When customers were few and sales were slow, Bob Martin slipped out the rear of the grocery store he co-owned in order to chat with Roman "Romie" Nelson, whose family lived directly behind the store. Bob and Romie talked and laughed while Bob helped tear apart cardboard boxes with his strong hands connected to large, muscular arms. He tossed easily the pieces into Romie's baler. That's how Romie earned a living, by selling baled cardboard or paper to nearby paper mills, to be used for producing new cardboard and paper products. Recycling is not a 21st century concept.
Romie was unlike most people because he was born with cerebral palsy. When he walked, a leg kicked out sideways while both hands reached for the sky and flailed this way and that, his torso seemingly uncertain, head bobbing all the while, facial muscles contorting, prompting an appearance of anguish. All that bodily undertaking seemed to aid him in his quest to remain perpendicular. Down came the foot. Then, the opposite leg kicked out sideways, followed by similar lurching movements. It took him much time to walk but a few yards.
With a bass voice, Romie spoke each word haltingly, hesitantly. I had difficulty understanding him. If I managed to untangle what he said, I nodded and smiled. If I didn't comprehend, I still nodded and smiled, which upset him because I should've been shaking instead of nodding. I understood his subsequent cussing me out, however.
At times, Romie failed to maintain his balance. He fell to the grass, dirt, asphalt, or concrete. Although he seemed to have similar problems as a turtle laid on its back, he refused anyone's offer of help—loudly cussing the individual who persisted.
Although his body was affected by the disease, Romie's intelligence was not. Defending his need for independence, he rode a large tricycle all over town with a basket on the rear, his torso lurching left, right, forward, backward, his head bobbing, face wearing its distressed appearance, feet miraculously managing to remain on the pedals.
Days after Bob Martin's murder-suicide, it seemed all our neighbors devoured details about the incident with insatiable appetites —including the white haired, toothless lady who every day but Sunday hauled a kid's wagon three city blocks down Eleventh Street to Turbin's grocery store. She returned home with Virginia Dare wine bottles, one standing, three lying in the wagon, clinking against each other. She claimed the wine was for her and her husband. I believed she drank them all. As she cackled like the witch in Oz, she wisely told me the more I learned about the horrible incident, the greater the chance my disbelief might disappear. No one could explain why a kind and decent man committed murder and suicide.
The glossy, slow moving black Cadillac hearse, carrying his casket with flowers on its shiny steel cover, made its way east on Baker Street, which was the most direct route to Mount Calvary cemetery. The Kells' home faced Baker Street. We were in their front yard, playing tag, and we suddenly stopped. "Is that Bob?" I asked.
"I believe so," said Bobby Kell, pointing toward Peters and Martin's grocery store where Romie Nelson stood on the corner. "Looks like Romie's saluting," observed Bobby.
"He's saluting," all right," chimed in Jimmy, Bobby's older brother. "Dad said Bob was going to be buried today. His wife's at a different funeral home."
"He's a murderer," said Hen House Helen Kell. While we three boys glared at her, I fought the thought that she was the sole realist among us
Whenever funeral processions made their way on Baker Street during those warm months when we didn't attend school, we stopped whatever we were doing and silently observed the vehicles and the people inside until the last car with its headlights shining passed us by. Then, we'd invariably and happily recite:
Romie was unlike most people because he was born with cerebral palsy. When he walked, a leg kicked out sideways while both hands reached for the sky and flailed this way and that, his torso seemingly uncertain, head bobbing all the while, facial muscles contorting, prompting an appearance of anguish. All that bodily undertaking seemed to aid him in his quest to remain perpendicular. Down came the foot. Then, the opposite leg kicked out sideways, followed by similar lurching movements. It took him much time to walk but a few yards.
With a bass voice, Romie spoke each word haltingly, hesitantly. I had difficulty understanding him. If I managed to untangle what he said, I nodded and smiled. If I didn't comprehend, I still nodded and smiled, which upset him because I should've been shaking instead of nodding. I understood his subsequent cussing me out, however.
At times, Romie failed to maintain his balance. He fell to the grass, dirt, asphalt, or concrete. Although he seemed to have similar problems as a turtle laid on its back, he refused anyone's offer of help—loudly cussing the individual who persisted.
Although his body was affected by the disease, Romie's intelligence was not. Defending his need for independence, he rode a large tricycle all over town with a basket on the rear, his torso lurching left, right, forward, backward, his head bobbing, face wearing its distressed appearance, feet miraculously managing to remain on the pedals.
Days after Bob Martin's murder-suicide, it seemed all our neighbors devoured details about the incident with insatiable appetites —including the white haired, toothless lady who every day but Sunday hauled a kid's wagon three city blocks down Eleventh Street to Turbin's grocery store. She returned home with Virginia Dare wine bottles, one standing, three lying in the wagon, clinking against each other. She claimed the wine was for her and her husband. I believed she drank them all. As she cackled like the witch in Oz, she wisely told me the more I learned about the horrible incident, the greater the chance my disbelief might disappear. No one could explain why a kind and decent man committed murder and suicide.
The glossy, slow moving black Cadillac hearse, carrying his casket with flowers on its shiny steel cover, made its way east on Baker Street, which was the most direct route to Mount Calvary cemetery. The Kells' home faced Baker Street. We were in their front yard, playing tag, and we suddenly stopped. "Is that Bob?" I asked.
"I believe so," said Bobby Kell, pointing toward Peters and Martin's grocery store where Romie Nelson stood on the corner. "Looks like Romie's saluting," observed Bobby.
"He's saluting," all right," chimed in Jimmy, Bobby's older brother. "Dad said Bob was going to be buried today. His wife's at a different funeral home."
"He's a murderer," said Hen House Helen Kell. While we three boys glared at her, I fought the thought that she was the sole realist among us
Whenever funeral processions made their way on Baker Street during those warm months when we didn't attend school, we stopped whatever we were doing and silently observed the vehicles and the people inside until the last car with its headlights shining passed us by. Then, we'd invariably and happily recite:
"Don't laugh when a hearse goes by
For you may be the next to die.
They wrap you up in a big white sheet
From your head down to your feet.
They put you in a big black box
And cover you up with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week
Until your casket begins to leak.
The worms crawl in; the worms crawl out.
The worms play pinochle on your snout.
They eat your eyes; they eat your nose.
They eat the jelly between your toes.
A big green worm with rolling eyes
Crawls in your stomach and out your sides.
Your stomach turns a slimy green
And pus pours out like whipping cream.
You'll spread it on a slice of bread
And that's what you'll eat when you are dead."
For you may be the next to die.
They wrap you up in a big white sheet
From your head down to your feet.
They put you in a big black box
And cover you up with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week
Until your casket begins to leak.
The worms crawl in; the worms crawl out.
The worms play pinochle on your snout.
They eat your eyes; they eat your nose.
They eat the jelly between your toes.
A big green worm with rolling eyes
Crawls in your stomach and out your sides.
Your stomach turns a slimy green
And pus pours out like whipping cream.
You'll spread it on a slice of bread
And that's what you'll eat when you are dead."
We didn't recite it that day nor did we continue our game of tag.
* * *
"Bah-ah-ah-ahbbbbb's muh-uh-muh-my beh-beh-beh-beh-best fer-fer-fer-friend," Romie told me years later as he worked on a loom, making rugs. He had sold the baler.
As with Romie, I hold Bob's memory in kindest regard. I shall always remember the man who patiently waited, smiled, and called me, "Carrot Top."
"No, it's the carrot's bottom," I'd return. "A carrot's top is green."
Bob invariably chuckled good-humoredly and said, “You know, Carrot Top, I think you’re right."
* * *
"Bah-ah-ah-ahbbbbb's muh-uh-muh-my beh-beh-beh-beh-best fer-fer-fer-friend," Romie told me years later as he worked on a loom, making rugs. He had sold the baler.
As with Romie, I hold Bob's memory in kindest regard. I shall always remember the man who patiently waited, smiled, and called me, "Carrot Top."
"No, it's the carrot's bottom," I'd return. "A carrot's top is green."
Bob invariably chuckled good-humoredly and said, “You know, Carrot Top, I think you’re right."