Blackie

Blackie

One afternoon, when we returned home, we found we had a new member in the Adams household. A furry black puppy with bright eyes met us at the door and wagged his tail so hard it nearly pulled him off his feet. We named him Blackie. It was love at first sight and I immediately bonded with that dog. I’m sure my brothers and sisters would lay claim to him too but I always felt he was mine. Blackie was the only dog we ever had and I still miss him. Overnight, he grew into a sturdy good-sized dog that probably out weighed me by fifteen pounds. He was a friendly dog- fearless, kind, and obedient when he felt like it, anyway. He was a cross between a lab and something. His coat was long, coal-black and shimmered in ultramarine hues. He was as handsome as a dog could be.

Blackie was a loyal companion and we shared many adventures together discovering the new world. With my brother Joe, my best friend Wayne, and occasionally the Taylor twins, we set out to explore the deep woods in every direction as we discovered the treasures of nature and history in our journeys. Along the way we encountered many a wild beast and poisonous snakes.

Blackie wasn’t perfect because he was a free spirit. He didn’t wear a leash, and like my siblings, wasn’t watched over as carefully as he should have been. He would roam occasionally, disappearing for a day or two then show up barking at the back door, hungry and ready for the smothering attention we lavished upon him. Quite often, when he returned from a nightly roam, he would smell to high heaven, actually more like hell; it was awful. We’d fill the tub upstairs and scrub him with a shampoo and dry him off. Afterwards his fur would puff out into a wavy mass and his girth would double in size. The indoor bathing was banned eventually because it ruined too many towels. You could not get the stink out of them. So we washed and hosed him off outside after that and he air-dried before he was let back into the house. I discovered on one of our woodland treks why he smelled so bad. If Blackie came upon something that really reeked, whether it was the rotting remains of an animal or an ample pile of its droppings, he would promptly roll into it and become one with the stink. That was pretty gross.

I wondered if Blackie was part wolf. Maybe he was rendezvousing with a roaming pack of wolves deep in the forest when he disappeared into the night. If he did, he had to be the leader of the pack, like Buck, in The Call of the Wild. Maybe there was a she- wolf and baby Blackies out there somewhere. He was tough and would never back down from another dog or take the opportunity to hump a clueless bitch whether she was in heat or not.

Blackie was a hunter-predator and augmented the dry dog food we fed him with fresh game when he could catch it. (I sampled his bland dog food once to see what it tasted like, so I can’t blame him there.) If any creature dared showed its furry little face, he was off in swift pursuit. Man, he was fast and could run down a rabbit if it zigzagged into his path during the frantic chase. He would quickly dispatch it with a violent headshake and carry it away to eat it in private, or feed the little Blackies back in his wolf den. Blackie was at the top of the food chain and didn’t hesitate to prove it.

He spotted a bobcat one day crossing an open patch in the woods, his turf, and was off in the blink of an eye, cornering it in a huge bush at the base of a rocky crag. That bobcat’s angry howl was spine tingling as it balanced itself above on swaying branches ready to tumble down at any moment. Blackie was under it, barking, ready to fight. My brother Joe recklessly … or bravely … depending on your point of view, went into the bush and dragged Blackie out by the tail. They were both lucky they weren’t torn to bits.

I saved him one time myself …

We were at the creek behind Timmy and Tommy’s in the middle of winter. It was so cold that the running waters of the creek’s surface froze rock-solid. I tested it cautiously, grasping onto a long branch held out by the twins, taking a few steps out to see if it held my weight. Blackie followed and walked passed me, way out onto the ice as we held our breath. Not a crack to be heard. It was solid…but not for long.

After dares to walk across and touch the other side, we ran across the crunchy snow-covered patches and slid across the slick spots to see who could go the farthest. We threw stones that pinged off the icy gray surface. As the size and weight of the projectiles increased, so did the sounds they created upon impact. When the rocks were around football-size in proportion, the ice groaned in concussive thuds that echoed in resonant shudders below the surface. We cracked the ice finally and were prying up even larger stone from the rock face on the far side at a frenzied pace. Soon we were hurling down big boulder-sized chunks that exploded into the ice, leaving crater-size holes and exposing dark indigo torrents of water in the gaps. Some of the holes were five feet across after bombing the same spots multiple times.

While assessing the damage we inflicted, the ice suddenly collapsed beneath Blackie and he fell through, disappearing under the ice. Thank God we made so many holes into the creek, because he popped up after a heart-stopping eternity twenty yards down in another gap in the ice. He was gasping as his legs pawed frantically at the ice edge, desperately clinging to it as the water pulled his lower half under. But the ice was too slippery and the water too swift to climb out. I crawled over on my belly and grabbed his neck and pulled him up, enough so, that he could escape from what would have been a certain death had he gone under again. That was the last hole in the ice.

North East, Maryland

North East Maryland

Over the years, people always asked what was my favorite place of all the towns, villages, bases and barracks I’d lived in. My favorite place was the very next place we found ourselves in. That would be North East Maryland, a quaint and lovely little town at the northern tip of the Chesapeake Bay. We lived in a large baby blue two-story foursquare house on Mechanics Valley Road. I was seven years old and going into second grade at the Immaculate Conception Elementary School in Elkton. We would be in North East for two mostly wonderful years, from my point of view anyway. There was a lot to remember there…

The hours seemed like forever when I was alone, it was the same thing with distance when you’re a little kid. What seemed like a mile was in fact, only a few blocks away. I was astonishment to discover that on a trip back there thirty-four years later with my sister Paula and my brother John. We pulled up in front of our old house and got out to stare in awe at this far away place in our past and snapped photos. I’ve carried a thick scrapbook of snapshot memories of this place throughout my life.

It was the fall of 1962 when we moved into the blue house. It was the biggest house we lived in up to this point. There were three bedrooms. My parents and my baby brother John had the one room, my three sisters were crammed into one room and as it would be for many houses ahead, Joe and I shared the other. My dad was still a Lieutenant J.G. and worked ten minutes away at the base in Bainbridge, atop a hill that overlooked the last mile of the Susquehanna River as it flowed into the Chesapeake.

Behind our house sat a huge garage and beside it a trail that led forever into the deep woods. God, I loved those woods. Coming from the rolling grass hills of California, I was familiar with small groves of oak trees that grew along the creek beds and the tall gummy Eucalyptus trees that lined the roads outside the village. They gave off a sweet pungent smell that wafted through the hot air when the wind was right. The Maryland woods were vast and filled with thousands, millions of trees, tall and majestic; and for me, a new universe waiting to be explored.

My eyes opened to a bigger world. I became attentive to what was happening around me, to my family, friends, and four lads from Liverpool, even the President of the United States.

The Mechanics Valley Road I knew, was a string of maybe six or seven houses that lined the street. As you went down the street each house had a bigger yard between it and the next. Half way down the street Indian Road branched off to the left into a cul-de-sac of three or four houses on Falls Road where two friends of my brother and I lived. Timmy and Tommy Taylor lived in a rancher surrounded by trees and had a beautiful view of a wide creek that flowed behind the house. They were twins; both were Village of the Damned-blond and sported the popular buzz-cut that would soon be obsolete. I have a picture of us, my brother Joe and I and the Taylor boys standing four across, our hands cupped together in prayerful pose in front of a white statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Timmy, or was it Tommy, looked shorter than his brother and had a rounder shaped head.

Returning to Mechanics Valley Road … just across from Indian Road were the friends of my parents and their bridge partners, the Smiths. They conveniently had two daughters and a house full of cats and became a second home to my sisters who always went there to play. My brother Joe and I were too big to play anymore and only had to say we’re going down to so-and-so’s house and it was left at that.
Continuing up Mechanics Valley Road there were two more houses and a small cement bridge over the creek. Two of my friends lived on either side of the bridge. Elizabeth Brown, a tiny dark-haired girl with sad eyes lived on the south side of the bridge. The Browns had a small farmette and a large barn beside a small field cut into the woods. On the other side of the bridge, another eighty yards up, a small brick colonial perched on a hill at the top of a long gravel driveway. My best friend, Wayne Dean, lived there. Wayne was a tall lanky brown-eyed kid with long arms with the usual close-cropped hair. He had black hair, dark olive skin and a big toothy smile bracketed by a pair of deep dimples. Both he and Elizabeth were in my second grade class.

I still have that class photo of us posing in gawky innocence, shoulder to shoulder stacked three rows deep in front of a freshly washed chalkboard framed with hand cut paper leaves in a variety of fall colors. In the middle front, the only black kid in our class, a boy wearing bottle thick black-framed glasses, is holding up a placard with our school name, teacher’s name and the room number. Wayne was one of the taller kids standing in the back row. Elizabeth was in the second row doing her best to look happy. (It makes me want to cry.) I’m sitting like an Indian brave, cross-legged in the front row, all the way on the right, directly in front of our teacher, Mrs. Cooper, with her black bouffant hairdo and cat-eye glasses.

Because there were so many of us, our driveway became another bus stop on the route to school. It wasn’t a long ride to Immaculate Conception School, maybe fifteen minutes even with all the stops along the way. Wayne and I usually sat together and made farting sounds, much to the amusement of those within earshot and we gulped air to expel explosive belches. We were talented in the manly arts. I have to say I still have a good chuckle at a good fart or burp. I can’t help it.

Oops…

After lessons in Mrs. Cooper’s class, we went to our afternoon religion class. We were in the middle of instruction on the reverent sacraments of Baptism, Reconciliation and Holy Eucharist-preparing for our upcoming First Holy Communion Day when it happened. Out of the blue, or rather, into the blue, there was a definite and unexpected blat when the Sister bent over to pick up a piece of chalk. We all heard it. A chain reaction of smothered giggles broke out. The Nun was so flustered she lost her train of thought and dropped the chalk again.
Phhffff…

Oh my God! It was another one, muffled somewhat in the layers of robe. She made a feeble coughing sound for cover, but it was too late. She looked behind her with a Medusa-like glare as though something or someone else was responsible for the deed. We were stone quiet as books and papers were raised to hide our faces. Apparently there were some atmospheric consequences because she thoughtfully rolled open a window before continuing her lesson from that side of the room as though nothing happened at all.
That was funny.

Sister Mary Flatulence was a big woman stuffed tight as a sausage into her black and white habit. The only flesh you could see was her puffy pink face framed in starched white cloth from her chin to her forehead and the thick bulging hands at the end of her long flared sleeves. She wore a wedding ring on her left hand because she was married to Jesus. Her whole head was wrapped tight, including her ears. But her hearing was surprisingly sharp, considering, and she could pick up a whisper from across the room or the sound of gum being chewed, which wasn’t allowed. On her right side, heavy Rosary beads dangled from her waist and made a clicking sound as she walked suspiciously between the aisles looking for cheaters. She was one of those strict Nuns who would remind you of the years you’d be spending in Purgatory…if you didn’t shape up. Purgatory is a weigh station for atonement before they let you in the pearly gates.

You didn’t want to cross her because she would pull out a ruler from a side pocket lickety-split and smack it hard across your knuckles. If she missed she made you hold your hands out and got you real good. My knuckles were worked over a few times that year. I remember her bulging eyes and the satisfied smirk on her face. She enjoyed it all right. She was also a pincher and would painfully jerk you up by your ear and make you stand in the corner or out in the hallway depending on the transgression. Then you had to deal with the Mother Superior who drifted through the hallway like a black wraith looking for souls to suck out. She wasn’t happy to find out there were troublemakers disrupting her classes. At least she wasn’t a pincher, an ear puller, a farter, or carried a ruler. But the Mother doled out punishments in her own way. She carried a pocket full of plastic white (girls) rosary beads strung on cheap string and pull one out to dangle it in front of your face. Your punishment was to pray the rosary for your sinful soul and make sure you include the Fatima prayer. (“O my Jesus/ forgive us our sins/ save us from the fires of hell/ lead all souls to Heaven/ especially those in most need of Thy mercy. Amen.”)

I knew the prayers of the Rosary by heart (except for the Hail Holy Queen part at the end) and was always sincere as I mumbled through the meditative mantra of the beads. You begin with the Apostles Creed, followed by one Our Father, three Hail Marys, a Glory Be, and the Fatima Prayers. Next, come five mysteries, each consisting of one Our Father, ten Hail Marys, a Glory Be, and, if desired, the Fatima Prayers again. You’d finish with the Hail Holy Queen if you knew it. I never thought then, and still don’t, that prayer qualified as a punishment.

First Communion

It was in the afternoon on a Friday, Nov. 22, 1963 when John Fitzgerald Kennedy, The President of the United States was assassinated. I was in the Church of the Immaculate Conception rehearsing for my upcoming First Holy Communion scheduled for the week later, a day after Thanksgiving. We were lined up in segregated rows of boys and girls practicing our procession to the altar rail, where we would kneel in front of the parish priest, Father Lynch, holding our heads up, mouths open like hungry chicks as we were fed the body of Christ.

The Mother Superior flew into the room, her black robes flapping behind her. She looked scared and held her hand over her mouth. It was something serious because the nuns and lay teachers sitting in the front row immediately jumped up and rushed to gather around the distraught Mother.
Everything stopped.

From where I was, I could see the Mother Superior was holding her heart, breathing deeply as she tried to regain her composure. But she couldn’t; overwhelmed in the moment, she could only weep. I lost sight of her when she must have said it. Gasps, moans and a shrill scary cry echoed through the room. Almost in unison they made the sign of the cross. One of them kept saying over and over, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” They left the chapel for a couple minutes as we stood in befuddlement, still in line as we exchanged nervous glances. The lay teachers returned, clinging to Father Lynch, who asked us to follow them back to our rooms.

We were told: “The President had been shot as his motorcade passed a bunker in Dallas, Texas.” Mrs. Cooper stood with her back to us as she silently looked out the window and prayed.
We all prayed.

As I did, I imagined a strange scene from my limited reference of Texas, derived solely from the many TV Westerns I had seen: It happened in the middle of nowhere on a flat sun-baked desert landscape filled with giant prickly cactus, the kind with big arms that reached to the sky. The President’s car passed in slow motion in front of a square cement bunker with a black slit opening toward the top, just big enough for a gun barrel to stick through. The assassin, a guy in a black cowboy hat, spit out a wad of tobacco, licked his thumb and wet the sight at the end of the barrel, then took aim. It was a long musket rifle, just like in the Alamo. There was a loud crack and a puff of white smoke. The President was riding shotgun and smiling like he always did, and must have got it right through the heart. Texans were good shooters and could hit a silver piece out of the air, dead center, like it was nothing.

At 2:30 PM, in a CBS news bulletin, Walter Cronkite put his thick black-framed glasses on and read from a Teletype handed to him from off screen. The news flash was official and he announced that the president was declared dead at 1 PM Central Standard Time. He took his glasses off momentarily and checked the clock before continuing, “… 2:00 Eastern Time, thirty minutes ago…” He slowly slid his glasses back on and put his head down to the side, gulping back his emotions as he tried to swallow the enormity of the situation.

Mrs. Cooper told us weeks before that we were ready for Holy Communion because we had reached “The Age of Reason.” That day I couldn’t think of one.

One Time- A collection of stories from my childhood

The Boy Under The Steps

My first day of school at Camp Parks Elementary School was unforgettable because what happened that day was funny, and still is some forty years later. A little boy was found hiding under the school steps and was apparently mute. He was eventually coaxed out with a cookie and questioned, but would not say a word. The boy was paraded from class to class. The principal dragged him into my first grade room.

“Does anyone know who this boy is?”

The boy had dark curly hair and stared sullenly at his brown tie shoes. She forced his head up and asked again.

It was my brother Joe and I didn’t say a word.

In a second grade class a few rooms later he was finally identified. My sister Karen pointed him out immediately. I remember getting in trouble for that.

My Dad said Joe hadn’t been briefed properly about what to expect and should have been escorted by one of his parents. But he wasn’t there, away on his ship, and my Mom was off in Mommy Land somewhere with my younger sisters. Joe was put on the bus with the rest of us and everyone figured he’d find his way to class on his own.

Not.

Johnny Fronk

My friend’s name was Johnny Fronk; he was a slightly pudgy red-haired kid and fellow Navy brat. We both lived in Komandorski Village, a naval facility with barrack apartments and large Quonset huts where Navy stuff was stored and repaired On an afternoon picnic one day, we spent the day skipping stones and looking under rocks for creatures along a shallow stony creek. Some of the bigger kids found a deeper hole up creek at a bend called Devil’s Point with a huge tree limb overhanging it to jump from. Johnny dared me to do it and I double dared him. You couldn’t get out of a dare; it just wasn’t done. So, in a minute we were standing in line for a turn to cannon ball into the water. I climbed out on the oak tree branch with Johnny behind me and never looked back as I leapt ten feet in fine form into the creek below. I swam away under water and expected a big splash behind me. But when I came up Johnny boy was still in the tree. He wore a bug-eyed panicky expression and looked scared shitless as he straddled that limb belly-down and held on to it with a death grip hug. I called up to him three or four times to hurry up but he would not look at me. Three older boys were stacked behind him and began harassing him. After a few minutes there must have been ten people gathered below him urging him to jump. But he would not be talked down and clung there for a half an hour until one of the dads climbed up and pried his arms up and tossed him down awkwardly like a cadaver stiff with rigor mortis. Besides that sight, I remember his ear-piercing shriek preceding the loud splash. All those people there, and no one caught him.

The Death Defying Barrel Ride

That wasn’t the last time I accepted a dare or did something really stupid, I was just getting started. My sister Karen said there were a lot of mean kids in Komandorski. Weeks later my bravado got the best of me when I happened upon a group of them gathered at the top of a grassy hill.

They were taking turns riding the inside of a tire down a gentle slope and it looked like a fun ride. I walked up the trampled grass path littered with abandoned sheets of shredded cardboard worn out from too many slides down the dry flattened grass hillside. I merged into a gathering of younger kids standing to the side and watched as the daring boys took turns cramming themselves into the tire and being launched down the hill, hooting and hollering as they rolled in tight summersaults until the tire slowed and fell over softly into the grass. I didn’t know the older boys but they seemed nice enough and were laughing and having a great time. I asked if I could have a ride and was given a nasty who-do-you-think-you-are­-jackass-look as an answer. I glared back, my face contorted with both anger and disappointment until the kid stared me down. I took a few sheepish steps back with the other little lambs. At the bottom of the hill another kid appeared pushing a metal barrel and waved for help to get the barrel to the top. At first, they were all anxious for the first ride until the one pointed and said, “No, not this side, the other.” Everyone turned and stared quietly at the backside of the hill. It was twice as long and twice as steep. The boys took turns looking at the barrel, then down the steep hill and protested.

“No way!”

“What are you nuts?”

And “… I’m not that stupid.”

But I was, and stepped forward.

“I’m not chicken,” I clucked.

The boys turned and looked at me with startled expressions. Their eyebrows popped up and their open mouths creased into wicked grins. Before I knew what was happening, I was hustled over, stuffed into the barrel and promptly kicked down the hill. Everyone cheered as I began my death defying barrel roll. It was actually fun for a few turns, exhilarating in fact, until the spinning became intense, then frightening as I braced myself inside the tortuous centrifuge of horror. If you’ve ever seen any old NASA test pilot films where the pilots are strapped into the chair at the end of the long arm of a spinning centrifuge, that’s what it felt like. G-forces pulled the skin from their faces, exposing grimacing teeth as their cheeks flapped and their eyes closed tight to hold them in. That’s what it felt like. The spinning was never going to stop and I was probably going to die. The barrel bounced hard off swells in the hill and became airborne before it crashed brutally into the grass and tumbled head over heels, spitting me out. I was chewed up and battered and crying like a baby as I stumbled around dizzy-drunk trying to regain my feet. I fell to my side, my head still spinning and vomited. Those little bastards just tried to kill me and were laughing hysterically from the top of the hill.

Now I knew what real pain was. My elbows, knees and the back of my head were scrapped raw. Back then I had a butch haircut, kind of a buzz cut. A few days later the wound on the back of my head scabbed over and turned dark brown. It looked like an injury from a mortar round. My head, knees and elbows took weeks to heal as the scabs split and broke off and scabbed over again, slowly shrinking like dark islands in a sea of flesh. The sores left behind dark pink scars that faded away months later.

Home Alone

We lived in one of two long slat wood barrack apartment houses separated by a road. There were six apartments per buildings, three on top, three on the bottom. Ours was the middle one on the bottom. With my dad away and no car, my mom had to rely on the kindness of the neighbors if we really had to go someplace. It would be an emergency usually; like when my brother Joe, running around barefoot one day, cut his foot pretty badly on a broken bottle and had to get to the hospital for stitches. The neighbor, who helped that time, was pissed that his car seat was bloodied up. Another time, my sister Paula came home gurgling and gagging after finding and eating some delicious looking chocolate flavored Ex-lax at a neighbor’s across the road. That woman was furious Paula had gotten into her stuff and bitched the whole way to the hospital that she had to drive her, my mom, and all the kids as well. We ruined her day apparently, but Paula’s day was considerably more difficult. She recovered a day later after getting her stomach pumped. Getting a ride after that was problematic for my mom and too much of a chore to deal with.

My mom had to get a car. She didn’t know how to drive and decided she would have to learn. She walked a mile to the nearest bus stop because no one was available to get a ride with anymore and took a bus into Hayward to take driving lessons. I don’t know who taught her to drive, but they did a shitty job. (Easily distracted and terrible with directions, she’s one of the worse drivers I’ve ever driven with to this day.) Miraculously she passed the drivers test and saved up enough money to purchase a used 1949 Ford station wagon, one of those Woodies with the beech-colored wood trim paneling decorating the side panels and back gate. She had that car for only a few months and it became difficult to keep up with the maintenance and gas. Some so-called friends of hers talked her into trading the car…for a fur coat…that I don’t think she ever wore.

I don’t remember the circumstances exactly, but for some reason I was left behind one day. I had no idea where my family was. It might have happened during the time my Mom had the Woodie. I woke up and sat groggily on the edge of my bed. Yawning, I suddenly became aware of how loud the silence seemed. Ours was a normally a noisy household and it was dead quiet.

“Mom! Mom?” I called out, but heard no answer.

With six children to haul around, Mom probably hadn’t noticed I wasn’t with them. There were no lights on and the TV was off. I walked from room to room to look around. They were gone. I was in my Fruit of the Looms and sat down on a cold vinyl chair at the kitchen table surrounded by five empty ones facing this way and that. Cereal bowls and spoons with remnants of Cheerios clinging to them were scattered across the tabletop. For breakfast I munched on a handful of cheerios and pealed up the soft aluminum cap on a bottle of chocolate milk from the fridge and took a couple swigs. The big white milk bottle was two thirds empty. The milkman delivered milk, eggs and butter in those days and left it in a metal crate on the front stoop before the crack of dawn.

I got up and looked out through the windows, front and back every ten minutes. The backyard was a canopy of clothes lines filled with pinned clothing, socks and white sheets that flapped and snapped in the valley wind. Out front, neighbors passed by occasionally as I watched secretly from a cracked slat in the window or behind a curtain. Every time I heard a car I jumped up and expected to discover they were back. But they weren’t. I put on some clean clothes and my sneakers and roamed around, bored as any six-year-old boy could be. I sat on the couch and leafed through a Life magazine filled with pictures of the handsome new president and of Marilyn Monroe who took some sleeping pills and never woke up.

I returned to my bed and pulled up my cowboy patterned bed cover and tried to take a nap. They would be home by the time I woke up. I tried but I could not sleep in the bright-lit room. I covered my head with a pillow and started to sweat, and when I closed my eyes I could see these little bright squiggly things pass across my eyes even though they were closed. I could hear my heart beating and my stomach made weird curly-cue sounds. I gave up on that and took turns fidgeting about on the black and silver thread couch and chair and stared at the front door as the day dragged on. The hours were excruciatingly long. The clock had to be moving in slow motion. As I became more anxious each hour felt like three and I wondered if they were ever coming back. My mom just learned to drive and was a terrible driver and so you start thinking about stuff like that. Maybe the Fronks would take me in until my dad came back from Japan in six months. At least they were Navy and we might move to a better place.