Memoir Boyhood & Beyond (eBook)

Two

Pubescence

Nailed

Sandy blond hair, thin short legs, and a smile on my face, mom sent me out on a mission.

“Glenn, I want you to go visit Mrs. Lawson. If she is not home, stop by Mrs. Perkins, I’m sure they would enjoy your company.”

Mom gazed out the doorway as I scurried up the asphalt driveway toward the concrete sidewalk. The pitter-patter of my little Buster Brown shoes rounded the corner out of mom’s sight.

I visited Mrs. Lawson several times with mom. She is an old, tubby widow with a cane and a warm, friendly smile. On the flip side, her neighbor, Mrs. Perkins, is a skinny, small, frail widow with a much different demeanor. I was less familiar with the grouch; memories of her yelling at Roger, her neighbor, my friend, and me whenever the football went in her yard.

Mrs. Lawson’s home was about half a block from my house down the tree-lined busy Route 150. Mrs. Perkin’s abode was just the next house past.

I stopped on the sidewalk for a moment to get my bearings. The aroma of Widow Lawson’s oven-baked cookies was overcome by curiosity. Something caught my eye. Under the shadow of the trees, just past the Lawson house. A clump lying on the frost-heaved concrete. I thought, no hurry, I will see what this is. Step by step, slowly, I approached the cluster until I straddled it. Yep, sure enough, just as I thought. A sharp nail right in the middle of the small water-stained wood scrap. I stood there for a moment, pondering. I wonder if I stood on this spike with these strong Buster Brown shoes, would the nail hold me up, or would it pierce my shoe. Maybe I could balance on it like an acrobat.

I carefully raised my right foot while keeping my balance with my left foot firmly planted. I aimed my right foot directly over the top of the nail, carefully placing the center of my right sole to touch the tip of the rusty nail. I was ready to test my theory; the strength of my sole and the nail would hold me. Slowly shifting my weight, then with haste, I pressed down with pressure until I could feel the nail gripping my right shoe’s bottom. Then I raised my left foot and stood on the nail.

“Oh, fudgesicles, poopy, poopy.” My eyes welled up, and tears streamed down my face.

I sat down and tried to pull the intruder out of my foot. No luck. The penetration was too deep, and my little arms were not strong enough. I stood on my left leg, got part of the board under my left foot, and then tried to pull my right foot up off the nail. No luck.

Sobbing the words, “poopy, poopy, poopy,” I headed back home. Clapity clap, clapity clap. Up the porch steps.

Mom came to the rescue. Not a frown or raised eyebrow, but wide eyes and compassion filled her face.

“Glenn, what on earth did you do? What’s happened to you? Come here. Let me help you.”

She sat my skinny butt down on the chair.

“It hurts, mom, it hurts. It’s stuck.”

She tugged and twisted on that board until it came free. She removed Buster Brown and my sock to find only a red spot, no blood. A change of footwear, and off I go. I love my liberty and am on my way again to another adventure.

I thank God for giving me such a caring and compassionate mom.

Duped

At seventy-one, remembering a story from when I was six years old is like looking at a photo through a muddy puddle, but I need to tell it.

I was messing around on the front lawn and eating candy; M&M’s, Junior Mints, Malted Milk balls, gumballs, I’m not sure what. It was a bright sunny day. A tall man (everybody is tall when you’re six) walked by the house on the town sidewalk. He was nicely dressed and had a friendly face. He stopped and turned toward me, about ten feet away. He saw me munching on my treats. I looked up at him and paused.

“Hey, boy,” he said. “Do you like candy?”

I took a small step forward and said, “Yeah, I like candy.”

He replied, “Come here. I got some for you.”

He reached into the pocket of his long button-up tweed coat and pulled out three gumball size white balls. He extended an open hand.

“Here,” he said, “take these. They are very yummy.”

I strolled to the nice man, who handed me the round morsels.

With a big smile, I clenched them in my hand and said, “Thank you, I love gumballs.

He said, “You’re welcome. Enjoy them.”

He zipped away toward town out of sight. I turned, walked back into my yard, and leaned against the tall fat pine tree. I pinched one of the free candies between my short, nimble fingers and thumb and stuffed it into my mouth. An antiseptic odor caught my attention as the smooth white ball quickly passed under my nose. But too late, the dreadful poison was already smashed between my teeth, and the granules coated my tongue. I ran to the side of the house and hid in the corner.

“Oh yuck!” I spit it out. I spit- over and over until the horrible taste was mostly gone. But the mothball taste lingered. After my tears dried up, I came out of the corner and tried to eat some more candy and mess around in the yard again, but it wasn’t the same. My day was ruined.

Mothballs, who even uses them anymore? I can still smell them with just the thought. Strangers… hmm. Kids should listen to their mothers.

The Boys in the Wood

The naked boy stood by the edge of the country road, mortified, not daring to move. Bill’s mother’s eyes were fixed on him, ready to give more consequences for disobedience. An occasional motorist that passed by nearly swerved off the narrow pavement. Bill was so embarrassed, standing there, naked for all to see.

He must have thought, why isn’t Glenn here to share this shame with me? I wonder what pain he is suffering. Maybe none, I bet, just a finger wagging in the face or some kind of lecture.

So why was Bill standing at the edge of the road in his birthday suit?

The chicken coop stood 30 yards behind the house, nestled against the forested acres of an abandoned logging project. Bill’s parents purchased the wooded property a few years ago and built their three-bedroom cape-style home there. The several miles from town gave them the privacy they yearned for. Their closest neighbor was a 1/4 mile away. Their dogs could run wherever, and the cats could chase chipmunks. The chickens ran free until the neighbor’s dogs and the fox began their feasting.

The backwoods, the meandering brook, and the old logging roads were a haven for adolescents. The peacefulness and quiet among the trees and brush leave room for curiosity to bloom. Gay was not part of the equation.

Who knows why boys do what boys do. Nakedness in the wild. It’s as natural as climbing a tree in a lightning storm.

Bill’s mom, Pauline, was at ease with him being gone unattended for hours on end, knowing that the 4th. grader would always come home when he got hungry. She would occasionally venture from her kitchen table. She left her chocolate cake, coffee, and Whitman chocolates to check on Bill if she determined too much time had passed. This was one of those days. A dreadful day it was.

Pauline waddled across the backyard and into the woodland looking for Bill and me.

“Bill,” I whispered, “I hear someone coming!”

Bill replied,” Shhhhhhhh, don’t move.”

“Oh no, too late,” I said.

Just past the chicken coop, concealed in a group of pine, the rustling branches had caught her ear. The gremlin approached. Her eyes grew huge, her jaw dropped, her face became scarlet, and the veins in her neck popped like corrugated metal. “What are you boys doing?” Bill and I learned some new words as we put on our clothes. The march to the house was swift.

Pauline dialed my mother. “Elaine! Get your perverted son. Come get him right now, right now!”

Mom responded, “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Just get over here, get your ass over here, now. You’ll see when you get here. Just get over here.”

By the time mom arrived, Bill was standing stark naked at the edge of the road.

Bill and I remain friends. But as life happens, our lives drift apart; College, Vietnam, marriage, re-locating…. One of Bill’s passions came to fruition. Bill and his wife bought a nudist colony. This town boy decided to wear the costume of commonality.

Taken By Surprise

I stood there, almost naked. Wearing only my tight white Fruit of the Loom skivvies. Seven soldiers were staring at me. Four from inside and three from outside - gawking through the doorway. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to be embarrassed.

Earlier that day, eight of us were banded together, looking for something to do. We are called the baby boomer generation; consequently, the small town of Amesbury is populated with hundreds of kids my age. That was over sixty years ago. We attended different schools. Some went to one of the two Catholic schools; Sacred Heart or Saint Joseph. The others to public schools; the Ordway, the Bartlet, and the Horace Man School. I attended Whittier elementary.

Most youngsters didn’t know that Catholics and Protestants were not supposed to be comrades. There were prejudice and religious bias among many adults. But some marriages were mixed; protestant and catholic. As kids, we just hung out together and did our thing unless our parents objected.

This was a perfect day to play...