​This morning, Diary, I was terribly, horribly, and utterly wrong.  I figured it was going to be a great day since I woke up in a dry bed.  Moments later, I lay my head back on the pillow and fell asleep again.  I dreamt I heard "Clink" sounds.  I opened my eyes.  Then, I realized the sounds came from the side window.  I rose and raised its shade.  Standing there looking at me, Bobby Kell was ready to throw another pebble at the window but he said something, instead.  
 
"What?"  I asked.  
 
Bobby's face wrinkled like an old elephant's sagging skin.  "Bob Martin's dead."
 
That made no sense.  Bob's my favorite adult.  Anyway, he’s too young to die.  He has black hair not one gray hair.  He has one son who’s Little Pete's age.  Bob's soft spoken and smiles at everyone.  He even smiles when he waits on us kids as we take plenty of his time to figure what candy pieces we're going to buy with pennies we firmly hold in sweaty palms.  
 
Just about every day, Bob helps Romie Nelson, who was born with cerebral palsy.  When Romie walks, his body fights itself.  It leans dreadfully one way, then the other, as his hands reach for the sky to keep him from falling.  Sometimes, he does fall.  I can't understand him when he talks.  Then, he gets angry and cusses words I do understand.  
 
For years, Bob has helped Romie bale cardboard and paper Romie sold to Consolidated paper mill so Romie could buy his adult-sized trike and Badgers red and white jacket with a large W sewn on the front.  With Popeye-sized forearms and hands with Polish sausage-sized fingers, Bob rips apart cardboard meat boxes with such ease, you'd think they were pieces of paper.  "Just a sec.  I'm going to get dressed and come out."  Moments later, I was by Bobby's side.  "Are you sure Bob Martin did those things?"
 
"You can ask Albert.  He'll tell you.  He says she wanted expensive things Bob couldn't afford, like jewelry and fur coats.  Dad says she was a true bitch."
 
"Albert said that?"  After Bobby nodded, we ran to his house.  
 
What takes most people a minute or two to explain something, Albert Kell does it with a grunt, a drag on his Raleigh cigarette, the exhale accompanied by smoke and one word, perhaps two, but no more.  So, we stood before Albert in his overfilled garage with little spare space for even an ant to walk in.  "Dad, didn't Bob Martin shoot and kill his wife and then himself?"
 
Drawing on a cigarette that invariably (Thank you Readers Digest Word Power page) remained between his lips until it was a stub, Albert exhaled, "Yup."  
 
"Are you sure?" I pleaded.
 
"Think I'd lie about that?"  Those were the most words I ever heard him speak.  
 
"No."  That meant only one thing.  Bob Martin's soul was surely in hell or on its way there.  
 
"She was a true bitch," added Albert.  "Everyone liked Bob.  Not her." 
 
I knew what I had to do.  I left Bobby and Albert, ran to our garage, and rode my Schwinn to the white, clapboard Saints Peter and Paul Catholic church.  I was so nervous I had to pee.  Still, I opened the huge front door.  Alone, except for pigeons cooing and rustling in the belfry, plus the wind that made plenty of noise, I dipped fingers in the holy water fount and made the sign of the cross.  
 
Scared that Monsignor C.W. Gille might catch me, I made believe I walked on eggs down the center aisle.  I approached the railing in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  I knelt, made the sign of the cross, and said, "You don't know me.  My name is Gordy Hoffman, uh, Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman.  I need your help.  Would you please ask your son to let my really good friend Bob Martin's soul in heaven?  He was such a kind and good man to everyone, including me, a reject, but he shot and killed his wife and then himself last night.  Please tell Jesus to warn Saint Peter to let Bob in heaven because Bob's wife was a true bitch.  Anyway, that's what Albert Kell said.  I didn't.  Amen."  
 
Making the sign of the cross, I rose, turned, and silently as possible made my way down the aisle, the pigeons yet cooing  and rustling in the belfry and the wind making noise, and thankfully not made by Monsignor Gille.  

Hi All,

I'm on break and will be back on February 26.  Thanks for your support.

Gordy
Gordon Bartholomew  Hoffman

Dad's changed.  He didn't get angry and start screaming and raging at Doc III and Dork for skipping out of work last Saturday.  So, on Sunday after dinner, the pair started to paint the siding while Johnny Nelson, his older sister, Judy, and I were sitting on their front steps.  "My goodness, who picked out that awful color?" asked Judy.
 
"For certain, I didn't," I said.
 
She giggled.  "What's it called?"
 
"Puke Green."
 
Usually soft spoken and modest, Judy cackled as loud as the Wicked Witch of the West.  "You've got to be kidding me, Gordy Hoffman."
 
"I am, but Puke Green should be its name."
 
"It's uglier than a skunk's armpit," observed Johnny. 
 
"Skunk's armpit?" I said in disbelief.  "Skunks don't have armpits.  They have four legs but no arms.  Where'd that come from?"
 
Johnny shrugged.  "Heck if I know, but that's what it reminds me of."
 
"I think Johnny meant a skunk's ass," said Byron Nelson, Johnny and Judy's father, who had been sitting on a chair and reading a newspaper. 
 
“Byron, watch your language in front of the kids,” said Rose, his wife.
 
Byron added, "I wouldn't have painted Hitler's house that color, for Chrissake."  We three kids had to continually wipe tears from our cheeks since we were laughing so hard. 
 
After finishing painting that day, Doc III and Dork had more paint on them than they'd brushed on the house.  While we were eating supper, Dad asked, "How is the work coming along?" 
 
It seemed like it took all of Doc III's strength to sigh and say, "The rate we're going, we'll still be painting in September of next year."
 
"You really think so?" said Dad.
 
"I know so," chimed in Dork, drawing in a deep breath and ever so slowly exhaling.  He sounded like my Schwinn's front tire when its innertube had a slow leak. 
 
"Well, does either of you have an idea as to how we can speed up the job?" asked Dad.
 
"I could help paint," I offered.  "That way, you'd have three painters instead of two."
 
"We don't want Piss Pants' help," said Dork.
 
"Don't call your brother, Piss Pants," said Dad.
 
Dork's response was a silent, nasty grin.
 
"I agree with Bill," said Doc III.  "Gordy won't be much help."
 
"But—" I tried.
 
"No, Gordy," said Dad.  "That's not going to happen."  Dad re-set his focus on the painters.  "Well, does either of you have an idea?"
 
"Yes, if we could spray paint, we'd finish the job a lot sooner," said Doc III. 
 
Dad didn't say anything for a while although his eyebrows looked like upside-down capital V's.  That's why I figured he was giving Doc III's idea some credence.  (Thank you, RDWPP, Readers Digest Word Power page) 
 
Finally, Dad spoke.  "You'll need a painter's mask, so you don't breathe in paint or fumes, an air compressor, hoses, and a spray gun.  The only businesses that own that equipment are auto body shops.  If I had to buy all that stuff, I could save money by hiring professionals to paint our house."
 
"I thought of that," said Doc III, "but you wanted ideas."
 
"Tell you what," said Dad, "I'll look further into it, but continue to paint the way you have been.  What you've done so far looks good."
 
See what I mean, Diary, how Dad has changed?  How in the world could that paint color look good to anyone?  I just had to be adopted. 
 
As the painting continued, Dad drove downtown one Saturday morning.  When he arrived home in the afternoon, I heard him shout, "That was a good idea, James."
 
Since I was working on my bicycle in the front yard, I got nosy and approached Dad and my so-called brothers on the driveway.  The next thing I heard Dad say was, "Did you realize we already own an air compressor?"
 
"That's news to me," replied Doc III.
 
"Me too," said Dork, the Me-Too big wheel high school Freshman.
 
Dad grinned.  "Well, it was news to me, too.  Our compressor turns out to be the Oldsmobile's engine."
 
"The engine?" exclaimed both of my surprised brothers.
 
"Yes, the man at the Mautz paint store told me he could rent me hoses with sparkplug adapters, paint mask, and spray gun for what seems to be a reasonable price, that is, if you don't take too long because he rents the equipment by the day."
 
"Did you—" started Doc III. 
 
"I did," said Dad with a grin.  "Everything's in the trunk.  Bill, take this key and open the lid.  Bring me that new Montgomery Ward socket set kit.  James, I want you to lift the hood."  
 
"You have a Monkey Ward’s socket wrench set? I said to Dad.  "Mister Kell does, too."  Dad didn't pay any attention to what I'd said. 
 
Instead, he continued talking to Doc III.  "After you lift the hood, would you grab what else is in the trunk, except for the spare, and set everything on the driveway?  Then, I want you or Bill to remove two spark plugs on the same side of the engine but not next to each other.  According to the man at Mautz, all we must do is screw in those steel hose adapter ends into the sparkplug holes, and we'll be good to go." 
 
Unbelievably, Diary, it was like magic.  With everything hooked up and Puke Green poured into the paint gun, Dad started the car.  Doc III wore a cap and paint mask.  Dork manned the hoses.  I could've done that with one arm tied behind my back.  Doc III started spraying.  Wow, he was able to paint in a short time what it would've taken him and Dork all day with brushes. 
 
Dork looked at Dad and grinned.  "We'll be done in no time at all," he said.  "What do you think about that, Piss Pants?"
 
"What'd I tell you about calling your brother that name?" said Dad.
 
Dork didn't answer.  He grinned instead.  His usually nasty grin. 
 
I was not pleased at all, Diary.  I wanted Dork to suffer. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I'm not a Hoffman, after all. I can't be. I'll tell you why. It's the paint color these people who claim they're my parents picked out to take the place of the nice, calm cream color our house has been ever since we moved here from across the river. 

Putting it mildly, the new color is appalling. I'm embarrassed whenever I see it. I doubt it's a legitimate house color. Most of my buddies think it's an abomination. (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page). 

Dad asked Doc III and Dork if they'd like to do the painting, offering them the chance to earn some additional spending money. "Ha," bragged Dork. "I'm going to have enough money to buy a car."

"But you're not sixteen yet."

"So what?" sneered Mother's most precious Italian-looking son.

So, I asked Dad, "Could I paint, too?" 

"You're too young."

"I'm taller than Dork."

Dad's eyebrows rose at least a half foot. "Who's Dork?"

"Willyum Alfred Hoffman. When the first letters of his name are spelled out, it's W-A-H. WAH is what babies do when their diapers are full."

"His name is Bill.  Besides, he's a teenager and in high school."

"I'm going to be in seventh grade."

Dad's head shook. "No, Gordy, Otto Schuman's extension ladders are too heavy for you to lug around."

"Aw, geez."

My friend, Jimmy Plahmer, asked, "Why didn't your old man offer mine the chance to bid on the job?"

"We don't have enough money."

Jimmy almost choked to death before he said, "That's BS, Hoffman, and you know it. Doctors make a lot more money than painters."

"Not my dad," I said, recalling the time his Dad painted old man Haertel's white house on Baker Street. He's the vice president of the Wood County National Bank. His house is behind ours. Well, not quite. The Polansky house is behind ours. Old man Haertl is Polansky's neighbor. 

Well, anyway, we three kids started asking a lot of questions. Mr. Plahmer's a funny guy. "Since you're a girl," he told Crazy Annie, "you need a little makeup." He dabbed a tiny white paint spot on the tip of her nose. Little Pete and I giggled. 

"What's so funny?" demanded our sister.

"You have paint on your nose," said Little Pete. 

Crazy Annie's face lit up like a liquor store's red neon sign. A moment later, she started bawling. "There, there," said Mr. Plahmer, chuckling. He removed the dot with a piece of cloth he'd dipped in turpentine. "It's all gone now." 

"Is it?" Crazy Annie asked me. 

"Yes, you bawl baby," I said.

"Really?" she shouted, this time eyeballing Little Pete.

"Why would Gordy lie?" he asked.

"Because he fibs all the time."

"Well, he isn't now."

Back to the Crazy House painting. On the first day and many days after that, Doc III and Dork scraped and steel-brushed the siding from top to bottom, making all kinds of noises. I had to get out of that house or I'd go crazy. In addition to the racket they were making, icky stuff fell to the ground and driveway and on them. After they stopped for lunch, Mother said, "Let's go look at what you've been doing."

Doc III and Dork didn't seem to mind at first, but after she inspected their work, it was a different story. "Boys," she said, "sweep that stuff into a dust pan and empty it in a garbage can." 

"Now?" asked Doc III. "Why not when we're done this afternoon."

"Now," ordered the Hoffman matriarch, "and when you finish this afternoon, you'll do it again. You don't want Mrs. Hahn or the Fahls to have another thing to gripe about, do you?"

I'm certain Mrs. Hahn wouldn't mind. The Fahls poisoned Bones, our dog. They fed him hamburger with ground glass mixed in it. I can still see the dead dog and his blood on the kitchen floor. 

Doc III and Dork were none too happy. I was glad I didn't get the job, after all, because I know who'd be doing the sweeping. 

The next day, it was so hot and humid, Doc III and Dork were dripping in sweat that acted like glue. Paint chips, dust, dirt, and cobwebs covered their faces. When they ate supper, neither said a word. They went up to their bedroom early. The next morning, they slept in. The telephone rang. I answered. "This is one-nine-two-seven, Dr. Hoffman's residence, Gordy speaking."

"Hi, Gordy, this is Bibs. Could I speak to Doc?"

"Yeah," I told him. Doc III was not happy when I woke him up. 

However, after he heard Bibs' voice on the other end of the line, my brother wore a mile-wide grin. He was a phony on the phone. "Wazeecha sounds great."

"Are you going to Lake Wazeecha?" I asked after he hung up.

"What's it to you, little man?" 

I could hear Dork rush down the stairs. He poked his head out of what was previously the attic door. "Could I go with you and Bibs?"

"Sure." 

"Could we take Skip, too?" Skip was the nickname for Walter Wefel (WAY-full), Junior, who's just as short and as loud as Dork. 

"Oh, oh," I thought, "I'll bet Dad's going to be angry they didn't work but went swimming, instead." At least, I hoped so. 

​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. 

In Gordon's own words*,

Dad no longer stumbles and falls on our front porch.  Nor does he babble things nobody understands, either.  He and Mother don’t scream at each other.  In fact, Mother giggles sometimes when they’re in their bedroom.  So, Mother thinks everything should be hunky dory.  "Why won't you talk to your father?" she asked while I was eating breakfast.  "He told me he tried to talk to you, but you ran away."
 
I shrugged.  "I don't know."  That was a lie. 
 
"You're only hurting yourself, Gordon.  Let bygones be bygones." 
 
"What does that mean?"
 
"Things that happened in the past ought to be left in the past.  Your father has changed.  You need to forgive him as your brothers and sister and I have." 
 
Doc III hasn't forgiven Dad.  I know that for certain. 
 
If Mother could've danced, she would have, but she has one leg shorter than the other and limps.  Before I was born, she lay in a Rochester, Minnesota, hospital bed for over a year with fractured ribs, hip, and leg bones she suffered in a car accident while Dad was driving drunk.  She has all kinds of metal rods in her leg.  I also learned about Helen, Dad's girlfriend.  The reason I know these things:  They screamed about them in their arguments. 
 
Now, Mother's satisfied because Dad's not drinking.  She thinks I should act as if I'm part of one, big happy family.  That would be the biggest lie, ever.  However, I'm not going to make any stupid, wise guy comments.  I'll keep everything to myself.   
 
If Dad asked me what I thought, though, and I could honestly answer without getting killed, I'd say: "How do I erase all those awful memories?  They're not on a school blackboard that I can erase."
 
He'd probably try to defend himself, but I wouldn't let him.  "Nor can I forget those mornings you whipped me with your belt buckle because I was playing, making noise.  I'm a kid, Dad.  It's natural for a kid to play."
 
Finally, he'd get in a few words.  "I've changed."
 
"Yeah," I'd say.  “You stopped drinking.  For now.  So, what's going to happen tomorrow or next week?  You can't expect me to suddenly change.  Thing is, I don't expect you to suddenly change, either." 
 
Only in my dreams could I have said those things.  So, a few weeks after Mother explained bygones, I sat inside my shack and heard someone outside.  "Gordon, you in there?" 
 
It was Dad.  Scared, I needed to pee. Awfully bad.  I didn't answer, but I saw him.  He was on his knees, looking straight at me through the window that Mister Nelson installed.  "Can we talk?"
 
I wanted him to go away.  Thankfully, he didn’t try to crawl inside.   I would've died on the spot.  "Gordon, besides playing piano, what do you like doing best?"
 
I didn't want to answer, but I thought I'd better.  Or else.  "Fish.  I like to fish at Lake Wazeecha or Nepco lake with Paul and Glen and their dad."
 
"Your birthday's coming up.  Would you like a new fishing rod?"
 
He didn't look angry or drunk.  And I didn’t need to pee anymore.  So, I crawled out.  "I don’t need a new rod, but I’d like a Shakespeare automatic reel.  All you have to do is wind it up and press a lever to reel in the line.  Paul and Glen each have one.  They're neat."
 
Dad smiled.  "Where would I buy this reel?"  His smile was pleasant.  His teeth were kind of white with a few, shiny gold.  His voice was soft and pleasant.    
 
"Monkey Wards.  You don't have to order it through a catalog because they have the reels at the store."
 
Dad chuckled.  "Monkey Wards, eh?" 
 
"It's really Montgomery Wards but everybody I know calls it Monkey Wards."
 
"Shakespeare automatic reel, eh?"
 
"Yes.  For a fly rod."
 
"Maybe you and I could go fishing sometime.  What do you think?"
 
I shrugged, recalling what he had done to my pet frog at Silver Lake years ago.  He used it for bait.  "I guess we could."  
 
"Right now, son, how'd you like a root beer float or an ice cream cone or an Orange Crush?"
 
Son?  He never called me that.  "What do you mean?"
 
"I mean if you want to go, I'm taking your mom, your brothers, Bill and Peter, and sister, Annette.  They're waiting."  He smiled again.  "And you, that is, if you want to go."
 
I could feel the grin stretch my cheeks.  "You bet," I said. 
 
Dad and Mother had single root beer floats.  William and I drank and ate double root beer floats.  We didn't argue.  A miracle.  Crazy Annie ordered a single dip vanilla ice cream cone, and Little Pete couldn't even finish his free baby root beer.  While sitting there, I thought this could be the family I had imagined for years. 
 
Maybe, Diary, I should listen to Mother:  Let the past remain there.  What do you think?  Oh yeah, you can't.  You're a diary. 

Mother first told her pet about Dad being gone.  That's the way things happen in this house.  Next, she told Doc III.  Her pet mentioned it to Crazy Annie, maybe because they're both dark-skinned.  I win freckle contests.  That shows you how dark-skinned I am. 
 
I discovered the secret that Dad was gone by accident.  Crazy Annie let the cat out of the bag by telling Hen House Helen Kell at Kell's house while Bobby and I were playing with kittens.  After the mill's noon whistle blew, Annie and I headed to our house for lunch.  "Did I hear you tell Hen House that Dad's gone?"
 
"Uh-huh."
 
"Where'd you hear that?"
 
"From Bill."
 
"Bill who?"
 
"Our brother, of course."
 
"Your brother," I said.  "He ain't mine."  Whenever I want to make a point extra clear, I become ungrammatical. 
 
"Is too.  Who'd you think told me?"
 
"Is not.  Bill K., maybe.  Besides, I didn't know Dad was gone."
 
"Well, he is.  So, there."
 
"So, where is he, then?"
 
"I don't know.  Quit asking so many questions, or I'll tell Mother."  Oh, oh, the ultimate of warnings, the promise of being split in two by a pair of runaway horses.
 
"Please do so," I said although I meant the opposite. 
 
Whenever Mother's upset with me, which is often, her icy glare could freeze Mount Vesuvius's fiery belly.  If I asked her why she didn't tell me, she'd say, "Because you’d tell your friends, and that hurts your father's medical practice."
 
So, what should I do, lie?  Sister Mary Rose, School Sister of Notre Dame, also known as "Beaky," warned me:  "If you tell a teeny-weenie lie, it's a venial sin, but if you tell a falsehood, that's a mortal sin."  Her knobby fingers grabbed at large, black beads on a rosary with a huge, brass crucifix, hanging on the side of her habit.  Nuns don't wear dresses.  They wear habits.  And stumpy black shoes with black shoe laces and black nylon stockings you can't see through.
 
"But, Sister, who decides if something's teeny-weenie or a falsehood?" 
 
"Jesus, our lord and savior, of course."  Beaky bowed her head and made the sign of the cross.  Three times, mind you.
 
"So, if I tell my sister her piece of apple pie is larger than mine, but I know for certain my piece is larger than hers, what would that be?"
 
Beaky giggled.  "You're a naughty boy.  It's most likely a venial sin." 
 
"What if I tell Dad's patient on the phone, 'The doctor's not home.  He's making house calls.'   But as I say that, I can see Dad lying on the parlor couch, fast asleep."  Of course, I can't tell a nun Dad was passed out, drunk. 
 
"That is a falsehood.  If you died before you confessed that sin to a priest, your black as coal soul would go straight to hell."
 
Oh, oh.  Time to check with a higher authority:  Monsignor C. W. Gille.  "If you commit a mortal sin and die before you confess it, Satan will assign you to shovel coal into hell's furnaces for an eternity.  There'll be no chocolate milk, water, or Kool-Aid for you to drink, either, but if you confess, you'll go to heaven and have all the milk shakes you'd want." 
 
"Herschleb's milk shakes?" 
 
"Yes."
 
“Chocolate or vanilla?”
 
“Either one.”
 
Now, I've got to tell you, Diary, I thought God was being a little too stringent with me.  (Thank you, Readers Digest Word Power page).  So, before I hop into bed at night, I kneel and ask the Blessed Virgin, "Please, talk to your son.  I don't mean to tell falsehoods, but Mother says I must.  But don't let him send Mother to hell, either.  She means well.  She’s just a little nuts.  That’s all.  And thank you." 
 
Back to the day I overheard Annie tell Hen House Helen about Dad being gone.  After lunch, I walked downtown, heading across the river to Woolworth's Five and Dime to buy a model airplane or car.  I had saved up fifty cents.  All I needed was twenty-nine.  Suddenly, a driver stopped his car and shouted, "Gordy."  It was Bill K.  I stood outside the open passenger side window.  He was smiling.  "Your father back yet?"
 
"Not yet, but I didn't know he was gone until an hour ago."
 
I couldn't believe the size of Bill K's eyes.  "You didn't know.  Why didn't you know?" 
 
"Mother's scared I'll tell my friends."
 
He turned off the engine, got out of his car, and put a hand on my shoulder.  "Your dad's in Eau Claire for treatment."
 
"Oh Claire?  What’s that?”
 
“A city up north.  Dick and me (There he goes again) drove your dad there.  Treatment will help him understand our disease.  He should be back in Whiskey Rapids any day.  Truth is, I thought he'd be back by now.  Don't tell anyone what I said, okay?"  He got back into his car and took off.  I waved.  He waved back.  I really like that Bill K. 
 
On my way home, carrying a brand-new balsa wood rectangular lump that will become a race car if I do things right.  It was tucked into a brightly colored box.  My cars never look like those on the pictures.  I made my way up the Wisconsin Street hill and stopped to say hello to Margaret Peterson, a pretty girl my age, plus she’s really smart.  Finally, I made it to the hilltop on Eighth Street.  As I looked both ways before I crossed to the other side, I saw Dad get out of a car by Habeck's gas station.  He saluted the driver.  My dad, medical doctor and drunkard, now a hitchhiker.  Embarrassed, I looked the other way, hoping he wouldn't see me.