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Nostalgia

In The Pines

The holiday season holds a special nostalgia for me. The neighborhood kids would build our winter fort.

Back in those days, before aluminum trees and realistic plastic, everyone had real pine trees of various sizes and type. After Christmas, after New Years, around the end of the first week in January, the alley would be filled with discarded trees. This was the time we waited for.

Freddie, Jose, Rich and I would drag tree after tree from the alley into Freddie’s yard because he was the only one whose family had a wooden picnic table. We would then proceed to toss the trees on top of each other, around and over the seats, until the table was hidden by pine branches on the sides and top. We would then go inside through an opening at one end of the table and hold our meetings.

It was neat. The scent of the trees surrounded us in the interior and sheltered us somewhat from any wind (as long as it wasn’t too strong). What was even better, was if it snowed and covered the trees. Then it was more like an igloo and better insulated. Most trees still had some tinsel or a few overlooked ornaments on them and we would re-hang the ornaments on the inside of the fort to give it some décor.

We would play in the yard and under the table until finally, after about another week or so, the place was littered with pine needles and Freddie’s parents informed us to remove the trees. With all the needles laying around, Freddie had the only green yard on the block!

The removal and relocation of the trees took place the day before the garbage truck came. We carted the trees and placed them along back fences in the alley, not certain which tree belonged where. Apparently it didn’t matter because no one on the street ever complained about our activities.

I don’t see things like that nowadays. Sometimes a beat up aluminum tree is placed in our alley and that’s about it. My childhood memories of the Christmas holidays are no longer seen. Like certain streets where the neighbors each year had the same decorations and dad would take us kids in the car (or we would sometimes walk if the weather permitted, to see Candy Cane Lane, or Santa Claus Street or Reindeer avenue. It was a community street decoration project and, as people moved or died off, there were less and less Santas and candy canes.

But the pine tree fort will always hold a special place in my memories, especially the scent of 10 to 15 trees surrounding a weather warped old picnic table in my playmate’s yard as we sat inside pretending we were wilderness explorers.

And, of course, Freddie’s green yard.

Hilda

There were many a memorable Christmas, for good or for bad, but a few stand out as exceptional.

One year, I desperately wanted a real guitar. I wanted to learn how to play and be a rock and roll star at 12 years of age. My younger sister preferred to be more frugal in her desires and fell in love with a stuffed hippo doll named Hilda. We both looked forward to Christmas in the hopes or receiving these two sought after items.

Unbeknownst to my sister, I learned the folks managed to get her Hilda and hid it up in the top shelf of the closet. She definitely would be surprised on Christmas morn as I still hoped to be. I was a bit concerned because snooping around the house, I found no evidence of a hidden guitar.

The folks were already up as I stirred from my bed Christmas morning. “Santa’s been here!” they exclaimed. “I’ll be right there,” I said as I rolled out of bed and onto the floor to find my slippers. My folks in the other room gasped as I looked under the bed and instead of my slippers saw a large wrapped box. They were hiding it until the end of the gift unwrapping frenzy soon to take place. “That kid never looked under his bed!” my father grumbled.

There was a look of disappointment on their faces as I put on my slippers and walked into the living room adjacent to my bedroom. But within a few moments I had actually forgotten about the box under the bed as the family gathered by the tree and presents were meted out to each of us.

There were toys and clothes galore and soon the dust (or should I say Christmas wrap) had settled as we kids sat among our new additions to the toy box. My father then said, “Aren’t you gonna get your gift from under the bed?” My face lit up and I hurried to the bedroom stating, “I forgot about that!” I pulled out the box, brought it into the living room and proceeded to unwrap my very own Sears six string acoustic guitar. I was very happy.

Over in the corner sat my sister who was not happy at all. She looked forlorn and mom asked her what what wrong. “I didn’t get my Hilda!” she said woefully. I looked at my parents and they looked at each other. They had forgotten to remove Hilda from the closet!

Dad got up and went into the girls room and emerged with a brown bag. “I am sorry,” he told my sister, “we totally forgot about this present.” He handed the bag to my sister who reached in and pulled out Hilda the Hippo in her little tutu. Her sorrow turned to joy as she spent the rest of the morning talking and playing with her new found and much anticipated buddy.

I enjoyed my guitar for years. Actually took lessons for a while until I began to self teach myself the music I wanted to play. After all, most rock and roll was three, maybe four chords at the most, and I wound up playing rhythm rather than notes.

My sister kept Hilda 60 years. It had, no doubt, special meaning to her as I was surprised in a nostalgic and warm way, that Hilda was there in her house until the day my sister died.

Perhaps my little sister will be happier in Eternity with her life long companion Hilda in her arm.

Only a Poor Old Duck

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I grew up with comic books. Today they call it the Golden Age of Comics, before Spiderman and the host of super heroes presented by Marvel Comics. Before all that, as Captain America began to fade, being outdone by Superman and Batman, I was reading comic books, and my two favorites were Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge.

Back then, comic books lined the shelves along with magazines and newspapers, in an aisle at the local Drug Store. These places not only filled prescriptions, but also filled stomachs with a snack counter, where you could buy a fountain soda and sit while reading the latest, just purchased, comic book of choice.

As kids, we read and traded comics with each other thus saving unnecessary expense. The difficulty was most of my friends preferred the super heroes and Mad comics and trading the ducks was difficult, but not as difficult as another friend who liked Archie and Classics Illustrated. Super heroes fought crime and super villains, while my comic icons went on fascinating journeys, usually financed by Uncle Scrooge, the world’s richest duck.

It didnt matter to me that Donald was beset by three nephews who were dropped off at his house and never reclaimed, or that Daisy was around at times but probably gave up on Donald after years of trying, and hooked up with Gladstone Gander, but it was Uncle Scrooge who showed up and, for thirty cents and hour, took Donald and the boys around the world visiting strange and unique places on and off the planet. And I could go with them for ten cents.

Although their hometown had its bizarre locations such as Notre Duck Cathedral, or the ancient castle of the mad Duke of Duckburg, many times I would follow them to the cave of Ali Baba, or the Klondike, a castle in Scotland, or a western ghost town, where McDuck would attempt to increase his riches while being saved by the Junior Woodchuck knowledge contained in the manual brought along by Huey, Dewey and Louie.

I could not relate to superheroes of my era, only wonder at their powers to subdue enemies, but I could relate to three young ducks who had a short tempered uncle and another who had a gazillion quatrillion dollars in a three square acre vault in the heart of Duckburg, who would take us on fantastic, and perilous at times, journeys through which I could participate vicariously.

I liked comics because not only could I read them, but the visuals were also provided so I did not have to imagine what the hidden golden moon of earth looked like, or the strange encounters with lost civilizations, thanks to Carl Barks and other illustrators at the Disney Works. It was all there for me and it only cost a dime.

When I returned from serving in Viet Nam, many years later, I found that my father, along with my baseball card collection and Mars Attacks cards, had tossed out all the old comics I had saved and reread through the years. My childhood was gone in more ways than one.

When Gladstone publishing in the mid 1980s began to reprint the classic Duck comics, I was there at the neighborhood comic book store eagerly awaiting the latest arrivals to see if there was a story I remembered or had never seen before. They were about a dollar now, more than the ten cent originals, but the originals were selling in the collectible market for much more than I was willing to pay, so thanks to Gladstone, I recaptured a happy part of my youth where I went sailing or flying or hiking once again with Donald, his nephews and, of course, Uncle Scrooge.

Not for thirty cents an hour, but the price was worth it.

Burning Leaves

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Autumn ain’t what it used to be. The sound of the clickity clack manual lawnmower has been replaced by a super charged gas powered grass eater. And the sound of people raking leaves has been replaced by the jet engine leaf blower that makes more noise than planes leaving O’Hare airport.

Kids in my neighborhood looked forward to Autumn for one reason, and it wasn’t returning to school. It was leaf burning. Not that we kids liked to do household chores, mind you, but there were certain rewards for leaf raking in the 1950s.

On a Saturday afternoon, the neighborhood kids (and a few adults without kids) would rake the leaves from the back of the yard to the front where you could gather them along the curb in front of your house and set them aflame.

Before we would do that, there was the ritual of jumping into the leaf pile first and tossing them up in the air, which required a subsequent re-raking into the curb. It was then that the magic began as we pulled out our book of matches, striking them and tossing them into the mound and watching as the fire slowly spread across from leaf to leaf.

The leaves burned slowly as most were not real dry and brittle (unless you put off raking for a week or so). There was an aroma which permeated the neighborhood as the burning continued. Parking your car was a problem since you didn’t want to be too close to the burning piles. All in all, it took only an hour or so to reduce the leaves into a smoldering heap which then required a good hosing down. You had to be careful with water pressure as not to hose the leaves all over and across the street onto your neighbor’s lawn.

I think the city banned leaf burning around 1960. I cant seem to find the original ordinance about it but I do remember people were told to put leaves in bags and set them in the alley. Thus ended a ritual which now made leaf raking a chore rather than a prelude to minor pyrotechnics in the front yard.

It was a right of passage where the old man (for the sake of not doing it himself) would allow us to have matches, after we raked and piled the leaves, in order to set them ablaze and pretend it was a campfire or burning fort. One time, I remember we tried to send smoke signals by using an old blanket. We were caught before any damage ensued.

Sometimes the wind got a little too strong and spun burning embers into the sky, sort of like when you toss another log on the fire. I suppose this is why somebody (whose roof probably caught fire) got wise and they banned it. Like they did fireworks.

Except folks still set off fireworks. And jump in leaf piles.

Riverview Park

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They tore it all down while I was in Viet Nam. It was the place I spent a lot of money and time enjoying myself as a pre-teen and teenager. It was one of the last places I went to before going into the army and one of the first places I wanted to go back to when I was discharged. They tore down Riverview Park in 1968.

Riverview Park had been around since the turn of the century when some Germans decided they wanted to make a picnic grounds and rifle range out of an old North side dumping ground located along the Chicago river. It’s where my great-grandfather sold his beer. The park continually expanded with rides and attractions and became a famous super-carnival located at Western and Belmont Avenues on the North side of Chicago.

You knew it was summer when Two Ton Baker (another story) came on the radio or television inviting you to laugh your troubles away (for a few dollars). I first went there with my parents when I was nine or ten years old. I went on the kiddie rides like the Caterpillar and miniature train for the most part but longed for the day I could attempt the bigger and scarier rides, especially the roller coasters. There were a variety of coasters. All wooden frame that clattered and rattled as the cars full of visitors rode over the wooden trestles. There was the Silver Streak, Blue Streak, the Bobs and Flying Turns and a few others. The Flying Turns was originally named the Bobs and was transported from the Worlds Fair. The tracks would suddenly disappear as you entered and careened around a semi-tubular structure just like a bobsled run. How the cars got back on track is a mystery to me.

Every summer, as I recall, there was a front page article of someone falling off one of the roller coasters. There would be a black and white photo with a dotted line to show the path down of the unfortunate individual who did not keep his hands on the bar, or who moronically stood up during the coaster’s descent.

Before the days of mega theme parks such as Great America, for us Chicago kids there was Riverview Park and you could get there easily by a ten cent bus ride. We waited impatiently as the summer drew near to be able to once again go to the park with the nickles and dimes we saved all winter. We could be assured that our favorite rides and attractions would still be there along with one or two new additions. And, as a teenager, it was a place to meet girls.

There were even special discount, five and ten cent ride days, days where you could go to a local business and pick up a coupon good for four discounted rides and free admission. By the 1960’s, Riverview was losing money. Free admission and discount coupons were used by kids who came to assemble at the park and spend the day but, after using the coupons, simply hung around, spending little more cash.

The park had a myriad of attractions. There was Aladdin’s castle, a centerpiece in the park and was sort of a haunted/fun house with twists and turns that you walked through, including a device in the front of the castle where, when young ladies walked across, would blow their skirts up in the air for all to see. There was also a smaller building called Hades located near the river but most of us stayed away from that since river rats kinda called it home.

There was a large selection of carnival booths, shooting galleries, penny arcades and ring toss games. You could toss a ping pong ball and if it landed in one of the bowls, go home with a goldfish. You could win stuffed animals, cupie dolls and chalk figurines (which now are worth some money on Ebay!). Or, you could, for a penny, watch a hula dance where cards flipped over to give the illusion of action, or, for another penny, receive a funny certificate or a photo card of cowboy heroes or beach bunnies.

There were concessions where you could purchase cotton candy, hot dogs , ice cream and soda and then go on the Tilt-a-Whirl and throw up. I especially liked one ride which was simply a large bucket suspended on cables, with a front rudder you could manipulate and steer the contraption high or low. I think it was called the Flying Wing. It was my favorite ride which I spent numerous “let’s ride again for five cents” times. Soaring above the tree line and buzzing over the heads of passers-by, I pretended I was a flying ace.

One attraction I vividly remember as a child was the Dunk-em stalls. This was a area consisting of two or three large cages where you threw baseballs at a target hoping to connect and dunk the person sitting in the cage on a platform, into the water below. The cages had a wire front and the individuals behind it were clearly visible. And Black.

I didn’t fully understand the implications back then, but middle age black men ( you didn’t see many Black folks at the park in the late 1950’s) would be sitting in the cages hurling insults at passers-by who would then pay ten cents (3 for a quarter) for a baseball to hurl at the target in hopes of dunking the smart-mouth. So just imagine a group of White people, young and old throwing baseballs at a target to dunk a Black man into the water while they also hurled epithets at one another. Sometimes it did get a little heated where, in frustration, the pitcher threw the ball directly at the person in the cage rather than the target! and although I didn’t participate (since my aim and throwing arm were bad), I did hang around and watch. I can now imagine the Black employee going home after a day of insults and dunking saying to his family, “I sure pissed off a few White folks today!”

As you walked down the Midway, there was an attraction which had real monkeys chained to miniature racing cars. You would put your dime on a color and watch the race as the monkeys sat in the cars in a stupor, riding around in a large circle. I recall another attraction that employed baby chicks, but dont remember what it was about. And there was the Side-Show with bearded ladies, overly obese people and, what were called then, freaks. I never went into that area, preferring the roller coasters and flying wing!

When I returned from Viet Nam in 1969, I vowed to make one last journey to the park. After being discharged and trying to assimilate back into society, I took a trip down to the area which was leveled but not yet developed. I strolled around the area remembering the midway, the location of the rides I enjoyed and then became an amateur archeologist, digging in the rubble for remnants of a childhood past. I spent many afternoons in 1970 with pick and shovel as I, and a few others, dug around the area, occasionally coming up with a bottle or small figurine or dish.

You might say, I was happy down in the dumps.

Dr. Bonebreak

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Honest, that was his name.

As I grew older, I wondered why someone would become a doctor with a name like that! I did think it was cool, however, and it always made for some good stories later in my adolescence. Dr. Bonebreak was our family physician when we lived on Fransisco street. His office was down the block on Diversey.

Back in those days, doctors made house calls. If you were sick, you called and the doctor would grab his black bag of paraphernalia and show up at your door hopefully to treat whatever ailed you.

Dr. Bonebreak was within walking distance from our place and I remember him coming over on several occasions. Most of the time, if you could walk, you went to his office, which was also his residence, and waited your turn.

Yes, doctors made house calls, but did not always come if they felt you were not sick enough. Every house had a thermometer so when you called, your parents could give the doctor your temperature and answer a few basic questions. That’s where the expression, “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” came from.

I remember one time I was laid up in bed with the flu and Dr. Bonebreak came over. After the examination, and a shot of penicillin in my rear end, he gave my mother instructions which included having some chicken broth and drinking lots of water.

I asked if it could be cola instead (hey, I was a kid) and he said we could mix half cola and half water as long as I would drink it all, which I did. I still cannot drink cola straight and so I add water or let it sit in the ice for a while until it is diluted. Funny how some things stick with you all your life.’

After we moved to our new home, I no longer saw Dr. Bonebreak. And I dont remember the names of the doctors we kids had after that, but none of them made house calls any more.

I remember one incident later in life, where I was really in pain. It turned out to be appendicitis. I awoke in the morning and informed my parents I wanted to go to the doctor. I had to walk from our house two blocks to the doctors office. It was excruciating. I was a teenager at that time which is why, I suppose, my father didn’t feel it necessary to drive me over there. When I did get there, the doctor called my father and off we went to the hospital for an emergency operation.

I wonder, if Dr. Bonebreak had made the house call instead, would he have operated on the kitchen table?

X-Rays Afoot

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The early to mid 1950s were influenced tremendously by the atomic bomb. No so much in the sense of destruction and desolation, although we did practice hiding under desks at school, but rather in the marketing sense. As we kids drew pictures of war and battles, the landscape now included mushroom clouds and advertising went the same way along with drawings of the atom with neutrons spinning around to sell a modern marvel of the age.

There were atomic sandwiches, atomic milkshakes, atomic bubble gum and comic books, followed by movies with giant ants and grasshoppers mutated by atomic radiation. And, out of the atomic age came the prolific use of another marketing ploy, the X-ray. If atomic bombs didn’t get you, the use of X-rays would.

Even as a kid I wondered when I went to get my teeth checked, why the assistant, after placing a heavy lead vest on my chest, would leave the room while they zapped my skull in order to see my teeth. I guess they were saving my chest for the doctor when I got my lungs zapped on another trip.

If that wasn’t enough, when you went to get a pair of shoes, they stuck your feet in this machine so that your parents could see your foot bones and how the shoe fit. I suppose this was okay if you bought shoes maybe once a year or so but I bet the innovators of that machine never thought about the fact that kids would see it as a fun contraption to play with.

The machine was a large, tall wooden box and you stood on a platform while sticking your feet inside this rectangle opening. The salesman then flipped a toggle switch, you looked into the viewer and there were your bones! My friends and I would take a Saturday walk to the shopping district called six-corners by most folks, and go to Sears where they sold Red Goose and Buster Brown Shoes. We would wait until the salesman was busy with a customer and then go up to the machine, stick our feet in and throw the switch. Also, one of us would stick their hands in there while the others took turns looking. We would do it a few times until we got shagged out of the store.

As a pre-teen, with all the different forms of X-ray equipment used on us at the time, it is no wonder we did not glow in the dark or become mutated like those giant ants and grasshoppers. But I sort of figured out, perhaps, where my foot problems came from.

Guardian Angel

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I believe in guardian angels. I heard mine once when I was eleven years old. Honest!

During the summer months, my cousin Gerry and I would bike our way from my house over to Riis Park on the northwest side of Chicago to go spend an hour or so in the large public swimming pool. You could lock your bike up in the racks provided and they would still be there when you exited the pool.

The pool was arranged in sort of a T design. It had a long rectangle shallow end which then dropped off into the deeper square end, where the diving boards were. You could tell the deep end because it extended beyond the walls of the shallow end, thus forming the T design. And there were huge black letters along the cement designating: DEEP END.

My cousin and I stayed in the shallow end splashing and jumping around and occasionally went just a bit into the deeper part where you had to spring step to stay above the water line. One day, for some stupid reason, not knowing yet how to swim very well, I decided I wanted to jump off the diving board into the deep end for the first time.

I told my cousin to watch what I was about to do as we hurried along the cement side of the pool to the diving board. I don’t think he was really watching too well or he may have noticed that once I jumped into the water, I did not resurface. I stood on the edge of the lower board, took a deep breath, held my nose and closed my eyes and jumped into the water.

My first surprise was that I did not touch the bottom of the pool. My second was that I was still under water. It might seem strange, but I had never opened my eyes under water before, so, as usual, they were shut tight as I floundered around in the dark, in the water, reaching around and above to find the surface.

My lungs were full of air but I could not exhale, knowing I would never be able to inhale until I got out of the water. I was starting to panic and my lungs were aching to breathe as I continued to reach around for something to grab hold of, or break the surface (where I would open my eyes and head for the edge).

It was a long time under the water and I started to realize I just might drown. The panic increased. I was about to give up and release what air I had in my lungs when I suddenly heard a distinct audible voice say, “Open your eyes!” It wasn’t in my head, no, this voice was audible in my ears.

I did so immediately and there, right in front of me, was the ladder out of the pool. I reached for it and drew myself up, expelling the air and inhaling deeply as I held on to the rung. After a few deep breaths, I climbed out of the pool and looked for my cousin.

“I almost drowned!” I exclaimed. He looked at me and shrugged as we walked back to the shallow end.

I was still shaking and decided maybe we should call it a day and just leave.

Reflecting on the incident, I probably was not under water as long as it felt but I sure was in trouble. And, if I had expelled the air in my lungs I would have sunk to lower depths of the pool. Keeping my eyes closed while trying to find your way out of the water just does not work. It never dawned on me to open my eyes until I heard that distinct voice that saved my life that afternoon.

I’ve kept my eyes, and ears, open ever since.

Scary Movie

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I was ten years old. It was a summer’s afternoon in 1955 when my Aunt Bonnie visited my mom. My cousin was with my uncle (I’m not sure where, although it could have been the milk route) and she was by herself.

The reason was because the Will Rogers theater was showing a film, “Not as A Stranger.” It was a melodrama, kinda love story mixed with the medical profession, and starred Robert Mitchum, Olivia DeHaviland and Frank Sinatra. Back then, matinees were 50 cents for adults and a quarter for kids.

No need to wonder that Aunt Bonnie (as well as mom) would go see the movie even if it were a comedy for a dollar, if that’s who was starring! I believe Aunt Bonnie was trying to persuade mom to go with her but failed since my two sisters were around someplace.

As a ten year old kid, a chance to go to the movies was a blessing, so I asked if I could go and mom said yes after Aunt Bonnie said it was okay. That was her big mistake.

Not knowing what the movie was about, sitting in the darkened theater with my box of popcorn, I was happy just to be there. But not for long.

The movie was in black and white, shadowy, a film noir genre, but even that was okay, it kinda gave an ominous feel to the experience. Unfortunately, for Aunt Bonnie, it was not too long into the film when my senses were shocked by a medical autopsy scene.

The covered body was rolled down a corridor and into a room which turned out to be an arena of interns. The old doctor comes out and announces he is going to dissect the corpse, flipping the sheet and exposing the body. I really didnt want to see that. I hid my eyes.

As I imagined what was taking place on the screen (which was probably worse than the actual images), I kept telling Aunt Bonnie I wanted to get out of there. She tried to persuade me that the scene was over and I could relax and watch the rest of the movie (I’m certain she really didn’t want to leave).

I think I started crying and said I would wait outside for her. This was her cue to give up and escort me out of the theater, still clenching a half empty box of popcorn.

I dont remember what we talked about on the walk back to my house. I think she was trying to reassure me that they didnt show the internal organs of the patient and that it was all just make believe. For me, make believe was giant ants and grasshoppers sneaking up behind unsuspecting victims, not real dead people in a hospital.

Even today, when I think about it, I robbed my aunt of a rare day to herself where she could have immersed herself in the adult themed movie, enjoying the actors and actresses transporting her to a fictional world of drama for an hour and a half. I ruined that for her. I hope she went back and was able to see it without the interruptions of a scared ten year old who never should have gone in the first place.

I decided I would stick to Saturday kids features and cartoon frolics. And…stay out of hospitals as much as possible.

Secret Place

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Elementary School was not an enjoyable experience for me. Besides the nuns meting out physical pain for infractions, there were the class bullies. And there were a few of them.

In the classroom there was no problem, but at recess they plied their trade of picking on anyone they thought would not stand up to them. I was one of the unfortunate victims of peer abuse.

One year in particular it was difficult to avoid confrontation. I was in fifth grade when the bully group decided it would play Civil War after reading about it in history class. Their idea was very simple. They would come up to you and ask if you were North or South. It didn’t matter which side you declared since they would automatically be on the opposing side, declare you the enemy and pummel you around a bit before confronting another unfortunate straggler.. It didn’t take long to realize you couldn’t win.

One day, when I saw them approaching, I ran off around the side of the school, past the rectory and into the alley in the hopes of eluding the enemy. As I rounded the corner into the alley, I saw the news cart used by one of the parishioners on Sunday to house and sell newspapers to people leaving the church.

It was up against the rear of the school and as I pulled it slightly away from the wall, opened the doors at the bottom where newspapers were stored, found that it was empty and would house a kid my size. I crawled inside and shut the door.

The cart was perhaps five feet long and five feet high and was on rollers. It had the storage area below and an upper part which the newspapers could be displayed and an awning above to keep our rain or sun. And it all folded up into a compact unit when closed. I declared it my secret place and retired there often during recess and lunch period in order to avoid the roving bands of Civil War enthusiasts in the playground (which was actually a parking lot and the street in front of the school).

When necessary (like getting back from lunch too early and wanting to avoid confrontation in the playground), I would sneak around to the back of the school and climb into my little fortress where I would munch some penny candy and read a comic book until I heard the warning buzzer sound for the resumption of classes.

This went on for several weeks, maybe a few months, until one day I arrived to find the doors padlocked. My secret place had been discovered, no doubt because I had left telltale candy wrappings and/or comic books within. It was okay, however, because the Civil War was winding down and things would be quiet until a different method of bullying was employed. I would just have to make sure that I didn’t return to school after lunch all too early.

Perhaps I could watch a little more of Lunchtime Little Theater or Uncle Johnny Coons and eat a bit slower from now on.