Thirteen, again

My arm smarted.  I swear there was a fist imprint on my deltoid.  It was nothing compared to the feelings I had when I looked into my friend’s eyes. They were like neon signs flashing, “what a dumb thing to do.”  I turned away my face reddening. 

“Now that the fun’s over, anyone ready to ski?”

It was my uncle who had laughed loudest when I hit the wall across the room.

“That sounds good,” said one person and then another. 

“We’ll have to take turns in the back room changing into bathing suits,” called out my aunt.

I laughed as I slipped out of my jeans and shirt.  I had forethought.  I had worn my suit under my clothes.  Rolling up those clothes, I stashed them in the corner.  I glanced at the wall of my recent encounter and could have sworn it bowed in at the impact point.  So much for foolishness, there was a lake waiting and my friend who was excited to ski.

She was a very popular young lady at school.  Everyone knew she was one of the brightest students we had, a fact which belied her status as a natural blonde.  When she entered a room it was as if sunshine lit every corner bringing smiles to all faces she shown upon.  The boys had begun to seek her out in a new way since the age of puberty had begun to pump new chemicals into their blood streams.  We were all red blooded arrivals into the teen years.  Scales had dropped from our eyes enabling us to see a whole new world.  Not one of us understood it, however.  I am certain I didn’t.

It was all so confusing.  That becomes apparent when a teenage boy challenges his dad to an arm punch.  The guys did this all the time. It was almost a rite of passage.

“Bare your arm, Croucher,” said one of my buddies on one such occasion.

“Huh?”

“I said bare your arm,” he repeated.

“Why?”   My inroads to puberty were lagging some would say.  Others my age had begun to get into the whole thing by lifting weights.  This was their way of proving their new strength.

“We’re going to trade punches.”

“Huh?”  My quick retorts were not the wittiest.

“Come on. I’ll show you.”  He pulled his sleeve up over his deltoid which was impressive. 

“There,” he said.  “You punch me as hard as you can.  Then I get to do the same to you.”

“Why?”

“It’s what guys do,” he said with a smirk.

“Since when?”  I was still a little befuddled.

“Since we became men,” he answered with a grin.

“I thought that was when we were twenty-one.”

“Well, technically, yeah, but, you know…” he winked.

“Huh?”

“You know!”  He nearly shouted.

“I guess I don’t.  How about tellin’ me.”

“See?”  He lifted his arm with the sleeve pulled up to his shoulder.  He leaned into the sunlight.

“Yeah?”  I said.

“Well, look!”  He did yell this time.

“At what?  Your armpit?”

“Yeah!”

I leaned in that direction.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Look closer.”   He grabbed the back of my head pushing my nose into his pit.

“Whoa!” I shouted jerking away from him.  “You talking about that smell?”

“No! Dipweed. I’m talking about that hair.  Men have hair growing under their arms and there it is.  It just proves that I’m a man!”  His face beamed with the satisfaction of logical deduction.

“What those two blonde hairs?” The sunlight glinted off a couple of short straight hairs protruding from his pit.

“Yeah.  That’s only the beginning.  Wanna see more proof?” The words no sooner left his mouth than he was loosening his belt buckle.

“Whoa!  Whoa! NO!!”  I yelled jumping back from him.

I knew what he was talking about because my body was sprouting peach fuzz in places I’d never had hair before.  Dad had told me it was a natural thing when boys reached a certain age which was pretty much all he told me about puberty.  There were things going on inside and outside that I found totally confusing. 

Girls.  I was especially confused about girls.  They began to look different, to me and to every guy my age.  They were beginning to blossom.  I heard that term but didn’t truly understand it at the time. 

“They’re bustin’ out all over,” said one of my buddies one day.  I wanted to ask what he meant by that but the moment passed as one of the girls we had known all our lives walked past.  We followed her with our eyes like we never had before.  She had a new demeanor about her that I certainly didn’t understand.  I felt like iron in the wake of a magnet.  The pull was just as mysterious.  What was it about her these days that hadn’t been there last year? 

My body began to act in strange ways as well.  The bus rides were times of true angst.  The bus came like always and I jumped on books in hand like always but the air was different.  The girls seemed softer, shyer, with smiles that brought a smile to my face.  Sliding into my seat with a lingering memory of the brunette in front of the bus whose smile lit the morning I grinned for no apparent reason.  That smile would never have affected me before but for some reason it lingered in my mind.  That smile lived inside of me warming me.  It became my world as everything else slipped away until the laughter of the girls in the next seat woke me from my own personal paradise.

The giggles turned to real laughter.  I looked to see what they were laughing at when I saw they were pointing at me.  I looked in the direction of their index fingers and …   My books were not sitting flat on my lap but tilting at an angle.

I felt all the blood in my body burn intensely in my face.  Well, not all the blood, obviously.   I slumped forward my arms pressing my books down.  Gone was the smile, gone paradise.  My face remained beat red for the remainder of the bus ride.  I stared at the bus wall in my slumped position until the bus stopped in the school yard.  I waited until the everyone had left before I moved.  There was no fear of my books sitting at an inappropriate angle any longer.  

I don’t think the blood left my face until lunch time.  That fire lit again upon entering the lunch room.  There were titters and giggles trailing along behind me as each of the girls from our morning  bus ride watched me pass.  It was a long day.

I won’t say that didn’t happen again because it did.  Those first couple of years proved a difficult time for a shy kid going through puberty, which brings me back to the cabin and my friend. 

I was talking to dad who came over to check on me.  We walked outside into the sun where he looked at my arm to be certain there was no permanent damage.   He straightened up satisfied I was fine.  I noticed he was smiling as he looked over my shoulder.

“I’m ready,” she said behind me.

I smiled and turned. 

I froze.  My eyes were held by a sight I never dreamed I would see in my life time.  Here in front of me was all the mystery I had never fathomed as puberty wore on day by day.  The richness of life was right before me in all its splendor.  Twin peaks of beautifully fashioned flesh warmly mounded beneath a red bit of cloth held my eyes transfixed.  I simply could not move.  My jaw was near the sandy ground. 

“Rickey, are you alright?” she said.

Her voice was warm and tantalizing.  I was adrift in my mind approaching paradise.

“I think he’s still stunned from our contest,” said my dad who shook me.

He shook me harder a second time.

“Son, your guest wants to know if you are alright.”  He shook me a third time very hard.

My eyes rattled into use once more.

“Uh, um, uh…  yeah, I’m alright,”  I mumbled as my eyes began to drift to those alpine…

Dad shook me again.

“Good, let’s head to the beach.  I hear the motor being cranked.”  He turned me in that direction.

Dad said she smiled as she began to walk to the beach.  I was willing my face to return to its lily white complexion.  How do guys get over this? The question tumbled through my mind constantly.

The rest of the day was lost to me in my crazed state.  I saw her slide her feet into the skis and fly away as my uncle hit the lever forward.  She was very good for a beginner.  She fell a couple of times.  I’m positive my uncle did it on purpose.  It was his way.  I know it was his attempt to loosen that bit of red cloth but he was never successful.

Watching him I knew some of us guys never got beyond the hold of puberty.  All I could hope was that I would never grow up to be like him. 

The day finally came to a close and we took my friend home.  I am sorry to say my embarrassment ruined the day for us since I was never able to talk intelligently for the rest of the stay.  We never went out together again but we did remain good friends.  She was one of my favorite people.  I’m glad to say she must have understood my awkwardness as a newly minted teenager.  I am thankful for that.  I will always remember her as one of the finest people I ever knew.

Wait! My what?

I had a dream last night.   In it I had just finished a large canvas.  The oils were drying as I stepped back to view the overall design.  It was an old brigantine, sails billowing and prow bursting through the open sea.  The sky was filled with clouds and the horizon held the promise of shelter from the storm.  It was a grand thing I thought eyeing the three by four foot canvas and yet...
My aunt was in the studio, why I do not know except the law of dreams is the unexpected.  She was my aunt by marriage to the artist of the family.  She passed away many years ago but here she was young and vibrant as I remember from my childhood.
"What do you think?" I asked her.
She stood back appraising my efforts.
I interrupted her concentration with my statement, "I think it's probably the best I have done so far but something seems wrong.  I just can't put my finger on it."
She glanced my way her face registering annoyance.
"Is it that bad?"
"Give me a minute," she said.  "I kind of see what you mean.  It's very good but something just seems out of sorts.  I need to study it."
I left her alone in front of the easel.
Another ten minutes passed in silence.  I saw her smile.
"I see it now," she said.
"Yes?" I looked over at my work.
"Look at this section," she said pointing at a portion of the ship.
"I still don't see it," came my answer.
"Look closely."
"I'm sorry.  Is it in the clouds?"  My puzzlement was growing.
"No!" she nearly shouted.
"Well what?" I did shout.
"There.  You should always research your material.  It's right there."
"Huh?"
"Your stengal's broken."  With that she disappeared.

Thirteen without a clue...

She is going!

Ah, silver tongued devil.  You talked her into it, a day of skiing and barbequing.  Yessiree, I lured her in and sprung the trap.  And now I’m sharing the day with her.  Just me and her.  Hot diggity dirt. 

My words were accompanied by a jig and a smile until I tripped over my feet.  The other kids in the breezeway stopped to laugh at my clumsiness but, heck, I didn’t mind because she was going with me to the family gathering at the lake house.

I looked over at her. My sheepish grin and reddening face must have made her smile as she shook her head then turned to go to class.

“Need help getting’ up?” asked my best friend.

“Naah, I got it,” I said pushing myself into a sitting position.

“What was that stupid dance all about?” he asked.

“My happy dance.”

“Yeah?  Happy about what?  The quiz this period?”

“Heck no!”  I looked at him slyly.  “She said yes.”

“Who?”

I told him.

“No way.  She’s way out of your league.”

“That may be but she said yes.”  My grin showed all thirty-two of my teeth.

“Wow!   You lucky dog.  What’re y’all gonna do?”

“You know the cabin my uncle has at the lake?”
“Yeah.”

“He’s having a barbeque.”

“Big deal. We can do that here.”  He shifted the books to his other hip.

“Yeah, but you don’t have a boat and skis,” I said with a triumphant smile.  “And you know what that means…”

He looked at me with questioning eyes. 

“No, what does that mean?”

“There will be water sports… swimming and skiing.”  I almost gave the knowing wink I had seen my dad give when he was privy to secret information.

“Yeah, it sounds like fun.” 

I could see he didn’t understand.  It was hard being sophisticated at thirteen.  Even my wink would not have been clue enough.

I started to elaborate when the second bell rang.  We were going to be late to class, a definite no-no for a quiz day.

“Come on!  We better run!” 

Our teacher was at the door drawing it shut as we skidded up to her.

“You know you shouldn’t be running in the halls,” she said to us with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” we replied in unison.

The rest of the day I was walking on a cloud thinking about the smile I had received.  A yes, accompanied by a smile.  I was the luckiest guy in the world.

The final bell rang.  The school week was over with that bell.  Tomorrow was Saturday.  The cabin at the lake was a night away.  As I walked to the bus I saw her sitting at the window seat in the bus going to her neighborhood.  I ran over and slapped the side as I jumped up for an eye to eye glace.  Though startled, she turned to see my face across the window sill.  She followed it as I landed back on solid ground.  She smiled.  I smiled back.

“Don’t forget!” I shouted.

“Tomorrow at ten, right?”  She leaned over the window opening.

“That’s right!  Don’t forget your bathing suit if you want to go skiing!” 

“We’ll see,” she said.  “I’ve never skied before.  I don’t know that I could.”

Her bus jerked into motion.

“But you can swim if you don’t ski!” I shouted at her.  She withdrew into the bus.  Her hand waved back at me.

My bus stopped in front of me.  The doors opened.

“You ridin’?” the boy from the senior class asked holding the door handle ready to close it.  The bus behind beeped.  He began to close the folding doors.

“Yeah!” I yelled.  I pushed the flaps back and clamored on board.

He jammed the accelerator as I was making my way down the center aisle.  I fell forward into one of the students sitting on the aisle side of his seat.

“Watch it!” he yelled pushing me off of him.

“Yeah, OK. Sorry.”

The bus stopped abruptly sending me back into him.  I heard the driver chuckle as the boy shoved me back into the aisle a second time.  The seat behind him was empty so I plopped myself into it and tossed my books onto the seat.

My mind was filled with Saturday’s events.  I’d only just tried skiing the last time we had spent time there.  It wasn’t easy getting up on those things but once I did the rush was overwhelmingly wonderful.  Sliding along on a glassy lake zigzagging behind the power boat was the most fun I had had since turning thirteen. 

It took me several tries to hold the rope and control the two slabs of wood attached to my feet.  The last time I was about to fly through the skis when my uncle eased off on the engine just enough for me to gain my balance.  Then I was up skidding atop the lake.  I held on for dear life as he gunned the outboard.  I could hear the power increase in a split second.  I felt the rope whip taut and I was flying behind the wake of his four-seater with the biggest grin I could muster plastered across my face.   I was buzzing along directly behind the motor.  I was happy enough but started thinking of the things I had seen others do so I leaned just a bit to the right and began to cross the wake out to the left of the boat’s trail. 

The skis slapped over the outside wake as I leaned to the left and began an arc over to the other side.  It was easy I laughed to myself leaning once again to the right.  Up into the air ever so slightly my skis smacked across the churned water and up again to settle unsteadily on the other side.  My balance was lost.  My body smacked into liquid concrete.  Stunned, I tried to breathe.  There was no air, only water.  Panicking, I tried to right myself.  The skis were no help.  Pulling my feet clear I kicked for the surface.  My uncle was circling the area when my head popped up.

“Get the skis!” he yelled at me over and over.

I looked around.  Seeing one I scissor kicked toward it.  When I had it in hand I hand paddled in a circle until the other one came into view.  A few stokes in that direction brought it into my hand.

“Put ‘em back on!  I’m going to come past you so you can grab the rope.”

 He crossed my path keeping the engine well away from me.  I saw the wake that the bar at the end of the rope made as it came close. I reached, caught the bar and lifted the rope over my ski so it was between them and started to yell, go.

My uncle didn’t wait for my order.  He gunned it.  I held on tightly, leaned forward then back trying to achieve a balanced stance.  Just at the point of being jerked from the skis I found that balance and was once again slicing through the wake behind the boat.  The time skimming the lake seemed far too short but it came to an end as he eased off the outboard.  The boat slowed into the sand.  My skis did the same.  I stepped out of them, picked them up and carried them to the boat.

“Not bad for a beginner,” said my uncle.  He tied the boat to an anchor he had spiked into the sand. 

“Do you always gun the engine like that?” I asked him while I propped the skis against the boat.

“Makes it fun for me,” he said with a laugh.  “Now we need to get your mother on those skis.”

“I don’t think that will happen,” I replied.

One day my mother did try it.  She never did again.  She found no fun in his gunning the engine.  My uncle just laughed.  My dad didn’t.

I was in front of the TV when my parents got home.  After they settled down and a pot of tea was on the table I spoke up.

“We’re still going to the lake aren’t we?”

Dad looked at me. 

“Why do you ask?” he said.

I looked at my mother who told me she would discuss my bringing a friend.  Asking directly was usually followed by a big fat no.  My mother had always interceded important requests so that he might say yes.  It depended on his mood.

My mother smiled at me a nodded as she poured the tea.

“I… I kinda asked somebody to go with me.  I hope that’s OK.” 

“Your mother mentioned something about a girl.  You want to ask a girl to go along with us?”

“Uh, yes sir.  If it’s OK,” I stammered back.

“Did you ask her already?”

“Yes sir.  She’s really something and I…”  I stopped.  His mind was made up.  I’d have to call her to apologize.

“Well, if it means that much to you, I don’t see why not.”

Wonder of wonders! He said yes! I was stunned. My face must have registered shock.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” It was my mother urging me onward.

“Uh, yes ma’am.  Thank you, dad.  Thank you,” I blurted out.

“That’s alright, son.  What time did you tell her we were going?”

“Ten o’clock.  In the morning.”

“Alright, then. I believe we should leave here by 9:30 then.  In the morning,” he said smiling at me.

“Yes sir.  Can I phone her to remind her?”

He nodded.

The night couldn’t go fast enough.  Barbeque. Ice cream. Swimming. Skiing.  And the prettiest girl in the eighth grade.  With me!  Oh man!  The best day ever.

Dad drove over to her house to pick her up.  We went straight to the cabin on the lake from there.  The entire trip I told her about the last time we went and I learned how to ski.  I didn’t include the disastrous fall, however. 

Dad finally turned on to the dirt road leading to the cabin.  It was small.  It was mainly front porch, screened in to keep out the mosquitoes with an inner room containing cots, a table and appliances, a stove and a refrigerator.  It had electricity even in its rustic state. 

I may have over romanticized the place to my friend.  She didn’t seem as impressed as I had hoped, but she smiled.  We stopped in front.  I took her bag and then her hand to help her out.  She looked around at the sandy ground surrounding the shack.  Patches of grass and weeds dotted the unpromising lawn.

The screen squeaked when dad pulled on it stepping aside for mom and my friend to enter. 

My uncle’s loud voice could be heard from the back.

“Well, well.  There’s the Limey.  We were thinking you wouldn’t make it again.”

“Traffic was heavier than usual.  And we left a little late to pick up the boy’s friend.”

My uncle’s lascivious eyes raked over her.  I could see a chill run up her spine.

“Mighty pretty, Rickey.  Mighty pretty.  Too pretty for you,” he added.

I took her hand and led her over to the corner.

“How ‘bout a drink, Al?” he shouted directly at my dad.

Dad smiled and declined. 

“A bit early for me,” he said.

“Never too early for a man,” said my uncle with a smirk.

I asked my friend if she would like to walk over to the lake shore.  She agreed.

“We’ll be back later,” I said as we walked down the gray aged steps.

“You be sure and bring her back now,” yelled my uncle at our backs.

“You’ll have to ignore him,” I told her as we walked side by side.

“I think there is one in every family,” she said.

We walked bare foot along the shore chatting the morning away.  As the sun grew hotter and higher in the sky we began a slow meander back to the cabin.

“Are you getting hungry?” I asked.

“Yes, I am,” she answered.

“Silly question.  Who isn’t.”

The grill was throwing off a wondrous aroma of roasting chicken slathered in barbeque sauce.  We arrived in time to have plates shoved into our hands.

“You children go ahead.  There’s cole slaw and potato salad along with iced tea inside on the table.  Get some of that chicken first though.” 

We filled our plates.  Inside we piled on the afore mentioned foods.  I led her to a place to sit and went back for ice tea.  The screened porch allowed a cool breeze to blow through while we ate.  It was a leisurely lunch followed by a card game or two while our food settled.

My dad was sitting over in the corner quietly having a smoke.  While I watched him an idea came to me.  I was thirteen and full of spunk and I wanted to impress the girl I had brought.  So gathering up courage I looked over at him and said, “Hey Dad!”

He looked up.

“Yes, son.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“And what would that be?” he questioned.

“How about I get to hit you in the arm as hard as I can?”

“To what end?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  It’s what guys do,” I said.  I realized how ridiculous I sounded but it was too late.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” he replied taking a drag on his Lucky.

“Yeah, I think I do.”  My courage was up.

“You know that if you do then I get to do the same in return?”  He looked at me with a smile cracking his face.

“Uh… yes sir.  I know.”  My voice lost some of that confidence.

“I want you to think about this, son.”

My uncle chimed in.

“Naah, you don’t have to think about it.  You know you wanna hit your daddy,” he wisecracked.

“Um… you get to hit me in the arm just like I hit you?” I asked hesitantly.

“You want to hit me as hard as you can? Is that right?” He had sat forward to ask me.

“Y..Yes sir,” I slouched back in my chair.

“If you really want to do this then I will agree but I want you to understand that since you will hit me with all your strength I will do the same.  Do you understand?”  He looked very intently at me.

“Uh, yes sir,” I barely squeaked out. 

“Alright then.  You go first.  And hit me with everything you’ve got.”

“Yes sir,” I said.  Rising from my seat I looked back at the girl I thought I would impress and very sorry I had even wanted to.

Dad walked to the middle of the room.

“Al, you don’t really mean to do this, do you?” asked my mother who was beginning to rise from her seat.

“Sit back down, dear.  The boy wants to be a man.  Let’s let him do it.’  Dad rolled his sleeve up bearing his prominent deltoid.  I approached slowly.

I looked at his arm. It looked like rippled iron pipe.  Mentally I looked at mine, baby fat over tender muscle.  The sweat began to bead on my forehead as I watched those muscles come alive and tighten down.

“Oh, come on kid. Give your dad your best shot.”  My uncle kept egging me on.

I looked around hoping someone would laugh and say, oh stop it you two.  It wasn’t going to happen. I took another step forward.

“Are you going to take all day about it, son?”

“I’m getting there,” I whimpered in reply.

“You can still change your mind,” dad offered.  He flexed his rock hard arm once more as if to deflect my intention.  I remembered having seen him lift the back end of a Volkswagon clear of  the ground to allow someone to work on it.  That had only been a few months ago.  Only an arm of steel could perform such a feat. I looked up at dad, then at his arm. 

I reared back tightening my fist.  With all my might and weight behind it I slammed my fist into that arm.  It felt like my fist cracked.  Pain shot through it. I looked up at my dad who rolled down his sleeve.  He smiled.

“I thought you said that screen kept the mosquitoes out,” said my dad to my uncle.  Then he looked at me holding my fist.

“My turn,” he said.  “Prepare yourself.  Let me know when you are ready.”

I never wanted to hear that screen door slam behind me so badly in all my life.  I had probably injured myself for life slamming my flimsy hand into his tree trunk of an arm.  Yet, I had made a deal.  There would be no running away.  There would be no begging.  There would be no help from the audience.  I was alone bolstering my courage to meet my fate.  The fate I had brought upon myself.  I looked at my mother who sat back with a sad look on her face.  I looked at my friend who looked at me with puzzlement across hers.  And then I knew.  It was all for naught.  I rolled up my sleeve.  I tensed my arm as solidly as I could.

“Go ahead,” I said resignedly.

The wall on the other side of the room slammed into me.  He had just tapped me without full force or follow through and, yet, I had sailed across the room crumpling at the base of the wall.  The birds circling my head were multicolored and tweeting in unison. 

Dad was at my side.

“Are you alright, son?” He was very concerned.

“Did we get the tree alright?” I asked.

“Tree?” He looked perplexed for a moment.  “Oh, the tree.  Yes, we got the tree alright, five years ago.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked my aunt.

“We went for a Christmas tree in Georgia.  He got knocked out.  I guess he thought we were back in the Georgia woods again,’ explained my dad.

“Come on.  Let’s get up,” said dad.  “Do you know where you are?”

I looked around.  I shook my head and looked again.

“We’re at the cabin.”

“That’s right.  Do you remember what happened?”

“Oh, yeah.  I challenged you.”

“That’s right.  Did you learn anything today?” he asked.

“Uh, think before I speak?”

“That’s a good one to learn,” he said letting my arm go.  I was woozy but stayed on my feet.  I tried to keep that lesson in mind but sometimes I still forget.

To be continued…

Happy Birthday, Richard

So Richard Beck is celebrating a birthday on August 21.  I don’t know why but for some reason that is important to me this year.  I know that he and I share radically differing views in the political world but that does not erase those days long ago when we were friends wearing out the knees of our dungarees playing marbles in the dirt.

Riverland Terrace School, which was the beginning of our education about the wider world, was situated in the middle of our first world which, strangely enough was called Riverland Terrace.  It was a relatively new community chock full of children who would later be called Baby Boomers. We had no idea we were the luckiest kids in the world.

I cannot sit here and tell anyone the first day we met because, simply put, I am old and my memory is shot through with holes.  There are those memories that seem crystal clear though I may have colored them to my own palette.  The early years in our classrooms swirl around in a miasma of bits and pieces that do not coalesce.

The building which stood like a colossal skyscraper to six and seven year olds was ringed by a section of brick that stood out half an inch from the wall and a couple of feet above the ground.  He took on the challenge of walking that half inch on splayed feet.  Below, the ground promised pain and sorrow with just one slip. Imagination conjured terrifying creatures awaiting a careless move along the precipitous face of brick and mortar.  Richard had taken the first step from the protruding arm of the porch that lead into the side entrance.  I watched his courageous move shivering at his fearlessness.

“Come on, Rickey!  It’s easy.  You can do it!” he said his right cheek hugging the wall.  I saw half his smile and his sparkling left eye only because his arm was blocking a full view.  His hand reached above to find finger holds between the bricks.  I shook my head as he began to inch away from me.  He turned to face the direction he was moving. His right foot slid along the half inch of brick while his right hand felt along the gripping edge until he was leaning away from me still shaking my head.  He continued to the corner of the building encouraging me to follow him with each inch he gained on his journey.  He came to the sharp edge of the bricks that formed the corner and reached around with his hand struggling for a hold.  The triumph lit his face and he eased his right foot around to the other facing of the red bricked building.  He waited for a minute to stabilize his position.

“Rickey! Come on! It’s easy!” he yelled one last time and he was gone from my sight.  I listened but heard no scream of a plummeting body to certain death, or at least to a smarting hiney.  No, just the call of a friend borne on the wind cajoling  me to join him in acres of fun.

Alone, I stood, on the porch shivering in the wind that whistled around the corner of the dark building looming over me.  My friend, Richard, was far beyond me now.  Fear had turned me to stone.  Once more the call for me to join him wafted around the corner faintly.  I had to do it.  I took two steps to the half inch walkway.  I slid my foot out beyond the porch.  Placing my body up tight against the wall I reached for a hand hold above me.  Feeling my fingers slide into the groove I held on with all my might and placed my left foot sidewise on the protruding brick.  Quickly I found a second handhold with my left hand.  I had done it.  I was alone against the wall two feet above ground. 

“Now what?” I thought as I held tightly.  A voice inside said slide your feet and hands in the direction you want to go.  I closed my eyes and obeyed.  At the corner I opened my eyes and smiled having come this far.  I kept my hand in the groove and slid it ever so carefully around the corner along with my foot.  I was at the turning point.  Holding fast I peeked around the corner to see Richard almost at the green door midway along the side of the building.  His movements, encouraged by experience, were smooth and fluid as he propelled himself along at dazzling speed.  He jumped to the step and turned to see if I had followed.  His grin was wide with triumph.  Jumping from the step he ran to my position and coached me along until my foot could stand solidly on the step in front of the green door.  I might have fallen and died had he not stuck near me with words of cheer at my progress.

Our time at RTS was filled with such moments, far too many to enumerate.  The middle years were filled with exploring our world of Riverland Terrace on our trusty bikes, his, a Schwinn and, mine, a Columbia.  They were our equivalent of a Ford and a Chevy, mine being the Ford of course.  Our rides took us further and further into the wide world of the Terrace.  We ventured to the edge of Suicide Cliff at Riverland Drive’s end on the Wappoo Cut.  I was elated to have ridden my bike so far and seen the famous site about which I had learned from my mother.  The drop was steep for a child my size.

“Why’d your mother call it suicide cliff?” asked Richard.

“Dang if I know,” I answered.

With that we laid our bikes down and began to climb down the rocks to the water’s edge.  Jagged rocks assaulted our shoes as we slipped on the slime.  Crumbled asphalt lay along the slope of the cliff.  We looked up to see the dead end sign leaning ever so slightly toward the water.  The oaks along the top of the cliff provided shadow on that hot summer day as we watched the fiddlers scuttle away from us huge pinchers held high to ward off danger as they searched for the opening of their mud holes.   We found a cord tied to a sprouting seedling which led out into the water.  Richard tugged on it.

“There’s something on the end of it,” he said and began to pull at it.  He pulled in a barrel shaped wire enclosure.  He picked it up.  Inside we could see a cone shape leading into the middle on both ends.  Within were flopping bodies of minnows.

“It’s a minnow trap!” Richard said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“They are used for bait by fishermen.  This is put in the river overnight.  The minnows enter through that cone on either side.  It’s easy to go in but going out is not so easy.  The minnows are trapped.”

“Why would they go in there?” It didn’t make sense to me.

“There is usually something inside that they like to eat.  That’s what draws them in.”

“Oh,” I always answered when he filled me in on some new piece of knowledge I had never heard.

We scrambled up the side of the cliff and ran back to our bicycles.  We raced along the road ahead of us, the wind whistling past, when Richard spoke up in quick gasps.

“I have an idea!” he shouted into the sky above.

“What?”  I shouted back.

“Meet me at my house!”

His words faded as he shot forward and beyond me.  I pumped my legs as fast as I could to catch up.  I breathed hard as he slipped around the curve in the road ahead. When I got to that curve, he was nowhere in sight.

Huffing and puffing, I angled into the steep climb that was the start of his driveway.

“You could have waited,” I gasped.

“I wanted to get here and have this ready by the time you got here.” he was smiling and flipping the cards in a deck he held in front of me.  “Lemme show you what I want us to do.”

I was astraddle my bike when he bent one of the cards. He attached it with a clothes pen to the fork on my front wheel extending the other end into the spokes.  He did the same with the back wheel.  He up righted his bike, dropped the kickstand and added cards to his wheels too.

“OK.  Come on.  You’re going to love this.” He jumped on his bike and buzzed down the drive leaning to the right as he hit the steep incline to the road.  There came a roar from his bike that almost sounded like a motorcycle.  I moved forward giving my bike momentum then hit the pedal hard.  With a roar I followed Richard’s path shooting down the street in a celebration of noise.  We toured the Terrace again with the sound of stiff-back cards clattering against spokes.  The smiles on our faces could have lighted the day had the sun gone behind a dark cloud.

Those bikes wore out in time and we were given new ones as we grew.  Richard used his to work.  He took on the job of paperboy.  The evening paper, called the Evening Post, was delivered to a store in the Terrace where he would receive them.  On occasion I would accompany him.

The stacks lay on the stone embedded asphalt beside the steps of what we called the Greek’s.  Inside were groceries and cold drinks.  I’d go in and get drinks and peanuts while Richard cut the cord holding the stack of papers together.  He would have rolled half the lot by the time I came out with the bottles and bags.  The rolled ones would be stuffed into the canvas bag held on the wooden cross affixed to his handlebars.

“Thanks,” he said taking the Pepsi bottle. “Wow! That’s big!”

“Yeah, I know and it’s still a dime,” I said tilting the pint bottle of Pepsi.  The bubbly bites trickled into my mouth. “It’s brand new, sixteen ounces of Pepsi.” I began to pour the peanuts into the neck of the bottle, another thing Richard taught me.

“I don’t know if I can hold that much in one sitting,” he said.

“Yeah, but it’s a dime like the smaller ones.  It’s a deal.”  I tilted the bottle again receiving peanuts in a stream of Pepsi.  I chomped down on them.

Richard put his on the step and commenced to rolling papers again.  I joined in.  We finished up stuffing the last one into the canvas bag.  I took the bottles back inside for the deposit and tossed the empty peanut bags into the trash.

We hopped on our bikes and made his paper run up Woodland Shores and Stono Shores.  I’d head on home as he tossed his last paper.  We were both heading for supper and the bathroom.  A pint of Pepsi was a bladder buster after a half hour or so.

When we picked up our licenses to drive it was a whole new world.  Richard began working at the Amoco Filling Station at five points in Riverland Terrace.  I started my job at Charleston Rubber Company in the Stark Industrial area after I was able to drive.  One of those hot summer afternoons as I drove into the station and the bell jangled for service I cut the engine and got out to meet Richard as he approached the car wiping his hands on an old towel which he stuffed in his back pocket when he got to the pump. 

“Lemme do it,” I said reaching for the hose.  He rang it up so it could pump.

 “How’s your day?” he asked.  I slid the nozzle in the tank opening.

“Not bad.  Yours?”

“Fine until the cops went flying past earlier today.”

“Something bad happen?” I asked.

“Four of our friends were in an accident.”

“Are they alright?”

“No, they all died.  The car slammed into that oak just beyond the sharp curve on Johns Island.  They were going to the Tomato Shed to start work.”

I think that was our first brush with death involving someone we knew.  It weighed on us for a while but with time we let it go.

The time was taken up with our interests.  Richard loved music and began playing the guitar.  He became half way decent on it.  He tried to teach me but it was not something I could grasp, neither physically not mentally.  My fingers were too short to reach around a fret without cramping up but that was nothing to my mind which took no understanding whatsoever to the notes on a page of sheet music.  They never ever registered in my head as musical sounds.  I could whistle a tune but could never attach that symbol to the sound, no matter how hard Richard tried to explain it to me. 

“Try this,” he would say.  His fingers would plunk out a tune.

“Like this?”  My fingers would bumble across the strings.

“Not quite.  Tighten down on this string on this fret,” he’d answer as his ears hurt from my scratchy noise.

The note I tried to make would come out fuzzy. It never had that sharp melodic sound he conjured with those magic fingers.

It came natural to him and he was playing tunes and singing along like a real folk singer.  As he sang I would struggle with my finger pressure on the frets without success.  He was able to show me how to play a few notes of Honky Tonk.

“I did it!” I yelled proud as I could be after picking off five or six of the required notes.

He smiled while I tried to repeat it.  His smile evaporated as I tripped up the notes totally out of sequence producing a discordant sound.  I have never been able to play it since not for his lack of trying to help me.  We both figured after a while that I should stick to whistling.

We enjoyed the summers though we didn’t get together as often since we both were working our summer jobs but on the occasional Friday night and Saturday night we would head to the pier at Folly Beach to hear one of the bands and sip a few suds.

“The Hot Nuts are at the pier,” I said one of those nights as I slammed the car door.

“Lemme get a clean shirt and I’ll be right with you!”

I sat on the hood of the car smoking my Camel.  That was something I never learned from him nor he from me.  Cigarettes never tempted him, though I do remember his experimenting with a pipe and some aromatic tobacco.

The screen slammed behind him.  He was buttoning the last button when he reached for the car door. I slipped behind the wheel, slammed the door and cranked the car. We were on our way to the pier.

The place was alive with patrons and expectancy.  The band had not made its appearance when we arrived. We paid our admission and walked in.  The juke box was playing but the noise of the crowd was drowning it out.

“How about a beer?” I shouted next to his ear.  He smiled and nodded.  We got behind the sea of humanity waving money at the bar tender.  Our turn finally arrived and we got our cups.  The band still wasn’t on stage so we made the trip to the bar several more times.  My brain was swimming in alcohol when the roar of the crowd announced the band.

Faintly within that roar we heard their chant.

“NUTS! HOT NUTS! YOU GET ‘EM FROM THE PEANUT MAN!” 

And the night began.  The dance floor filled up to become a roiling, writhing mass of bodies syncing to the sound from the loud speakers.

In my alcoholic fog I began to search the crowd for a familiar face or, if not a familiar one, a pretty one. 

“Let’s walk around.  See if we can find a dance partner.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he replied.

We started shambling around people moving to the music.  Some were sitting at tables screaming over the heavy beat.  They were leaning in close to one another to be heard.  One fellow was monopolizing two girls who appeared bored with him as they glanced around in search of something better.  One of them smiled at Richard.

Richard always willing to sing began a Bo Diddley ditty,

“He looks like a farmer.”

To which I added,

“But he thinks he’s a lover!”

We looked at each other and laughed at our drunken witticism as we continued our stroll around the outer fringe of the dance floor.  We ended up at the bar once more.  Our hands full of beer cup we ambled over to the railing at the farthest edge of the pier and looked down at the ocean waves breaking on the support posts beneath us.  We turned to look back over the crowd our elbows resting on the rail.  I was watching the band and taking a drink from my cup when I was tapped on the shoulder.

“What did you say to me?”

“What?” I asked over the band.

“I said what did you say to me back there?”

Not knowing who he was or what he was talking about I repeated my question.  Richard looked as puzzled as I.

“What?”

“Over there,” he said pointing, “you said I looked like a farmer.”

“What?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” said a guy behind him.  “You said he looked like a farmer.”

“No I didn’t.  Richard said that.”  My thumb pointed at Richard who looked upset I had mentioned him.

“Then I said, ‘but he thinks he’s a lover’.”

This didn’t make things any better.  Here we were our backs to the rail and four guys spreading out around us.

“Whoa, fellas,” I said.  “We meant no harm by what we said.  It was all in fun.  We were just singing that Bo Diddley song.  You know, You Can’t Judge a Book by the Cover?”

“Well, I didn’t like it, you talking like that about me in front of my girl.  Me and my boys want you to step outside so we can settle it now.”

“Whoa, guys.  We don’t want to fight.  We’re here to have fun and what we said was in fun.  We didn’t mean anything by it.  I’m sorry if you took offense.  Please, accept my apology and let’s enjoy the band.”

The guy looked at his friends.  They shrugged their shoulders.  He turned back to me without changing his expression.

“I really apologize.  I didn’t mean a thing by it.”  I looked at him while my mind churned over whether it was high tide and whether a jump from the pier would be too high if it weren’t.

“Well, OK, but you stay away from me and my girl.  Got it?”

“Yeah, sure.  I’m sorry.”  I said it once more for emphasis.

They gave us a threatening look then left to haunt their side of the pier.  We watched them as they did. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

It was Richard’s brother yelling at me.

“What?”

“You chicken shit!  You apologized to that low life?”  He came at me spitting out the words.

“Why would I want to fight him?”  I yelled back over the band.

“Because he threatened you!” he blasted back.

“Only because we made fun of him.  It was our fault.  So I apologized.  It was his due.” My words tumbled out.

He stared at me. With the words ‘chicken shit’ repeated he turned and left.

“What the hell?”  I turned to Richard.

I’m not sure how Richard felt about it since it was his brother.  I’m the one who apologized so I believe Richard was off the hook.  I never asked.

Our days of spending time together were coming to an end as our senior year in high school approached June.  We shared the same Senior English teacher which we have always felt was our best class ever.  We also helped write the senior class prophecy.

“We’re meeting at Mrs. Smithwick’s to finish up the senior prophecy,” I told him as I paid for gas.

“I thought it was finished,” he said. 

“Not quite.  Just a few more and we can wind it up. So, see you tonight?”

“I’ll be there.”

Mrs. Smithwick was our senior English teacher.  She took a real interest in her students and was kind enough to allow us to finish the prophecy there.

“Some of these are fairly raunchy,” she said looking at me.

Jack Lee was there holding the notebook and pen waiting to write down the golden words we had to offer.

“Why are you looking at me?” I asked grinning.

“I graded that essay three times.  I know what goes on in your mind.”  She looked firm in her accusation.

“How many more are left?” Richard said trying to get the ball rolling.

“I have the list and we have three here not done.  Some of those that are done could be altered,” said Jack.  He spoke their names.  Two we knocked out in minutes. 

“The last name is Richard Leander Beck.”

“How about this?  Richard Beck was last seen in his red Corvette convertible pulling his mobile church behind him as he preached his way across the country.”

“I’m not too keen on that one,” said Richard.

“Tough!” Jack and I said together.  “We’re sick of this and that’s how we end it.”

Our teacher warned us once more about some of the individual prophesies being a bit off color.

“Aah, they aren’t that bad.  We’ll just read them at the last meeting and that will be it.”  We packed up and left.

About ten minutes before the meeting to congratulate the senior class on its graduation, Jack was called into the principal’s office.  When he came out the notebook wasn’t with him.

“Hey, you better go back and get the class prophecy notes.” I yelled at him.

“He took ‘em,” Jack said.

“What?” said Richard.

“He took ‘em,” repeated Jack.

“He can’t do that.  We worked on those a long time,” I said.

“What do you mean, he took ‘em?’  Richard was still baffled.

“He said they were not fit to be read in front of the school in the auditorium.” Jack’s words came out with venom which was strange for him.

“How so?” I asked.

“He said they were off color.  Just like Mrs. Smithwick told us and he was not going to allow them to be read.”

“That does it for me.  I’m leaving.” I turned and marched to my car.

We shared so many more things over those twelve formative years.  Richard’s influence on me was marked.  I can never hear Bo Diddley without our visit to the pier cropping up into my mind.  I can never hear Honky Tonk without struggling to stretch my fingers around an imaginary fret.  I can’t hear “Honest I Do” by Jimmy Reed without thinking of listening to it for the first time at Richard’s.  I always laugh when Redd Foxx tells the joke about the Faukowi indian tribe and one of the tribe who became lost as he turned to his traveling companion asking, “Where the Faukowi?”  I can never hear ‘Work With Me Annie’ without thinking of snickering at Richard’s upon first hearing it. 

All these thoughts came to me after hearing this song on Sunday evening.  That song was ‘Scotch and Soda.’  I first heard it long ago as Richard strummed his guitar and let the words flow.  It always floods my mind with the best memories anyone could want.

RIP Ivan

My friend Ivan Dennis has passed on.  Some of my fondest memories were shared with him.  We knew each other for a lot of years. We shared time together at RTS and JIHS.
The world is a little sadder now that he has left it.  My heart goes out to his family and friends.
Rest in peace, Ivan.

The Conkerer

“Alf!  You found yours yet?”

“No, I’m still looking,” said Alf. He looked into the branches overhead. The horse chestnut tree was a mile from his house.  He was supposed to be helping his dad with the boot mending but he wanted to find the best conker around.  It was important.

He threw the stick he’d carried with him up into the limbs.  It made contact this time swiping the edge of the seed pod just hard enough to detach it.  The stick fell at his feet followed by the huge pod.  Inside he found a perfectly symmetrical conker. 

“It’s beautiful!” he said aloud in his excitement.

“You found a good one?” yelled his mate.

“I got a winna here!” Alf yelled back.  His mate was running over to take a look.

“Sorry, Bob, but I have to get to me dad’s workshop.  I’m late as tis!” he yelled at his friend.  He shoved the conker in his pocket and scooped up his stick as he headed back to his house and the shed at the back.

As he ran the pressure of the conker reassured him he had found a winner.  He slowed to a walk nearing the work shed.  He stopped and raised his head to the window.  The shop was empty.  Maybe he wasn’t in trouble after all.

He quickly circled to the door and slipped in.  His head received a smack from the back of his dad’s hand.

“Where have you been, boy?” He was wrong. His dad had been in the corner retrieving some leather for the boot on the last.

“I’m sorry, dad.  I got caught up with me mate.” He rubbed his head which was smarting from the blow.

“I don’t need excuses, boy.  I need help getting these boots mended.  They’re expected this afternoon so get to work.” 

He took the leather from his dad’s hand and placed it on the table.  The prize conker he put in his hat which he gingerly placed on a shelf out of the way. His apron was on the chair.  A moment later he tied it at his back then sat in front of the last.  The boot needed a new sole so he began measuring it for the cut needed.  His knife slit along the line he had drawn on the flat bit of leather.  For a young boy he was very good at this.  He’d picked it up quickly.  Even his dad had been surprised at his agility in such a short time.  He was so good, in fact that his dad depended on him more than he liked.

After the leather was cut and placed on the boot he took a handful of tacks.  These he placed in his mouth to be retrieved one at a time.  His hands quickly nailed the sole firmly to the boot. He cut around it to bring the leather in line with the outer edge finishing up by filing the ragged trim to a firm line outlining the shape of the foot. 

“There,” he said. “One down.”  He tossed it to his dad to inspect.

“You amaze me, boy. I couldn’t do a better job meself but don’t get to likin’ yerself too much. Get on with it.”  He tossed the finished boot in the bin.  Those in this bin stayed until it was time to be polished.

Alf grabbed the second boot and finished it off faster than the last.

“And here’s the second.”  He slipped it off the last reaching over to his dad.

“Already?” His dad asked in disbelief. “Let me see.”

A close inspection showed the work to be flawless.

“Get to polishing them, then,” he said finding no fault. 

“Yes sir,” said Alf reaching for the polish.  The boots took on a shine that made them look brand new. There were two other pairs of shoes in the polishing bin which he cleaned up and brought to a fine shine.

“Can I fix my conker now?” he asked.

“You’ve got no time for playing as long as there’s boots to mend.  Those on the table need work.  When you’ve finished them maybe you can go meet your mates if it’s light out.”

It was no use arguing.  His dad expected him to do until done. He reached for the next pair.

As the sky grew violet his dad tossed his hammer onto the shelf and called out,

“Alright, son, time to knock off.  Supper’ll be waitin’.”

Alf looked up.  There was no light in the sky.

“Can I use the drill to put a hole in my conker?” asked Alf.

“Not now.  Yer mum will be waitin’ supper. So put everything away and let’s go up the house, now.” He had hung his apron on the coat rack.  He grabbed the hat on the table. It was Alf’s hat. The conker flew out hit the wall and fell to the concrete floor. It cracked.

“You’ve broken me con..”

“Hush your whinin’, boy. If it broke that easy it wouldn’t have won nothin’.”  You can look again in the morning for another.  Come on, now. Yer mum will be cross.”

Alf picked up the horse chestnut.  The crack ran half way round. It was useless.  He tossed it in the trash as he walked past.

The next morning at first light he was out the front door and a mile away under the tree before his folks were aware he’d left.  He threw his stick high into the tree hoping to dislodge another perfect nut.

His wish was answered half an hour later when he heard his stick make contact with a pod.  The loud crack was followed by the stickered hull landing at his feet. It was a giant.  The shell split easily revealing a shiny brown conker the like of which he had never seen.  It was a giant.  The weight of it overwhelmed him.  This specimen would make a ninty-fourer or even more. Clutching his prize tightly he ran the mile back home going straight to the shed.

The boring utensil was right at hand when he went through the door.  Carefully he lined it up in the center and commenced drilling straight down and through.  He blew air threw the drilled hole then held it to his eye.

“Perfect,” he whispered.  “Now some string…”

The door opened. His dad came in.

“What are you doing in my shop?” he asked in anger.

“I…I ..was…”

He was answered with a cuff around the ear.  The conker he slipped in his pocket as he regained his balance.

“I was looking to see what needed finishing up.” Alf said.

“Don’t get cheeky with me, boy,” he said.

“No sir.  Wouldn’t think of it, sir,” said Alf standing straight with his hands behind him, fingers crossed.

His dad raised his hand but did not strike him again.

“See it doesn’t happen again,” he said. He hung up his coat and grabbed his apron.  “Well, you’re in here.  Let’s finish up what we started yesterday.”

The day went by quickly.  Alf’s handiwork improved with each job he undertook.  His dad looked at him secretly marveling at how good his work had become. It had begun to surpass his own.

In the afternoon his dad turned to him and said, “Why don’t you go meet your mates.  You’ve finished up the jobs I had.  I’ll deliver them.  You go on, now.  We’ll have more to do in the morning.”

“Are you sure, dad?” Alf asked flinging the apron over the chair back.

“Aye, I’m sure,” he said a faint smile on his lips.

There was no reason to ask twice. Alf grabbed his coat on the way out. He ran to the tree where his friends were standing under the largest limb.  Walking up behind them he heard a loud crack.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Bob. He stood with a string dangling.  The conker was a couple of feet away cracked into two pieces.

“Hard luck,” said the boy with the winning nut.  “That makes mine a tenner.”

“Who says?” asked Alf.

The boy jumped.

“Who are you and what you mean sneakin’ up on me like that?”

“Didn’t sneak up.  Just arrived. Who says yours is a tenner?  I don’t know you so how do I know if it’s true.”

“I said it’s true,” said the new boy straightening his shoulders. He was a couple of inches taller than Alf. He raised up on his toes to be even taller.  His face was a scowl.

Alf stood his ground.

“You callin’ me a liar?” the boy asked inching up on his toes.

“All I’m asking is who did you beat to become a tenner?”  He leaned into the taller boy. 

“You want to try to beat me?” said the boy.

Alf looked at the end of his string.

“I don’t believe that shriveled up thing is a tenner.  It wouldn’t be worth my while to shatter it.  I wouldn’t know how many wins I could claim but certainly no tenner.”

The boy dropped his string and swung at Alf.

Alf ducked and brought his fist up into the boy’s belly. As his opponent doubled over Alf hit him with a right.  The boy fell flat his eyes rolled up into his head.

“Oh now you’ve done it,” said Bob.

“He’ll wake up,” said Alf.

“No, I mean there,” Bob said pointing to the road.

Alf’s mother was marching across the grass straight for him. Her stern look told him he was in for it.

As soon as she reached him she grabbed him by the ear.  Bob had run.  The stranger on the ground was sitting up shaking his head.  He realized what was happening and laughed out loud.

“Yer mum had to come gitcha, huh?”

Alf tried to look back with menace but his mother’s grip was tight bending his ear in the direction of home.

“How many times have I told you about fighting?  You are going to get a hiding you’ll remember for a long time.” 

She held his ear tightly the entire way home.  When they got to the house she went in still leading him by the ear. 

“You stand there while I find a switch.” She left the room and came back with a doweling rod.

“Bend over that chair,” she said. He complied preparing himself for the first swat.  It came with swift severity followed by nine others.  He didn’t make a sound but the tears were streaming down his face when she stopped.

“Now maybe you will remember how I feel about you fighting,” she said as harshly as she could.  “I let you off light this time but don’t let me catch you ever again or it will be even worse.”

Alf straightened up rubbing his backside.  His snuffling angered her more.

“One more and I’ll have you leaning over that chair again.”  Her face was set with grim determination.

Alf wiped his eyes. He allowed his nose to run.

“May I be excused now?” His face was red and wet but he was determined not to sniff again.

“Yes.  Be certain you think on this.”

“Yes ma’am. I won’t fight again. Now may I go?”

“Get out of my sight!” she yelled at him.

He ran upstairs. In his room he lay across his bed upon his stomach.  There he fell asleep until morning.

Saturday he stood while helping his dad in the work shop.  He remained quiet the entire day. 

“You did a good day’s work, boy,” said his dad.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Alf.

“I think you ought to go out and see your mates,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”  Alf slowly rose, removed his apron and grabbed his coat off the chair beside him.  He felt for his conker in the pocket.  It was there in its hugeness. It brought a smile to his face.

He walked around the house.  As he rounded the corner there directly in front of his house was the boy he had KO’ed the day before.  He stood at the gate with three of his friends none of whom Alf knew.

“There he is.  His mummie had to come rescue him yesterday.”  His words made his friends laugh.

Alf’s hands were tightening into fists when he heard a tapping on the window of his house.  He turned to look.  There was his mother shaking her finger at him, her mouth pursed and her brow darkly weighing on angry eyes.

He looked at her then looked at the boys who were moving quickly toward him. He received the first blow to his right eye.  Several fists hit him in his midsection. He doubled over as a right came toward him. He ducked from that into a second fist which cracked his nose. As he fell to the ground several more fists from all directions pounded on him.  Alf’s hands remained unclenched as he hit the grass.  The lights went out for him.

He woke in his bed.  He tried to move but his body was one mass of pain.  Mercifully he fell asleep.

That morning his mother had gone to the grocer’s. Alf was awakened by his dad.

“Get up, boy,” he commanded.

Alf slowly rose holding his side.

“Get dressed,” he ordered.  “I want to talk to you downstairs.”

Alf nodded gathering his clothes to dress.

When he got downstairs his dad was waiting for him.  His fist caught Alf on the jaw. It lifted him up and over the couch.

“I saw you outside yesterday.  You didn’t stand up to those boys once.  You didn’t raise a hand to them.  You just let them beat you silly.  I’m going to tell you once again that I expect you to fight when the time comes.  You don’t back off from a fight. You go at them.  I’ve told you over and over that size doesn’t matter.  The bigger they are, the harder they fall.  You understand, boy?”

He stood with his fist clenched as Alf pulled himself up by grabbing the back of the couch.

“Yes sir but…”

“I don’t want any buts from you. If I ever see you allow someone to beat you like that again. I will let you have it.”

“Yes sir.”

“Now go get some breakfast.  We have a lot of work to do.”

“Yes sir.”

 There were boots and shoes enough lined up for repair to keep them both busy until the sun went below the horizon. 

Alf’s soreness eased up over the day.  The next day was a repeat of the last. Then halfway through the third day his dad put his tools aside.

“How do you feel today, son?” He asked looking his son in the eye.

“I’m doing better,” answered Alf.

“Good because you and I are going to take a little stroll.”  He gathered his coat and hat then tossed Alf his.

“Think your mates are over at the conker tree?” he asked as they slipped past the house without being seen by his mother.

“Yes sir,” Alf answered.  This did not bode well.

“Good.  Let’s you and me find out.”  He stepped a little more lively.  Alf had to run to keep up.  As they approached the tree the boys were cracking conkers and laughing uproariously.

His dad stopped and pointed at the group.

“Aren’t those the boys who laid into you in front of the house?  Speak up, boy.”

His eyes bored into him.

“Uh..yes sir.  That’s them.” Alf replied.

“Go teach them a lesson, boy.  I’ll wait right here.”

Alf wanted to run away but his father’s anger would be too much to deal with.  It was easier to go challenge the boys who had left him on the ground.

He slowly walked toward the group.  One of the boys looked his way and pointed for the others to look.  Smiles flashed across their faces.

“I have come to set things right,” said Alf.  “I’ll take each of you on one at the time.”

“Why should we fight with you? We’ve already proved you are a sissy that won’t fight back,” said the big one.

“Try me.” Alf stood still waving him in.

“If that’s what you want,” he said. He ran at Alf fists flying.  They met air but his jaw took a left which put him in the dirt immediately.

“Who’s next?” Alf challenged.

Another came running.  He stopped to look down at his friend who wasn’t moving.

“You scrawny…” he yelled taking a swing. Alf weaved out of the way then brought his right into the boy’s midsection. A left cross took him out of the action.

“Next?”

The remaining two looked at each other. They nodded then charged in unison.  One jumped to grab Alf but he side stepped him while slamming his left into the second’s gut taking his wind. Alf turned as he struggled for breath just in time to see the first’s right circling for his jaw. Alf deflected his swing then jabbed him in the nose bringing blood and a scream.

When Alf turned to finish the last boy he saw nothing of him but his back disappearing behind the tree.  It was over in minutes.

His dad waved him over.  He stepped over the two boys still flat on the ground. He had been untouched by any of them.  It was a marvelous feeling but he would not let it show as he walked over to his father.

“Well done, boy.”

That was all he said as they walked side by side back home.

“I think you ought to take tomorrow off,” said his dad opening the front door.  “We are caught up. I might just go to the boot fair in Sandwich.  Care to come?”  He looked down at his son.

“No sir.  I have a conker that I want to try out.”

The next morning his dad drove to Sandwich.  Alf entered the work shed. He found a nice heavy piece of string to thread through the hole in his conker.  When he had finished tying off the heavy duty knot he slipped it into his pocket then looked around the shop for a few minutes.  In the corner he found a can of paraffin which he took down and opened. The vapors rose heavy as he sprinkled it around the shop.  He laid a trail up to the door. He replaced the top and put the can back on the shelf.  He opened the door and stood for a moment looking at everything that had become so familiar.  When he was satisfied he removed a box of matches from his jacket. He took one out.  It spurted flame when he struck it.  The flame took and began burning steadily at which time he dropped it onto the trail of paraffin.  With a whoosh the fire flared and followed the trail lighting everything in its path.

Alf smiled.  He closed the door. He moved with stealth in case the neighbors were looking in that direction.  He was around front and halfway down the road before the fire was noticeable. 

He wasn’t home when his folks came back from Sandwich.  He had walked into the throng of boys and challenged all comers.  He became the champion of the neighborhood.  He had a true tenner that nobody could dispute.

“Lemme have a go,” said the big kid he had laid out the day before.

“Why not?” said Alf.  “I’m on fire today