Growing Kids in a Backyard

RECENTLY, I TRAVELED TO MY BOYHOOD TOWN in southern Indiana for a long-overdue visit with my Mom, daughter and sister and their families. It felt good to be back in terra cognito, spending the weekend in the home where I grew up from the time I was five. Familiar turf, by and large, surrounded by a changing neighborhood once elegantly dubbed “Country Club Meadows” by an enterprising developer named Guthrie May, who transformed Evansville’s north-side in the post World War II years by building affordable housing for veterans able to buy homesteads for their growing young families. 

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 Evansville owe part of their mothering and upbringing to my Mom. Sometimes, she runs into some former grey-haired youngster in public and they recognize her loudly and proudly.

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 Gary, I’m busy growing kids right now. And when that’s done – maybe  I’ll grow me some grass.

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.

Road rage at a Speedway

I GUESS THE EVER-ESCALATING and unpredictable prices at the gas pumps is not only exasperating to most of us, but a phenomenon that spurs some of the worst in us.

I recently made that observation while pulling into a Speedway gas station on Indy’s south side. As I nosed into the area from a side entrance a couple of fellows nearly stepped into my path. I made the slick decision to proceed, judging that they were not in imminent danger of any kind. I mouthed a quick “sorry” to them, gave them both a gentle wave of contrition, and eased into a spot .

As I started to walk into the building to pre-pay my several pounds of flesh for petroleum, I heard some twangy voice behind me in a redneck loudly sputtering in angry Daffy Duck sort of way.

Stoopeed sumbitch wach’ya think ya doin? Ya cudda kilt us back there you dumbazz!  I gazed back and looked my accuser.  

Faith, future and adios, enemigo

FOR MORE THAN A DECADE, his countenance has been circulated widely in the news. A tall, gaunt fellow wearing robes whose face could have been a model for an El Greco painting: A somewhat wistful and gentle look on his long face, a flowing prophetic beard and an ambivalent eye gazing back at the world. He almost always accessorized for these images with an automatic weapon cradled lovingly in his arms.

We are still learning of the particulars and while for a long time coming never will, but there’s a global sigh today that there his living visage will appear. Well, perhaps, for those zany folks who believe there’s a conspiracy in every haystack? He is gone and good riddance. And I am not in a position to offer any judgment suggesting his soul rest in peace.

When I heard the news late last night on NPR’s coverage of our president’s speech while lying in bed and slouching toward sleep, I could only mumble, Good!

After many intelligence-gathering and high level meetings a decision was made several hours before. He’s likely in this fortress bordered by allied Pakistan friends. Let’s get him.

And so it happened and swift. A team of Navy SEALs assembled and the procedure began with nonpareil surgical precision. I’m an Army vet, but I give the “swabbies” their due: In the end, the murderer and a few of his accomplices – including one”braveheart” who forced a woman ahead of him who took the first bullet – all died. A fair fight, far more than these thugs have plotted.

Then I finally fell into sleep slipped into a gentler realm.

Early in the morning I did my patriotic duty and entered a few snarky comments on Facebook. Then let it go.

A Rock Named Matthew

I WIELD AN AX AT LEAST ONCE A WEEK. Not the kind you see lumberjacks slinging to bring down timber, or what Mr. Lincoln would swing to hone his rail-splitting skills. We’re talking a piece of wood with polymer pieces, whose only metal are six, thin strings – and when finely tuned and my fingers and wrists are not screeching with hints of arthritis allow me to play guitar in my church’s praise band, Upon This Rock.

Three of us out of our eight-member troupe have been at this for more than 11 years. . The band’s longevity outlives the work of such giants as the Bay City Rollers, Dino, Desi and Billy or any group featuring Boy George. We’ve even been featured on two professionally produce CDs with other local contemporary praise groups. You can’t buy them, but I would be glad to pirate you a copy if you’re so inclined.

We’ve had many venues within our faith house: in the sanctuary, the narthex (fellowship entry area) and today inside a spacious community life center; Sunday evenings, Saturday nights and now a service that parallels our traditional 10:30 a.m. traditional service.

And it’s been a fun, exhilarating and fulfilling ride. There’s no bigger kick than sawing those strings or playing the occasional lead on songs geared to make you think, to feel and to tune into your faith or some aspects of your beliefs.

A Baby in Every Bottle

… Mrs. Jones she had no children,

And she loved them very dear.

She took three bottles of Pinkham’s,

Now she has twins every year…

I WAS HAVING ONE OF MY TWICE-WEEKLY phone conversations with my Mama the other night when she shared with me a story of near-miraculous science and marriage from nearly six decades ago.

Ever since the day she exchanged wedding vows with my Dad back in December 1949, she wanted children. Not in just a few years after they had settled into marital bliss or when things were more established. No, sir – she wanted to be a mother from the day things their marriage became legal and proper and with the appropriate paperwork in place.

My old man was a bit more reserved for such wishes and obviously willing to put off such plans as long as possible. I suspect his desire was fueled by the fact he was the oldest of 12 siblings in a family scrambling to survive during the Great Depression. Mom had other plans.

“Son, I have to admit I was jealous of my friends and your Dad’s sisters having babies,” she told me. “I had my heart set on it and that was that. I spent a lot of time crying and worrying over it.”

Never doubt the ambitions and the dreams of a young wife. She sought the best medical advice of the day.

Of fate, cosmic comeuppance and a chuckling Creator

SEVEN NEW YORK STATE WORKERS today (March 31) stepped into the limelight to collect their share of hitting a $319 million lottery, said to be the fifth largest Mega Millions prize in the history of the game.

The winners each take home $19 million after taxes. These seven are among a group of 12 at their workplace who regularly participate in a group buy, but five decided to opt out when the tickets were purchased late last week. It’s reported that some of the so-called “Albany Seven” are considering sharing some of their coins with those who didn’t play.

One of winners says she plans to buy a dishwasher for starters. I like that. A practical purchase and the realization of a simple desire. I’m sure there’s much more on her shopping list. And she uttered that cliché which rings so true when she showed up at the press conference. Hey, you gotta play to win, right?

Morning Assignment

LATE LAST FALL, I was tossing back shots from steamy mugs of coffee with a few old chums, who, like me, are former members of the Fourth Estate. Just chatting and strolling down Geezer Lane, trying to outdo one another on stories we had covered and the quirky reporters and editors we had worked with in our previous lives.

 

The talk somehow got around to great American writers and authors and the predictable lament about how there few or none anymore. Such subjective snobs we can sometimes be. So, we focused on the past: All of us agreed, in general, about the undeniable greats: Poe, Melville, Twain, Harper Lee, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Steinbeck, Alcott, and so forth and so many.

As the discussion winded down, it came down to one question: Who is the best American author you have ever read? When it was posed to me, I had an immediate answer. The fellow I had in mind was no novelist. He was real writer.

Joe Aaron.

He was the author of giant works such as A Pig In The Gray Panel Truck, A Dandelion in Winter, Day of a President, Just a 100 Miles From Home and The Journey in the Red Jalopy. I have them all in my library, each signed by him, thanks to my Mama – one of his greatest fans. All were collective works and vignettes from the body of his works.