn't count at all if it landed farther than a foot. Then, it would be Paul's turn to make me stretch, which I knew I couldn't do. I figured if I could stick my knife where I wanted to, I'd be the winner.
"Maybe you've been correct all along," said Paul.
I figured he was trying to unnerve me. So, I grunted, "About what?"
"Maybe your parents aren't your parents, after all."
He unnerved me. "Huh? Why'd you say that?"
"Well, you keep telling us your Dad found you in a patient's furnace when you were a little baby."
"I haven't said that in a long time."
Glen cackled like a rooster, eyeballing a new hen in the barnyard. "So, Hoffman, you big bull shitter, are you gonna tell your folks it's your birthday? Or not?"
"Not."
"Then, stop your bitching. It's your turn to throw. So, throw," he growled. Glen had lost an earlier round to me.
"Hold your horses. I'm eyeballing a spot exactly—" Holding my breath, I threw. The blade stuck. The knife stood straight up and down.
"Hah, that's over a foot," announced Paul, blaring what should've been a chortle.
"Is not," I countered.
"Is, too," he said.
"Gordy's right. That's not even close to a foot," said Jimmy.
"Is too," said Glen, sticking up for his brother. "Anybody got a ruler?"
"We don't need one," laughed Bobby. "That's definitely under a foot."
"Well," Paul said, "then I quit."
"You can't quit," I yelled. "You lost, fair and square."
"I did not."
"Hey," it's your dad," warned Jimmy Kell.
Paul and I stopped arguing as Dad drove the Oldsmobile on to our driveway.
That's all I can write for now, Diary. I'm tired. So, I'm going to put you away. I promise I'll write more tomorrow. Really, I promise.
Trumpets, repeat the call. It's a long story. Part of today's reason for writing is the date. May 8th. My birthday. I'm no longer an eleven-year-old kid. I'm twelve. Only six more years until I'm in the United States Navy.
However, you wouldn't have known it was my special day today. Seems I was the only Hoffman in the world who knew I turned a year older. My parents said nothing in the morning. Older brothers ignored me, which is nothing unusual for Doc III and Precious Will-yum. Crazy Annie and Little Pete also kept their yaps shut.
"Is there something you want to wish me?" I asked Little Pete.
Eyeballing me as if I was Looney Tunes, he walked away, mumbling incoherently.
Around four O'clock in the afternoon, I was feeling kind of sorry for myself as my buddies, the Peterson and Kell brothers, and I played mumbly peg on our front lawn.
As usual, Mother had warned especially me not to tell anyone about Dad's being in Alcoholics Anonymous. "It would hurt your father's medical practice," she said.
He never kept his drinking a secret. And it seems like everything hurts Dad's medical practice, according to Mother. So, I decided to get even with my so-called family. Not only did I tell my friends it was my birthday, I also told them about Dad.
"Bill K. and Dick B. take him to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings at the Elks Club. That's where Dad did a lot of his drinking until he realized he could buy his own bottles, get drunker than a skunk, and save a lot of money. He stored them in his X-ray room and returned there after he finished his house calls to drink ."
I continued with glee. "He and Mother get along now. Kind of. Dad even took her out to a supper club one night, celebrating his being sober. They arrived home late, laughing so hard I thought they were arguing and yelling again."
"So, who cares about that?" asked Jimmy Kell. "What I want to know is what 'd ya get?"
"What do you mean, what did I get?"
"Damn it. For your birthday?"
"Oh, that. Nothing."
"Nothing, why?"
I shrugged.
"Are you certain it's your birthday?" asked Johnny.
"I should know it's my own birthday. Shouldn't I?"
"Maybe everyone else forgot," offered Jimmy.
"You think?' I said angrily. "Did your dad or mom or Betty Ann or Hen House Helen or Bobby ever forget yours?"
Jimmy didn't answer. His brother, Bobby, did. "Your family members are human," explained our neighborhood philosopher, "and humans make mistakes. Since there are five Hoffman kids, it could be easy to forget one kid's birthday."
"Tell me," I said, "did your parents or sister ever forget your birthday?"
Silence.
"I didn't think so," I said.
"And don't stab my shoe because you're pissed off," screamed Paul, my mumbly peg opponent, whose normal tone of voice is a series of screams.
I poised my jackknife with one good blade, preparing to throw. Doc III broke the other two blades, trying to pry open Crazy Annie's piggy bank. Ever so slowly, I aimed my eyes at a spot on the lawn exactly one foot away from Paul's left shoe, but no more than a foot because the throw wouldn't count at all if it landed farther than a foot. Then, it would be Paul's turn to make me stretch, which I knew I couldn't do. I figured if I could stick my knife where I wanted to, I'd be the winner.
"Maybe you've been correct all along," said Paul.
I figured he was trying to unnerve me. So, I grunted, "About what?"
"Maybe your parents aren't your parents, after all."
He unnerved me. "Huh? Why'd you say that?"
"Well, you keep telling us your Dad found you in a patient's furnace when you were a little baby."
"I haven't said that in a long time."
Glen cackled like a rooster, eyeballing a new hen in the barnyard. "So, Hoffman, you big bull shitter, are you gonna tell your folks it's your birthday? Or not?"
"Not."
"Then, stop your bitching. It's your turn to throw. So, throw," he growled. Glen had lost an earlier round to me.
"Hold your horses. I'm eyeballing a spot exactly—" Holding my breath, I threw. The blade stuck. The knife stood straight up and down.
"Hah, that's over a foot," announced Paul, blaring what should've been a chortle.
"Is not," I countered.
"Is, too," he said.
"Gordy's right. That's not even close to a foot," said Jimmy.
"Is too," said Glen, sticking up for his brother. "Anybody got a ruler?"
"We don't need one," laughed Bobby. "That's definitely under a foot."
"Well," Paul said, "then I quit."
"You can't quit," I yelled. "You lost, fair and square."
"I did not."
"Hey," it's your dad," warned Jimmy Kell.
Paul and I stopped arguing as Dad drove the Oldsmobile on to our driveway.
That's all I can write for now, Diary. I'm tired. So, I'm going to put you away. I promise I'll write more tomorrow. Really, I promise.
RSS Feed