In the mist of family problems and personal aches and pains which all seem minor in the grand scheme of life, I give Thanks.
Thanks go to a loving mother who for 67 years has always provided me with all the physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual, and often financial support I have needed. Thanks to you I know how to live life properly; to love others tenderly; to trust in God completely; to treat the less fortunate with kindness; to appreciate good literature; and above all to love my family with all my heart. I don't profess to do all these things to perfection, but because you taught me so well, I at least know when I fail and to whom I should apologize.
Thanks go to an incredible father who shared all of mother's good qualities. He provided his children a sense of humor second to none; he gave us an appreciation of good music; and his greatest gift of all was teaching us to have a total disregard for the possession of a dollar.
Thanks go to a sister who despite dropping bricks on my head and stealing my marbles when I was 10 has been a blessing and strength to all her family.
Thanks go to a brother who while being the youngest of our brood is the most level headed. He and his bride have raised three fine children who like all of us are no longer children. They both have stars in their crowns for the care they gave to one who could no longer care for her self.
Thanks go to my newest sister and one who has meant so much to all our family and especially to mother. As Mother's companion and friend, her day to day love keeps mother's spirit's high.
Thanks go to a wife who has so many special qualities. Her book detailing her rescue of one lost in the shadows would be second place to the book, when written, detailing her own complex journey raising her two beautiful children.
Thanks go to those two beautiful children just mentioned for calling me dad these last 21 years and for allowing me to call them "son" and "daughter". And especially I thank them for giving me four lovely granddaughters to call me PaPa.
Thanks go to my two gorgeous daughters who are the light of my life. I could never express in a million years the way the two of you make me feel when I am around you. Thank you daughter and son-in-law for two more grandchildren including the first grandson of the batch. I can only hope that I passed on to you girls some of the genes of your grandparents to make you as special as they were.
Thanks go to the mother of these daughters who raised them to be the thoughtful ladies they are today and who gave them their looks and brains.
And thanks go out to all of you who occasionally check into this journal. As I have begun to come to the end of the stack of "Mother Memory Letters" which I have been sharing, I have taken several days off to reflect on the the course of this literary exercise.
When I have convinced myself that this is the right vehicle to use, I will begin once again to share some more pointless stories dredged from my fading memory banks.
Until then, Thank you all and have a Happy Thanksgiving.
James Neville LeDuke, Jr.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The first female I ever saw wearing long pants.
August 6, 2009
Dear Cathie, Jimmy, Richard
Your Mother and Father were both delightful. I grew up in Tiptonville and attended the Presbyterian Church where we were all in Sunday School together.
I first remember your Mother when she started carrying the rural route mail in early 1940's. This was because your father was in the service. My Father was postmaster, and I spent a lot of time at the post office as my mother was a clerk there.
Miss Catherine was the first female that I saw wear long pants. These pants helped to keep her warm in cold weather out on the "route" delivering mail. What a good solution that was to keeping warm.
Miss Catherine later taught me when I was in high school. I think the subjects were Latin and English.
Mr. James Neville taught me Chemistry. I looked forward to his classes.
Recently, when I was in Tiptonville, I went to church and had a short visit with Miss Catherine. I told her that my first memory of her was in long pants. She smiled and maybe connected with that long ago memory.
I hope to see you all in September and I certainly enjoyed the recent article you wrote in the Lake County Banner.
Sincerely,
Nell Frances Campbell Scott
Dear Cathie, Jimmy, Richard
Your Mother and Father were both delightful. I grew up in Tiptonville and attended the Presbyterian Church where we were all in Sunday School together.
I first remember your Mother when she started carrying the rural route mail in early 1940's. This was because your father was in the service. My Father was postmaster, and I spent a lot of time at the post office as my mother was a clerk there.
Miss Catherine was the first female that I saw wear long pants. These pants helped to keep her warm in cold weather out on the "route" delivering mail. What a good solution that was to keeping warm.
Miss Catherine later taught me when I was in high school. I think the subjects were Latin and English.
Mr. James Neville taught me Chemistry. I looked forward to his classes.
Recently, when I was in Tiptonville, I went to church and had a short visit with Miss Catherine. I told her that my first memory of her was in long pants. She smiled and maybe connected with that long ago memory.
I hope to see you all in September and I certainly enjoyed the recent article you wrote in the Lake County Banner.
Sincerely,
Nell Frances Campbell Scott
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Unselfish, Caring, Understanding, and Occasionally Funny.....That's my Mom.
And now back to business.
August 15, 2009
Dear Cathie, Jimmy, Richard
My grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Taft Yates were friends and neighbors of your parents and my mother, Corinne, was a friend of Cathie's. Because of this, I felt like Mrs. LeDuke treated me a little special but I think all of her students felt that way. I did not have the privilege of having your father as a teacher but I did have the honor of having your mother, two years in Spanish and a few years in drama. I graduated in 1974 and can honestly say that Mrs. LeDuke was one of my all time favorite teachers.
During the few years that I took drama, your mother made arrangements to take a car full of silly high school girls to Memphis to the Orpheum to see musicals. There were several but the one I remember the most was Fiddler on the Roof. The musicals were entertaining but the trips to and from were just as entertaining.
I had met a boy from Covington during a band trip. His mother had a little boutique in Covington and we had a little spare time so your mother stopped and let us go in shopping. We really just wanted to see what his mother looked like. I knew where he lived so she drove by his house. I was in hopes be would be outside so I could wave and possibly speak to him but he wasn't. No other teacher would have ever done that.
On another trip, I remember this very corny joke she told. We drove by a cemetery in Covington on Hwy 51. She was so serious when she told us that they didn't bury anyone living within two blocks of that cemetery. We asked why and she said they only bury the dead. We all shared a laugh and still to this day, I think about that joke and your mother every time I go by that cemetery.
Your mother was so unselfish, so caring, and so understanding. I feel blessed to have had her as a teacher, role model, and a friend.
Cynthia Beasley Webb
August 15, 2009
Dear Cathie, Jimmy, Richard
My grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Taft Yates were friends and neighbors of your parents and my mother, Corinne, was a friend of Cathie's. Because of this, I felt like Mrs. LeDuke treated me a little special but I think all of her students felt that way. I did not have the privilege of having your father as a teacher but I did have the honor of having your mother, two years in Spanish and a few years in drama. I graduated in 1974 and can honestly say that Mrs. LeDuke was one of my all time favorite teachers.
During the few years that I took drama, your mother made arrangements to take a car full of silly high school girls to Memphis to the Orpheum to see musicals. There were several but the one I remember the most was Fiddler on the Roof. The musicals were entertaining but the trips to and from were just as entertaining.
I had met a boy from Covington during a band trip. His mother had a little boutique in Covington and we had a little spare time so your mother stopped and let us go in shopping. We really just wanted to see what his mother looked like. I knew where he lived so she drove by his house. I was in hopes be would be outside so I could wave and possibly speak to him but he wasn't. No other teacher would have ever done that.
On another trip, I remember this very corny joke she told. We drove by a cemetery in Covington on Hwy 51. She was so serious when she told us that they didn't bury anyone living within two blocks of that cemetery. We asked why and she said they only bury the dead. We all shared a laugh and still to this day, I think about that joke and your mother every time I go by that cemetery.
Your mother was so unselfish, so caring, and so understanding. I feel blessed to have had her as a teacher, role model, and a friend.
Cynthia Beasley Webb
Monday, November 16, 2009
Train Trestle Trespassing Traversing The Tennessee
Okay...........This is the last one for a while. There's only so much stupidity one person should share with his family. I would be concerned that I had tarnished my reputation with these stories of deeds and misdeeds, but I don't have a reputation to be concerned about anyway.Tennessee Train Trestle Traversing
Most fellows begin to shed their foolish ways once they leave high school. If not at that time, then surely by the time they leave college or perhaps by the time they reach 30. I've passed all those milestones and yet somehow I continue to do dumb stuff. I'm beginning to think maybe I was adopted.
This last story I am confessing to happened during my freshman year at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. I chose UT partly because Tommy Lovell took a group of us Juniors and Seniors up to Knoxville to see a football game in 1959. We spent the night in Coach Lovell's old Fraternity House on the UT campus after seeing a game. The next day got a tour of the "Hill", as UT - Knoxville was called.
Alpha Tau Omega Fraternity members were a quiet, scholarly, demur group of young gentlemen. They frowned on throwing wild parties with loose women; loud music and gyrating dancing was considered beneath them. I was quite impressed with their behavior that evening. Well...........that's what I told my parents anyway.
I have remembered all my life an incident that occurred during the "evening's cotillion" when a Fraternity Brother was found walking around with a large rip in one of the back pockets of his slacks. I thought I was being helpful when I pointed out to the fellow that he had a problem and that his billfold was about to fall out. The somewhat inebriated young man slowly looked back at his pants and then said to me in a scholarly voice; "Let me give you some advice; never, never worry about what's behind you!"
I don't think I ever figured out if he was simply speaking about physical concerns or if he was offering more sage advice about not letting the past get in the way of one's future. You would not believe how many times I have conjured up the image of that evening's quote. And I have lived my life according to the philosophy of that ATO Seer....... who probably spent 20 to life at Attica.
Well, whether it was the weekend glimpse of the social scene or the fact that I had somehow decided to enter an engineering school and UT was the only one in the state, I selected Knoxville as the place to call my home for the next few years. I made the journey east with Bobby Patterson. His dad was our chauffeur. My mother and daddy waved bye to me as we pulled out of the driveway at 114 LeDuke Street. They were obviously glad to be shed of me. I recall heading off to school with a large trunk and two suit cases and being dropped off at my dorm on the Knoxville campus; Neyland Stadium.
That's right, the football stadium. It was built in the shape of a horseshoe and the curved part was a four story dormitory call "The Caves". You could almost get dizzy walking down the circular hallways; and all the rooms were slightly pie shaped. Each room had two small beds, two desks, two chairs, and one closet to share with your roommate. Cinder block walls, one over head light, and a small window made the place look more like a cell-block than a dormitory. But since I was raised in a four foot tall attic with a bathroom tub that you had to roll into, it looked pretty good to me. The walls curved inward, but at least the ceiling did not.
Neyland stadium is built on the banks of the Tennessee River and Saturday football games brought scores of boats of all sizes right up to the docks located outside my window. People came to the games by bus, cars, boats and trains. Oh yeah. This story is suppose to be about a Train Trestle. That would be the one that was visible from my dorm room window and can be seen in the picture above. Be patient; I'm getting there. I need to get a hot dog first.
One of the most popular eateries for college kids in Knoxville was the "Smoky Mountain Market" located on Chapman Highway just south of the Henley Street Bridge. The big deal at this tiny little place was the hot dogs. Just mention a Smoky Mountain Market Hot Dog to any Tennessee student of the 60's or 70's and you will see him drool. A Smoky Mountain dog was similar to a Varsity dog familiar to natives here in Atlanta.To get to the Market from the "Caves" you had to walk about 6 or 7 blocks up a steep hill to Chapman Highway, walk another few blocks and cross the Henley Street Bridge over the Tennessee River, and the much anticipated dog would be waiting just ahead on the right side of the road. There was a steady stream of dog starved students making this trip at all hours.
On one particular night 4 freshmen nerds being lead by me made the trip to the Smoky Mountain Market, ate 5 dogs apiece, drank 2 coca-colas each (nerds don't drink beer), and contemplated the long walk back to the dorm. That would be the dorm located at the end of the Southern Railway Bridge which happened to be almost a straight shot across the river from the area behind the Market.
This picture shows the railway bridge in the foreground and the Henley Street Bridge
behind it. The Stadium Dorm is at the left end of the trestle and the
Smoky Mountain Market is near the right end of the bridges.
Smoky Mountain Market is near the right end of the bridges.
So..................With a combination of lazy, stupid, somewhat adventurous, and stupid (did I say that already) this crew headed from the Market to see what the bridge route looked like. A short walk to the southern end of the trestle revealed that there was no "cat walk" of any kind on either side of the cross ties. And the cross ties were just what one would expect; 10 to 12 inches apart with air between them all the way down to the water. For some reason there were no hand rails connected to the outer ends of the ties. As the picture above shows, until you get to the middle there is nothing to hold on to at all.
It took some coaxing to get the two timid members of the group to agree but we decided to give it a try. Off we went and surprisingly found that once you got going and set a cadence and got a little bounce to your step, you could move right along. It wasn't until we were about half way to the middle area of the trestle where the supports were that someone in the group brought up the question about train schedules.
No one seemed to remember ever even seeing a train on this bridge although we all had heard train whistles in the middle of the night. As we neared the point of no return our pace had slowed down; partly because we were getting tired and partly because the center structure of the trestle seemed to offer an area of safety if a train did happen to come by. We could just step off the tracks and hold on to the supports.
When we reached the end of the center support portion of the bridge even the cockiest of us was really beginning to wonder what was in those coca-colas we drank. Why would anyone in their right mind attempt such moronic foolishness as we were doing. And we weren't home free yet. By this time there were not two, timid, trestle-walkers making this trip; there were four.
I suppose its extremely anti-climatic to bring you to the end of this story and have to tell you that no train ever challenged us that evening. No one slipped and drowned in the Tennessee River that night, and no one really had much "physical" damage at all except for some skinned knuckles when we were all crawling the last 100 yards to the end of the trestle. Emotionally we were a wreck. The bravest of the crew were the original "two" timid members of this foursome. Did I mention that they were also the smartest of our group; both graduated with honors. I barely got out at all.
I really don't recall any 0f us bragging about this feat to any of our dorm mates. I truly believe we actually realized that telling anyone what we had done would have dropped us down several notches in esteem as opposed to raising us up. And while I have told this story a time or two, I have previously been very selective.
Fortunately no one's really reading these ramblings anyway.
Oh, and my Guardian Angel Guy. He put in for a transfer.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
"Stupid" started at an early age in my family.
Sorry fans of Catherine looking for tribute letters. Just another day or so and I'll have it out of my system. Don't go too far. Some quality "Mother Memories" will be returning soon.
IT'S RAINING BRICKS IN MY BACK YARD.
Just in case you think I cornered the market on "Stupid" genes in our family let me tell you a little stunt my sister, Cathie pulled when I was only 3 years old. Okay, so she would have only been 6 herself, but girls are supposed to be smarter.
It was an overcast winter day that our cousins from Memphis, the Becks, came to visit. I'm not trying to be overly descriptive, because the weather conditions probably saved my life. Since it was cold outside I was wearing a hat of sorts when I went out to the back yard to see what the big kids were doing.
As I mentioned, Cathie was three years my senior and our visiting cousin, Bobby Beck was a year younger than Cathie. I found them outside up in the peach tree in the back corner of the yard near the brick pile, another piece of important information innocently woven into this tale.
Cathie and Bobby Beck had pulled an old door up into the tree and had made a kind of "tree house" floor out of it. Bobby Beck was always called Bobby Beck as if Beck was his middle name, like someone called Billy Bob or Betty Sue. This, unlike the brick pile, is not important information, it just always seemed strange to me to call Bobby Beck, Bobby Beck and not just Bobby. Oh well. In addition to the door, Cathie and Bobby Beck had hauled up several bricks from the brick pile and had placed them around the edges of the "floor".
These were their "bombs" they later told their parents. WWII had not been over very long so I guess that sort of thinking was not too far fetched. They were just waiting for Hitler to come marching by.
Enter Hitler
When they saw me coming out the back door, they lured me over to the tree and when they decided I was standing in just the right spot, they began jumping up and down on the wooden floor screaming something in German I think, causing the "bombs" to "rain" down onto their target; ME. Ish bin Jimmy.
To this day I have a scar just above my hair line where a brick crushed my skull causing my brains to pour out onto the ground. Okay, so maybe I exaggerate a little. But if it had not been for the hat I had on, or had this scene played out in the summertime, I probably would have been deaaaaad. The scar is just a reminder that I regularly showed my sister as I was growing up whenever she said "I" was doing something "stupid".
And that's not the only scar that I have that is attributed to her. Another time when we were at our Grandma Patty's house in Memphis (Bobby Beck was not around on this occasion thank goodness) we were playing tag or some sort of running game and as we approached the concrete steps that lead to the back porch, she pushed me down.
I fell forward into the corner of the steps and landed on my face. A huge gash was opened above my eye. My eye ball was hanging out -- blood gushing all around.........Okay, okay. But I did have a large cut over my eye that required emergency treatment and stitches and to this day I have a very visible scar in my left eyebrow (or is it my right eyebrow). Very visible. Ruined my good looks for life.
I'm telling you my Guardian Angels have had their hands full for many years just following me around this earth.
IT'S RAINING BRICKS IN MY BACK YARD.
Just in case you think I cornered the market on "Stupid" genes in our family let me tell you a little stunt my sister, Cathie pulled when I was only 3 years old. Okay, so she would have only been 6 herself, but girls are supposed to be smarter.
It was an overcast winter day that our cousins from Memphis, the Becks, came to visit. I'm not trying to be overly descriptive, because the weather conditions probably saved my life. Since it was cold outside I was wearing a hat of sorts when I went out to the back yard to see what the big kids were doing.
As I mentioned, Cathie was three years my senior and our visiting cousin, Bobby Beck was a year younger than Cathie. I found them outside up in the peach tree in the back corner of the yard near the brick pile, another piece of important information innocently woven into this tale.
Cathie and Bobby Beck had pulled an old door up into the tree and had made a kind of "tree house" floor out of it. Bobby Beck was always called Bobby Beck as if Beck was his middle name, like someone called Billy Bob or Betty Sue. This, unlike the brick pile, is not important information, it just always seemed strange to me to call Bobby Beck, Bobby Beck and not just Bobby. Oh well. In addition to the door, Cathie and Bobby Beck had hauled up several bricks from the brick pile and had placed them around the edges of the "floor".
These were their "bombs" they later told their parents. WWII had not been over very long so I guess that sort of thinking was not too far fetched. They were just waiting for Hitler to come marching by.
Enter Hitler
When they saw me coming out the back door, they lured me over to the tree and when they decided I was standing in just the right spot, they began jumping up and down on the wooden floor screaming something in German I think, causing the "bombs" to "rain" down onto their target; ME. Ish bin Jimmy.
To this day I have a scar just above my hair line where a brick crushed my skull causing my brains to pour out onto the ground. Okay, so maybe I exaggerate a little. But if it had not been for the hat I had on, or had this scene played out in the summertime, I probably would have been deaaaaad. The scar is just a reminder that I regularly showed my sister as I was growing up whenever she said "I" was doing something "stupid".
And that's not the only scar that I have that is attributed to her. Another time when we were at our Grandma Patty's house in Memphis (Bobby Beck was not around on this occasion thank goodness) we were playing tag or some sort of running game and as we approached the concrete steps that lead to the back porch, she pushed me down.
I fell forward into the corner of the steps and landed on my face. A huge gash was opened above my eye. My eye ball was hanging out -- blood gushing all around.........Okay, okay. But I did have a large cut over my eye that required emergency treatment and stitches and to this day I have a very visible scar in my left eyebrow (or is it my right eyebrow). Very visible. Ruined my good looks for life.
I'm telling you my Guardian Angels have had their hands full for many years just following me around this earth.
......................The "HOLE"
Remember now, those of you tuning in to see Catherine LeDuke tributes have been given a couple of days off. What follows is just for those who can stand to witness stupidity personified in the form of one of Catherine's children.
THE HOLE
I don't know how many kids that lived around LeDuke Street even knew about the "Hole". The older ones of this Street Gang, Bart Smythe and John Taft Yates, I know would not have had anything to do with this project as they had already begun to grow "brains" by the time Jerry Cooper and I began the "dig". Bob Donnell was the right age to have been a part of this activity, but until I talk to him, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he was intelligently absent.
The "dig" took place in a large field that was about three houses down from and on the same side of the street as my house. The field was behind Jerry Coopers' house and was a popular place to play a wide variety of games. It had a tall growth of some kind of weed that produced a golf ball sized seed pod on its top. The stem of the plant was very sturdy and when cut at the bottom provided a perfect weapon for "konking" opponents on the head; you know like little brothers. Richard has to this day a large knot on the back of his head from repeated "konks".
The football sized field was the perfect place to play war games, tag, cowboys and Indians, and cops and robbers. Year round the reeds and other grasses were taller than any of us could see over. We had a maze of paths worn through out the field and one could get lost easily were it not for the houses and trees that remained in sight at the edges.
I remember that it was late summer when Jerry and I got the bright idea that what we needed was a hiding place in the field that would completely conceal us from everyone else. It was to be our secret and would give us a great advantage in times of "war". So we very carefully found a spot in a thick stand of reeds off the usual paths and began digging.
At first we dug down about 3 feet, just enough so that we could lay down slightly below the surface. This was so cool. We could not be seen by anyone as proven by several victorious battles with our rivals. But kids get bored quickly so we decided to make improvements to our hiding place. We widened. Then we deepened. Then we brought in by cover of darkness no doubt, lumber to cover the "hole".
By the time we finished we had dug at least 6 feet deep, 6 feet wide, and 8 feet long. Had any local businessman had need of such a hole, and had asked us to do the digging, we would have looked at him like he was crazy. But this was our "hole" and we dug it with gusto. A ladder was required to get out. I know what some of you are thinking. We did realize the need for this beforehand.
We managed to conceal the short pathway to the "hole" that ran off the maze of paths that already existed in the field. And for several weeks we dominated all game playing that involved the field as part of the venue. We finally had to share our "hole" with the others in our group as it became obvious we were "cheating" somehow and no one would play with us. So we finally shared our "hole" with the gang.
The "hole" became the center of attention and whole new games were devised because of its existence. We dragged a large beam into the field and managed to position it across the open "hole" and began walking across it as if it were a tight rope. We imagined crocodiles were in the "pit" and falling off the beam meant a cruel death being eaten alive. Of course in reality, falling off could have meant a broken leg or busted head, but we didn't consider that possibility.
You may recall I stated earlier that it was late summer when we began this project. By now it was early winter and life around the "hole" was chilly. So, let's put a more complete top on it. More lumber was brought in to cover all the cracks of the first roofing job. A trap door of sorts was fashioned. Candles were used for light in the darkened cave.
Were we satisfied? We were not. And here comes the scariest and most insane part of this story.
We decided since it was cold and getting colder we needed a fire place. So in one end of the "grave" we dug a fairly large hole about 3 feet wide by 3 feet high by 3 feet deep. We even dug a small hole up through the roof of the fire pit to act as a chimney. And most astonishing of all, we actually built a fire in the "fire place"; on several occasions.
Have you got this picture:
A six foot deep hole,
hidden in a field covered with tall weeds,
unknown to any parent,
with a semi-solid roof on it,
with a fire blazing in the make do fireplace,
with about 5 kids inside,
filling up with carbon monoxide gas.
And can you visualize the Headline in the Banner.
I'm telling you we worked those "Guardian Angels" nearly to death. Thanks to them we are all still here today.
And as Richard and I were just reminiscing; the "hole" is still there in that field.
And no parent has ever been told this story---until today; but then my beautiful mother does not even know what she had for breakfast this morning.
THE HOLE
I don't know how many kids that lived around LeDuke Street even knew about the "Hole". The older ones of this Street Gang, Bart Smythe and John Taft Yates, I know would not have had anything to do with this project as they had already begun to grow "brains" by the time Jerry Cooper and I began the "dig". Bob Donnell was the right age to have been a part of this activity, but until I talk to him, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he was intelligently absent.
The "dig" took place in a large field that was about three houses down from and on the same side of the street as my house. The field was behind Jerry Coopers' house and was a popular place to play a wide variety of games. It had a tall growth of some kind of weed that produced a golf ball sized seed pod on its top. The stem of the plant was very sturdy and when cut at the bottom provided a perfect weapon for "konking" opponents on the head; you know like little brothers. Richard has to this day a large knot on the back of his head from repeated "konks".
The football sized field was the perfect place to play war games, tag, cowboys and Indians, and cops and robbers. Year round the reeds and other grasses were taller than any of us could see over. We had a maze of paths worn through out the field and one could get lost easily were it not for the houses and trees that remained in sight at the edges.
I remember that it was late summer when Jerry and I got the bright idea that what we needed was a hiding place in the field that would completely conceal us from everyone else. It was to be our secret and would give us a great advantage in times of "war". So we very carefully found a spot in a thick stand of reeds off the usual paths and began digging.
At first we dug down about 3 feet, just enough so that we could lay down slightly below the surface. This was so cool. We could not be seen by anyone as proven by several victorious battles with our rivals. But kids get bored quickly so we decided to make improvements to our hiding place. We widened. Then we deepened. Then we brought in by cover of darkness no doubt, lumber to cover the "hole".
By the time we finished we had dug at least 6 feet deep, 6 feet wide, and 8 feet long. Had any local businessman had need of such a hole, and had asked us to do the digging, we would have looked at him like he was crazy. But this was our "hole" and we dug it with gusto. A ladder was required to get out. I know what some of you are thinking. We did realize the need for this beforehand.
We managed to conceal the short pathway to the "hole" that ran off the maze of paths that already existed in the field. And for several weeks we dominated all game playing that involved the field as part of the venue. We finally had to share our "hole" with the others in our group as it became obvious we were "cheating" somehow and no one would play with us. So we finally shared our "hole" with the gang.
The "hole" became the center of attention and whole new games were devised because of its existence. We dragged a large beam into the field and managed to position it across the open "hole" and began walking across it as if it were a tight rope. We imagined crocodiles were in the "pit" and falling off the beam meant a cruel death being eaten alive. Of course in reality, falling off could have meant a broken leg or busted head, but we didn't consider that possibility.
You may recall I stated earlier that it was late summer when we began this project. By now it was early winter and life around the "hole" was chilly. So, let's put a more complete top on it. More lumber was brought in to cover all the cracks of the first roofing job. A trap door of sorts was fashioned. Candles were used for light in the darkened cave.
Were we satisfied? We were not. And here comes the scariest and most insane part of this story.
We decided since it was cold and getting colder we needed a fire place. So in one end of the "grave" we dug a fairly large hole about 3 feet wide by 3 feet high by 3 feet deep. We even dug a small hole up through the roof of the fire pit to act as a chimney. And most astonishing of all, we actually built a fire in the "fire place"; on several occasions.
Have you got this picture:
A six foot deep hole,
hidden in a field covered with tall weeds,
unknown to any parent,
with a semi-solid roof on it,
with a fire blazing in the make do fireplace,
with about 5 kids inside,
filling up with carbon monoxide gas.
And can you visualize the Headline in the Banner.
I'm telling you we worked those "Guardian Angels" nearly to death. Thanks to them we are all still here today.
And as Richard and I were just reminiscing; the "hole" is still there in that field.
And no parent has ever been told this story---until today; but then my beautiful mother does not even know what she had for breakfast this morning.
Where was my Mother and all Her Intelligence when I needed her Most.
I sometimes wonder how I managed to live past twenty. When I look back at several truly "dumb" stunts I pulled as a youngster, I have to question whether I received any "smart" genes from either of my parents. I probably should "change the names to protect the innocent" as I recount these tales but I won't. Heck, no one was innocent.
DOES GASOLINE BURN?
Somewhere about 12 or 13 years old I recall one particular day playing with the Maple Street Gang. That would be Johnny Vaughn, Loverd Peacock, and Johnny Morrison. I'm sure there were others in that gang at one time or another; Loverd's sister Paula was probably there, but I never really noticed her until I was in the 10th grade.
I can't remember if there was a specific agenda that began that day but what I do know is that we discovered 5 or 6 large wasps nests hanging from the eaves of Loverd's house and felt called to destroy each and every one of them. Now in today's world we would have gone down to the local hardware stores next to the banner office and purchased a couple of cans of "Wasp" spray.
But in 1955 wasp spray didn't exist, at least we didn't know of it if it did. But this brilliant foursome decided to invent our own version. One of the rages at that time were rubber "water-gun" hand grenades, and we had discovered that when squeezed really hard they would shoot a stream of water 10 or 12 feet; plenty far enough to reach the wasp nests on Loverd's house.
Quickly, we learned that squirting water on wasp nests just pisses them off. We put our heads together and came up with the "plan"; gasoline. Wasps hate gasoline. In fact they die quickly if hit with a good solid spurt of it. We all loaded up our weapons and headed back to the enemy lines or rather eaves. Within 30 minutes we had eradicated every wasp nest on that house. Harper Peacock would have been so proud of us knowing that he would not have to worry about being stung by a wasp in his yard. The fact that his house was now soaked with gasoline might have caused him some concern, but it sure didn't dampen the spirits of the Maple Street Gang.
Once we had conquered the wasps and not feeling the need to follow the enemy to any of the other houses in the neighborhood, we decided to experiment with our "toys" a little further. A favorite pass time of every kid in town in the 50's was playing war; usually with pea shooters and cap pistols. We now had "flame throwers".
You got it. You knew all along where I was going with this. It was just a matter of time until one member of this brilliant foursome would realize that all we needed was to light the stream of gasoline and "presto", we would have a flame thrower just like in the movie "Sands of Iwo Jima".
Or, if we threw our "now much more real hand grenade" at the enemy's pill box we could blow it up like in "To Hell and Back".
Okay...................Let me ease you down gently.
No, we did not burn down the Peacock's house that day.
No, none of us was soaked with gasoline and, ignited, ran through the neighborhood.
No, none of us was even burned that day in spite of the fact that we did find those matches and we dispelled the commonly held notion that a container of gasoline will explode when lit. We found that day that you can ignite a stream of gasoline shooting from a rubber hand grenade. And it looks really cool, just like a real flame thrower. However, when you stop squeezing you better let go quickly because the flame will follow the stream back to the container; you know, that rubber thing you're holding.
When that happens you better let go of it real fast. You drop it on the ground. It doesn't explode, but it just sits there with a flame coming out the end of it. Gotta put the flame out. I know I'll stomp on it. Not smart. When you stomp on a "lit" rubber filled container of gasoline, the end of the "rubber thing" where you put the gas in will shoot off releasing all the gasoline at one time allowing a gusher of ignited gasoline to shoot out setting fire to whatever is in front of it.
There is no doubt in my mind that on that particular sunny afternoon the "Guardian Angels" of each of these young boys were looking down laughing their asses off. Undoubtedly wondering why they had been assigned to this crew of idiots. But they "were" there, and they did their job, and none of us were even burned badly that day.
And after we put all the small fires out caused by the climatic "stomping of the grenade", we all looked at each other silently thinking, "How did I get mixed up with these stupid morons."
And my original question remains: how did any of us make it through high school alive?
Believe it or not I have several more of these stories that for some reason I feel compelled to confess to. So you all have my permission to tune out for a few days while I purge my conscience. Children of mine, please delete these postings so my grand-kids won't get too depressed concerning their gene pool.
DOES GASOLINE BURN?
Somewhere about 12 or 13 years old I recall one particular day playing with the Maple Street Gang. That would be Johnny Vaughn, Loverd Peacock, and Johnny Morrison. I'm sure there were others in that gang at one time or another; Loverd's sister Paula was probably there, but I never really noticed her until I was in the 10th grade.
I can't remember if there was a specific agenda that began that day but what I do know is that we discovered 5 or 6 large wasps nests hanging from the eaves of Loverd's house and felt called to destroy each and every one of them. Now in today's world we would have gone down to the local hardware stores next to the banner office and purchased a couple of cans of "Wasp" spray.
But in 1955 wasp spray didn't exist, at least we didn't know of it if it did. But this brilliant foursome decided to invent our own version. One of the rages at that time were rubber "water-gun" hand grenades, and we had discovered that when squeezed really hard they would shoot a stream of water 10 or 12 feet; plenty far enough to reach the wasp nests on Loverd's house.
Quickly, we learned that squirting water on wasp nests just pisses them off. We put our heads together and came up with the "plan"; gasoline. Wasps hate gasoline. In fact they die quickly if hit with a good solid spurt of it. We all loaded up our weapons and headed back to the enemy lines or rather eaves. Within 30 minutes we had eradicated every wasp nest on that house. Harper Peacock would have been so proud of us knowing that he would not have to worry about being stung by a wasp in his yard. The fact that his house was now soaked with gasoline might have caused him some concern, but it sure didn't dampen the spirits of the Maple Street Gang.
Once we had conquered the wasps and not feeling the need to follow the enemy to any of the other houses in the neighborhood, we decided to experiment with our "toys" a little further. A favorite pass time of every kid in town in the 50's was playing war; usually with pea shooters and cap pistols. We now had "flame throwers".
You got it. You knew all along where I was going with this. It was just a matter of time until one member of this brilliant foursome would realize that all we needed was to light the stream of gasoline and "presto", we would have a flame thrower just like in the movie "Sands of Iwo Jima".
Or, if we threw our "now much more real hand grenade" at the enemy's pill box we could blow it up like in "To Hell and Back".
Okay...................Let me ease you down gently.
No, we did not burn down the Peacock's house that day.
No, none of us was soaked with gasoline and, ignited, ran through the neighborhood.
No, none of us was even burned that day in spite of the fact that we did find those matches and we dispelled the commonly held notion that a container of gasoline will explode when lit. We found that day that you can ignite a stream of gasoline shooting from a rubber hand grenade. And it looks really cool, just like a real flame thrower. However, when you stop squeezing you better let go quickly because the flame will follow the stream back to the container; you know, that rubber thing you're holding.
When that happens you better let go of it real fast. You drop it on the ground. It doesn't explode, but it just sits there with a flame coming out the end of it. Gotta put the flame out. I know I'll stomp on it. Not smart. When you stomp on a "lit" rubber filled container of gasoline, the end of the "rubber thing" where you put the gas in will shoot off releasing all the gasoline at one time allowing a gusher of ignited gasoline to shoot out setting fire to whatever is in front of it.
There is no doubt in my mind that on that particular sunny afternoon the "Guardian Angels" of each of these young boys were looking down laughing their asses off. Undoubtedly wondering why they had been assigned to this crew of idiots. But they "were" there, and they did their job, and none of us were even burned badly that day.
And after we put all the small fires out caused by the climatic "stomping of the grenade", we all looked at each other silently thinking, "How did I get mixed up with these stupid morons."
And my original question remains: how did any of us make it through high school alive?
Believe it or not I have several more of these stories that for some reason I feel compelled to confess to. So you all have my permission to tune out for a few days while I purge my conscience. Children of mine, please delete these postings so my grand-kids won't get too depressed concerning their gene pool.
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