My Mom supplemented my Dad’s income from the late 1960s and continued the work until only a few years ago with baby-sitting. Today, we are a far too-sophisticated folk to call it that; we now call it child care services. Hundreds of people in
Just take a look at that backyard, son, she told me one evening. This yard has never had that much grass! It was plush, straight and as green as the brightest emerald. Indeed, the turf never looked this way in the 50-something years the Stutevilles staked claim to the property. And for good reason: kids at play for generations, even long after my brother, sister and I moved on.
Got me to thinking about something a neighbor once remarked to my late Dad. You have to understand that Gerhard Frenz (the adults called him “Gary”) ironically had immigrated and resettled at no expense in our ex-GI subdivision after serving in the German army during “The Big One.”
Buck, why do you let all of those kids come over there and trample down your grass?, he asked, gesturing to a lawn as pristine as Hitler’s flower garden at his Eagle’s Nest retreat in Berchtesgaden. Truth is, no kids – even his own – were allowed to play in the Frenz backyard, much to the chagrin of his children.
My old man never was one to delay replies, especially those which irked him. Well
Mr. Frenz just walked away shaking his head not really understanding. To this day, I wonder if he ever knew that his youngest son Frankie was one of the best Kraut-killers in our juvenile reenactments of our dads’ grim work.
AND SO FOR A FEW MOMENTS AT TWILIGHT, I walked out onto the back patio of my Mom’s well-kept home on Kensington Avenue and fired up a Macanudo. There was a waft of meat on a grill drifting through the neighborhood. A couple of loud-mouth mutts were barking their conversation back and forth while a few lightning bugs’ butts were beaming with that neon, summer yellow. The air was a dense as the collective brain power of Obama’s board of economic advisors; a thickening humid haze slumping.
On the other side of the fence is the former McCoy property where I forged one of my earliest and best friendships with Mark. I stared at the back of the garage where many, many years ago a clubhouse had been tacked on. It has been gone a long time, but it seemed to rematerialize as the RAM between my ears kicked in. A kid of about nine years, sporting a trendy “Scotty” haircut – buzzed head with short bangs – jumped out and headed toward the dividing fence.
We stared at one another for a few moments. He seemed familiar and his return gaze was a mixed bag of amusement and surprise.
Hi there, Mr. Stuteville! Haven’t seen you in a while. It sure is a fine summer night, ain’t it?
I told him I reckoned it was, though a bit on the muggy side.
He flashed a gapped toothy smile and picked at a scab on his knee, the wound from popping too many “wheelies” on his Sting-Ray, banana seat bicycle. Neither heart nor cold bothers as long you were outside. He clumsily made his way over the fence with the more agile Mark a few steps behind. The boys blended into the misty mob.
And all around that foot-trampled yard were kids of all ages – playing out a veritable dusty field of dreams and schemes of every shape and kind. Why, there’s my sister Kris playing with red-haired Cindy Austin, Johnny Maynard, my brother George, the five Marrs kids, weird Gordon (who use to play Monkees LPs and imitate Michael Nesmith playing guitar in his living room while we peeked through his picture window and muffled our howling), my cousins Deb, Pam, Freddy and Keith diving in, the Ethridge brothers from one block away, and on and on and on.
Football, baseball, lame basketball shots at a goal my Dad put up. A couple of us playing “Stretch” with a purloined steak knife aimed at each others’ bare toes. Digging holes by the fencerow to bury cheap plastic soldiers righteously killed in action at the hands of errant field marshals.
And challenging voices: Awwright idiot, now hurry your ass over into the Frenz backyard! You Nancy-pants, just go do it ‘ cause you threw it for chris’ sakes!!!! … Hey guys, let’s bury these Matchbox cars behind the trash cans and see what they look like in a few weeks!
I listened to their conversations a bit and it occurred to me that some of these kids could turn any word into a foul expression simply by adding “–ing” to it. A righteous freaking art form.
And always – always – lots of laughter as I watched the panorama unfolding before me. The chuckles and howling giggles almost always at someone else’s misfortune.
For brief moments, reverent silence gave way to expected afternoon visitors. “Jim, the Bread Man,” whose box truck daily delivered milk, cooking stuff, an assortment of cheap kitchen utensils and rack of cheap candy that would put Willy Wonka to shame. We'd pile into that truck along with the Miller girls, more often than not, to see what new stuff Jim would bring.
The kid turned to me during the lull. Mr. Stuteville, d’ya rmember the Merry
The rheumy-eyed guy behind the wheel of the carousel-shaped truck handed me an Eskimo Pie without asking my preference. It was cold and tasty.
The sizzling afternoon grinded slowly into dusk, as the kids answered their mamas’ screams to get home for supper or to finish some forgotten chore. Twilight gave way to final call: a pickup game of four-square in the street or throwing a football over the top of a passing car.
Hey there, sir. Remember the hunt? the kid asked, jutting his thumb behind him. That sure was some damn – uh – good fun, wasn’t it?
I did remember. It was the ultimate thrill-seeking adventure for kids. For you see, a Peeping Tom had been stalking our neighborhood for years. We knew who it was – the creepy man named Freels. Kids and dads always were on a mission to catch him. He may have been a perv, but this fat man could find his way to window screens, grin eerily at his victims and then escape faster than the Incredible Flash.
THEN IT WAS DARK and all but two of the boys stood chatting in the dusty yard. They traded hard shoulder punches – surely as pubescent Spartans must – then Mark hopped over the fence. The other boy looked down at the ground and kicked at the ant mound, scattering the colony to Kingdom Come and back again.
Hey, kid, ever get lonely this time of day? I asked. I mean, this stuff doesn’t exist any more, just all in the past?
Bet me, Bosco! he replied. It’s noisy all the time here. Good noise, too. Always wondered how you would turn out, where you would go, what you would do. Remember how you use to worry about those things? Shoot, you ain’t did so bad!
I started to correct his grammar but stopped. The kid was right.
He scratched his head with a fury. I hate this dumb-ass haircut! Oh, well -- see ya 'round every now and then, Mr. Stuteville!
He waved goodbye and my Mom opened the door for him to come in for the night.
I tapped an ash from the Macanudo. The lush lawn returned.
Generations of kids had been grown in this yard. A far more enduring crop than grass.
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