Hi, Diary. Gordy here.
The empty lot next door is the neighborhood kids' playground. Has been for as long as we’ve lived here. Or I should write, it has been their playground. Kids often play softball there. I don’t. Most of the time. Why? I'm afraid of getting hit by a fast ball. When I'm the only kid available to even up the sides, the other kids insist I play. Whenever I'm at bat, I hold the bat wrong and Bobby Kell keeps yelling, "Look at the ball, Gordy. Look at the ball."
"Look at something that's going to hit me between the eyes? You’re crazy,” I yell back.
Softball has its "Rock Rules." If the ball lands on a rock pile and can be easily retrieved by an outfielder, it's called a "Foul." The batter gets another chance to slug away. However, if the ball drops into a hole and an outfielder must remove a bunch of rocks to get it, then it's called, "Out.” Next batter up.
I usually sit on my doodlebug and watch. Sometimes, when a player sees me, he'll raise a hand and yell, "Halt." The game stops. Even if I want to watch, I must ride across the path that cuts the empty lot in half. At other times, a kid will see me and yell, "You'll have to ride on the sidewalk, Gordy. We're not gonna let you through." Well, I didn't want to ride through, anyway, but that usually means the score is closer than a pair of high school lovebirds.
There are times older boys appear at the lot and pole vault or high jump. Neighbors sit on their front or side porches, drink lemonade, and enjoy the competition. After a fellow clears the horizontal bar, folks cheer, whistle, and clap. If the young man knocks the bar off, they'll shout, "Nice try," or "Better luck next time." The fellow shakes his head and dusts himself off.
And don't forget the feral cats, Diary. While games are being played on the field, I sit on my doodlebug and make believe I can see them, crouching in black holes and crevices, growling angrily. Or do they shiver in fright? Who knows? Cats don't tell me. They can't talk.
Well, anyway, I wanted to tell you something about what's happening to the empty lot. A couple weeks ago, a man showed up. He was doing some measuring on the lot. I got off my doodlebug.
He looked at me and said, "Yeah?"
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"What's it look like?"
I shrugged. "Measuring, I guess. But why are you measuring?"
"Cuz somebody is paying me to measure."
"Oh." That really wasn't the answer I wanted. "What's your name, Mister?"
"Ed."
"Ed who?"
"Kinda nosy, ain't ya?"
"I guess."
"It's Kubisiak. Ed Kubisiak."
You won't believe this, Diary. He pronounces his last name, KOO-bih-shock. It should be Koo-BIS—ee-ack as most American sixth grade kids would pronounce K-u-b-i-s-i-a-k. A person never knows how a Polish name should sound by looking at how they’re spelled. For instance, Grandma and Grampa Tomaszewski, our neighbors across the street, pronounce their name Tom-ah-SHESS—kee. Tom-ah-ZOO-skee is the way most Americans would pronounce it.
"And who are you?"
"Uh, I'm Gordon Hoffman. Everyone calls me Gordy."
"Nice to meet you Gordy." Ed stuck out his hand, as a large as a gorilla's paw. Although my hand got lost in it, we shook anyway. Ed smiled. "Your dad's Doc Hoffman, right?"
"Right."
"He's our family doctor."
And that was that. Ed got busy with more measuring. I watched for a while, but he soon left in his pickup truck. I kind of forgot about him until one morning, not too long after Ed and I met, a dump truck showed up with a helper who rode "shotgun." Anyway, that's what Gabby Hayes would tell Roy Rogers. The helper got out of the truck, picked up rocks and chucked them into the truck's bed. The driver just watched even though his helper was sweating. Tossing rocks was definitely hard work. Plus the noise. I couldn't believe how noisy it was. I covered my ears with both hands. When he could see rocks piled above the truck's sides, the helper jumped into the cab. The driver started his engine, put it into gear, and took off. Later, the truck returned, empty. The helper got out and started to toss rocks again. Just before I was called in for supper, the empty lot was completely empty. Not one rock lay on the ground. "My cats," cried Crazy Annie as she sat at the kitchen table for supper. "Where will my cats stay tonight?"
"Not in our garage," I said.
"You're not funny, Gordy Hoffman."
"Who' trying to be funny?" (I guess I was, Diary, but I wouldn't admit it).
Neighborhood boys were as happy as could be. No more need to have Rock Rules. However, their joy didn't last long.
"A house? Who wants another house? It's our field, been that way forever, and by golly should stay that way forever," insisted one kid.
"And they should bring the rocks back so my cats have somewhere to live," yelled Crazy Annie.
"Cats? Who cares about dumb cats?" asked the same kid.
Hi, Diary. Gordy here.
The empty lot next door is the neighborhood kids' playground. Has been for as long as we’ve lived here. Or I should write, it has been their playground. Kids often play softball there. I don’t. Most of the time. Why? I'm afraid of getting hit by a fast ball. When I'm the only kid available to even up the sides, the other kids insist I play. Whenever I'm at bat, I hold the bat wrong and Bobby Kell keeps yelling, "Look at the ball, Gordy. Look at the ball."
"Look at something that's going to hit me between the eyes? You’re crazy,” I yell back.
Softball has its "Rock Rules." If the ball lands on a rock pile and can be easily retrieved by an outfielder, it's called a "Foul." The batter gets another chance to slug away. However, if the ball drops into a hole and an outfielder must remove a bunch of rocks to get it, then it's called, "Out.” Next batter up.
I usually sit on my doodlebug and watch. Sometimes, when a player sees me, he'll raise a hand and yell, "Halt." The game stops. Even if I want to watch, I must ride across the path that cuts the empty lot in half. At other times, a kid will see me and yell, "You'll have to ride on the sidewalk, Gordy. We're not gonna let you through." Well, I didn't want to ride through, anyway, but that usually means the score is closer than a pair of high school lovebirds.
There are times older boys appear at the lot and pole vault or high jump. Neighbors sit on their front or side porches, drink lemonade, and enjoy the competition. After a fellow clears the horizontal bar, folks cheer, whistle, and clap. If the young man knocks the bar off, they'll shout, "Nice try," or "Better luck next time." The fellow shakes his head and dusts himself off.
And don't forget the feral cats, Diary. While games are being played on the field, I sit on my doodlebug and make believe I can see them, crouching in black holes and crevices, growling angrily. Or do they shiver in fright? Who knows? Cats don't tell me. They can't talk.
Well, anyway, I wanted to tell you something about what's happening to the empty lot. A couple weeks ago, a man showed up. He was doing some measuring on the lot. I got off my doodlebug.
He looked at me and said, "Yeah?"
"What're you doing?" I asked.
"What's it look like?"
I shrugged. "Measuring, I guess. But why are you measuring?"
"Cuz somebody is paying me to measure."
"Oh." That really wasn't the answer I wanted. "What's your name, Mister?"
"Ed."
"Ed who?"
"Kinda nosy, ain't ya?"
"I guess."
"It's Kubisiak. Ed Kubisiak."
You won't believe this, Diary. He pronounces his last name, KOO-bih-shock. It should be Koo-BIS—ee-ack as most American sixth grade kids would pronounce K-u-b-i-s-i-a-k. A person never knows how a Polish name should sound by looking at how they’re spelled. For instance, Grandma and Grampa Tomaszewski, our neighbors across the street, pronounce their name Tom-ah-SHESS—kee. Tom-ah-ZOO-skee is the way most Americans would pronounce it.
"And who are you?"
"Uh, I'm Gordon Hoffman. Everyone calls me Gordy."
"Nice to meet you Gordy." Ed stuck out his hand, as a large as a gorilla's paw. Although my hand got lost in it, we shook anyway. Ed smiled. "Your dad's Doc Hoffman, right?"
"Right."
"He's our family doctor."
And that was that. Ed got busy with more measuring. I watched for a while, but he soon left in his pickup truck. I kind of forgot about him until one morning, not too long after Ed and I met, a dump truck showed up with a helper who rode "shotgun." Anyway, that's what Gabby Hayes would tell Roy Rogers. The helper got out of the truck, picked up rocks and chucked them into the truck's bed. The driver just watched even though his helper was sweating. Tossing rocks was definitely hard work. Plus the noise. I couldn't believe how noisy it was. I covered my ears with both hands. When he could see rocks piled above the truck's sides, the helper jumped into the cab. The driver started his engine, put it into gear, and took off. Later, the truck returned, empty. The helper got out and started to toss rocks again. Just before I was called in for supper, the empty lot was completely empty. Not one rock lay on the ground. "My cats," cried Crazy Annie as she sat at the kitchen table for supper. "Where will my cats stay tonight?"
"Not in our garage," I said.
"You're not funny, Gordy Hoffman."
"Who' trying to be funny?" (I guess I was, Diary, but I wouldn't admit it).
Neighborhood boys were as happy as could be. No more need to have Rock Rules. However, their joy didn't last long.
"A house? Who wants another house? It's our field, been that way forever, and by golly should stay that way forever," insisted one kid.
"And they should bring the rocks back so my cats have somewhere to live," yelled Crazy Annie.
"Cats? Who cares about dumb cats?" asked the same kid.
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