Ray and Rosie Middlecamp, dark haired string bean siblings in their mid-thirties to early forties were each well over six feet tall. Neither Ray nor Rosie had advanced mentally or emotionally beyond early childhood although their parents and siblings were Harvard smart. The Middlecamp family lived on a corner of 11th Street, across from the Irving Grade School playground. Adults warned neighborhood kids to not make fun of the pair. "That's the way God made them," they warned. "They can't help themselves."
Ray and Rosie wore ceaseless grins, she with buck teeth and saliva slicked, red chin. Their parents protected them by insisting they act properly in public. They did so, with parents present. On their own, Ray and Rosie had lapses because that's the way they were. Rosie sought females "her age," most girls avoiding her. Ray accompanied boys who'd allow his presence. I was one who did so.
It was the summer of my eleventh year. Digging in our garden, I found enough worms to go fishing for bullheads in the Wisconsin River. Finished, I picked up the Hills Brothers coffee can, half-filled with dirt and worms, and grabbed my Montgomery Wards' casting rod with Shakespeare reel in the garage. I went indoors in order to snatch some fresh bread slices for bait which I'd use to catch carp. Frank Colacicco was sitting at the kitchen table.
"Wanna go fishing, Grampa?"
The white-haired man pulled on his pipe and slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Yes, I'll-ah go with you."
Although it was July, he wore a dark grey button down wool sweater over a checkered long-sleeved flannel shirt. His dark grey trousers drooped unmercifully in the rear. Be it summer or winter, he wore a one-piece buttoned-down-the-front union suit (long johns) with a buttoned flap in the rear. He chose wool for most months, but since it was going to be a hot day, cotton sufficed. He wore ankle high black work boots which he buffed and shined evenings before he'd go to the bedroom assigned to him, mine.
This fishing venture would be our last day together without the presence of other family members. Grampa carried the coffee can and bread while I held pole, reel, and steel tackle box with lures, hooks, bobbers, and lead weights. As we made our way to the corner of Tenth and Baker Streets, there stood Ray Middlecamp, smiling and waiting, as if he'd overheard our plan and intended to be part of it.
"Going fishing?" Ray's goiter jumped high in his giraffe-like neck as if it were a piano hammer, its duty to strike stretched steel in order to sound out a word and then return to its resting spot until the next word required its rise. Gangly arms whipsawed as if he had no control over them. His nose, reminiscent of a flamingo beak, received constant blowing which he covered with a red and black and white bandana. His trousers looked like Grampa's in the rear.
"You wanna come along?" I asked.
"Sure do." With that, Ray joined us. "Who are you?" he asked Grampa.
"I'm-ah Georgie's grandfather, Frank Kah-la-CHEEK-oh." Grampa thrust out a hand. Ray grabbed it and they shook.
"He's my grampa," I said.
Ray chuckled. "You a foreigner?" he asked Grampa.
"Nah, I'm-ah from Shee-kah-go, El-ah-noise."
"You don't sound like an American." Ray eyed me, "Does he?"
"Grampa was born in Italy, but he's American, all right."
We walked down Baker Street hill, made our way by the Witter hotel, and arrived at Daly's Drugstore. We took the gravel path adjacent to the store's east side, large enough for delivery trucks to park and unload there.
Looking down at the fast moving coffee-colored Wisconsin River, we grabbed onto the top steel guardrail. About three quarters of a mile of guardrail from the city's swimming pool down to the bridge had been erected atop a stone and concrete ledge, which was the actual top of a 10 to 12-foot stone and mortar wall that was meant to halt the river's flow from eating away additional land and carrying it downstream. As I pointed below to a concrete island, I told Grampa, "That's where we fish."
I bent over, held onto the middle guardrail, and kicked over a leg. The other leg next, both feet were now on top of the mortar and stone ledge. I grabbed one side of a black, but rusty steel ladder anchored to the wall and climbed down with my tackle box. On the island, l looked up.
Ray, reminding me of Ichabod Crane, stepped easily over the top rail, held onto worm can, bread, and rod and reel and descended the ladder lickety-split. Together, we looked up to Grampa, shading our eyes.
I had not considered the maneuver to be a problem. Now, I thought differently as the old man seriously eyed guardrail, ladder, and manmade island. Shaking his head, he nevertheless bent over, and slowly slid a shaking leg over the middle guardrail. He stopped to catch his breath. Somehow, the second foot managed to join the first. Grampa stood as straight as a shaking, elderly man could, holding onto the top guardrail. He turned to look down.
"It's okay, Grampa. "You'll be all right."
Ever so slowly, he descended the ladder. When Grampa stretched the short distance from ladder to island and finally stood on concrete, Ray began to clap. Happily, I followed suit. Grampa bowed like a premier actor before the curtains after the final act, realizing he had, as usual, pleased his audience and fully deserved their approval.
Ray and Rosie wore ceaseless grins, she with buck teeth and saliva slicked, red chin. Their parents protected them by insisting they act properly in public. They did so, with parents present. On their own, Ray and Rosie had lapses because that's the way they were. Rosie sought females "her age," most girls avoiding her. Ray accompanied boys who'd allow his presence. I was one who did so.
It was the summer of my eleventh year. Digging in our garden, I found enough worms to go fishing for bullheads in the Wisconsin River. Finished, I picked up the Hills Brothers coffee can, half-filled with dirt and worms, and grabbed my Montgomery Wards' casting rod with Shakespeare reel in the garage. I went indoors in order to snatch some fresh bread slices for bait which I'd use to catch carp. Frank Colacicco was sitting at the kitchen table.
"Wanna go fishing, Grampa?"
The white-haired man pulled on his pipe and slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Yes, I'll-ah go with you."
Although it was July, he wore a dark grey button down wool sweater over a checkered long-sleeved flannel shirt. His dark grey trousers drooped unmercifully in the rear. Be it summer or winter, he wore a one-piece buttoned-down-the-front union suit (long johns) with a buttoned flap in the rear. He chose wool for most months, but since it was going to be a hot day, cotton sufficed. He wore ankle high black work boots which he buffed and shined evenings before he'd go to the bedroom assigned to him, mine.
This fishing venture would be our last day together without the presence of other family members. Grampa carried the coffee can and bread while I held pole, reel, and steel tackle box with lures, hooks, bobbers, and lead weights. As we made our way to the corner of Tenth and Baker Streets, there stood Ray Middlecamp, smiling and waiting, as if he'd overheard our plan and intended to be part of it.
"Going fishing?" Ray's goiter jumped high in his giraffe-like neck as if it were a piano hammer, its duty to strike stretched steel in order to sound out a word and then return to its resting spot until the next word required its rise. Gangly arms whipsawed as if he had no control over them. His nose, reminiscent of a flamingo beak, received constant blowing which he covered with a red and black and white bandana. His trousers looked like Grampa's in the rear.
"You wanna come along?" I asked.
"Sure do." With that, Ray joined us. "Who are you?" he asked Grampa.
"I'm-ah Georgie's grandfather, Frank Kah-la-CHEEK-oh." Grampa thrust out a hand. Ray grabbed it and they shook.
"He's my grampa," I said.
Ray chuckled. "You a foreigner?" he asked Grampa.
"Nah, I'm-ah from Shee-kah-go, El-ah-noise."
"You don't sound like an American." Ray eyed me, "Does he?"
"Grampa was born in Italy, but he's American, all right."
We walked down Baker Street hill, made our way by the Witter hotel, and arrived at Daly's Drugstore. We took the gravel path adjacent to the store's east side, large enough for delivery trucks to park and unload there.
Looking down at the fast moving coffee-colored Wisconsin River, we grabbed onto the top steel guardrail. About three quarters of a mile of guardrail from the city's swimming pool down to the bridge had been erected atop a stone and concrete ledge, which was the actual top of a 10 to 12-foot stone and mortar wall that was meant to halt the river's flow from eating away additional land and carrying it downstream. As I pointed below to a concrete island, I told Grampa, "That's where we fish."
I bent over, held onto the middle guardrail, and kicked over a leg. The other leg next, both feet were now on top of the mortar and stone ledge. I grabbed one side of a black, but rusty steel ladder anchored to the wall and climbed down with my tackle box. On the island, l looked up.
Ray, reminding me of Ichabod Crane, stepped easily over the top rail, held onto worm can, bread, and rod and reel and descended the ladder lickety-split. Together, we looked up to Grampa, shading our eyes.
I had not considered the maneuver to be a problem. Now, I thought differently as the old man seriously eyed guardrail, ladder, and manmade island. Shaking his head, he nevertheless bent over, and slowly slid a shaking leg over the middle guardrail. He stopped to catch his breath. Somehow, the second foot managed to join the first. Grampa stood as straight as a shaking, elderly man could, holding onto the top guardrail. He turned to look down.
"It's okay, Grampa. "You'll be all right."
Ever so slowly, he descended the ladder. When Grampa stretched the short distance from ladder to island and finally stood on concrete, Ray began to clap. Happily, I followed suit. Grampa bowed like a premier actor before the curtains after the final act, realizing he had, as usual, pleased his audience and fully deserved their approval.
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