As is true with all successful attempts at banditry, stealing watermelons requires careful planning. A moonless night is essential, as is thorough attention to the details of the designated attack area. The height of the fence surrounding the field, any significant topographical indentations that might provide cover, and -- most importantly -- the location and sleep habits of the guard, all have to be taken into account.
The adventurers must never park their vehicle on a paved road near the object field. However slight the chance of raising the suspicion of a passing motorist in the hours shortly after midnight, too many raids have been thwarted by such a careless error, often with the consequence of a load of buckshot in a boy’s butt.
The choice of raiding vehicle is also crucial. It must be able to maneuver on rough and unpaved roads and quite possibly across open fields. If a four wheel drive conveyance is not available, at the least one with reinforced springs and a chassis with a high road clearance is a requisite. My father owned a pickup truck that met the latter specifications.
Bill, Billy, and I scouted the field on a quiet Sunday afternoon. We found a dirt track -- probably an old logging road -- leading into a forest of pine and live oak about two hundred yards beyond our target, followed it in a rough line paralleling the field’s western fence line, and were eventually able to maneuver the truck to find the northern boundary and bump our way along it to a point of some seclusion beneath a large oak tree. We were pleased to note that we had settled on a spot about as distant from the rough-built guard tower as we could get.
To enable us to return to our point of attack in the dark of the coming night, we blazed a trail on our way out, using a hatchet to make wide slashes in a number of trees. These were not amateurs at work.
There was a tacit understanding between the growers and teenage bandits that the poaching of watermelons was generally regarded as something of a game, a test of youthful bravado against experienced cunning. As long as there was no wanton destruction of the fruit, and if we attempted to carry off only that needed to sate our immediate appetites, even if we were caught, there was no danger of any punishment, other than notification to our parents. The one exception was what might be administered on the spot by the guard and his twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot. They were always in play.
Sometime after midnight, under a dark sky made more opaque by massive rain clouds, Bill, Billy and I weighted down the top strands of the barbed wire fence with a pair of heavy tree limbs. We could then easily jump over the simple barrier and be on our way.
I was never able to explain this, nor can I today, but something always drew us to the center of the field on these adventures. This was a crop of the Royal Sweet type of melons, described in my grandfather’s seed catalog as “....oblong, blocky shaped hybrids with medium dark, fairly wide, green stripes on a light green background, with thick rind and crisp red flesh.” I can only assume we believed those with the crispest red flesh were to be found at the innermost part of the patch. Whatever the attraction, that’s where we headed, obviously not very concerned that every advance took us closer to the guard.
We moved slowly on hands and knees from melon to melon, thumping each to listen for the deep hollow echo that would reveal the ripe fruit. Bill and I each had cut from its vine one of our self-imposed limit of two, and Billy already had a pair, when the searchlight flared on and the shotgun boomed. The buckshot sailed harmlessly over our heads, undoubtedly because that’s where the guard had aimed. Bill and I crawled together as fast as we could, using what terrain cover was available, until we escaped the light. Then we bounced to our feet and ran pell mell for the fence.
I looked back once to see an incredible sight. Billy had obviously dropped to the ground like Bill and I when we first heard the shotgun, but he was now back on his feet scrambling to pick up his two watermelons. Bill and I kept going at full speed. We safely cleared the fence, but in doing so, one of us accidentally freed one of the tree limbs, and when it fell, it released enough spring in the barbed wire to fling the second one to the ground as well. The entire fence was then back at its original height.
As Bill and I scrambled into the truck, we looked back to see Billy caught clearly in the bright searchlight. He was running as fast as he could with a watermelon cradled on each shoulder. I swear I heard the guard laugh out loud as he fired the next round of buckshot, a substantial amount of which caught Billy square in the butt. He let out a yelp, performed a kind of skipping leap, hit the ground back at full gallop, and kept on coming, his watermelons still safely nestled on his shoulders.
Billy never hesitated as he approached the fence. Without breaking stride, he soared over it in a single bound, the watermelons flying right along with him. He gently laid the melons in the back of the truck on the old packing material we had brought along for that purpose and less gently plopped himself in right behind them. And we were off.
Billy later said he didn’t mind that we had run without him, but to flee without the melons we had already cut from the vine was inexcusable. It was tantamount to leaving a wounded comrade on the field of battle.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
LEWIS
Across the street from my father’s hardware store was Nick’s Bar and Billiard Parlor, an establishment of modest decor but a happy home away from home to many. Hernando County was “dry” in those days, so the bar sold only beer, and a small selection of that. After all, Nick’s patrons were not connoisseurs, they were beer drinkers. They were not interested in labels.
Among Nick’s more notorious patrons was Lewis Kilpatrick, one of the town’s several ne'er-do-wells, who in middle age still lived at home with his mother, and earned a little money by taking whatever odd job might be available on a given day. He drank moderately during the week, made necessary more by limited funds than by any desire to temper his alcohol consumption. But Lewis always seemed to have a payday on Saturday, and on Saturday Lewis got his load on.
He started shortly after noon, Saturday morning being part of the normal work week. Lewis was what was called an “easy drunk.” It didn’t take much for him to get to the point where one of his drinking companions had to stand on either side of him to keep him from falling off his bar stool.
Eventually, Nick would cut him off: “You’re through for the day, Lewis. Go home.” And Lewis would nod obediently, stand slowly, align himself with the door, and head out, teetering, rolling, and wobbling like a scow in a storm.
On most Saturday afternoons, my uncle Curry and several of his cronies gathered in front of the hardware store to listen to a ball game, gossip, and wager at precisely what time Lewis would fall off the sidewalk as he left the bar. He always did. That step from the sidewalk to the street was just too much for him. He usually stood for a few seconds, surveying the task before him. Then he slowly lifted one leg, waved it about cautiously for a moment, and stepped off, to be followed by the anticipated flop on his face. Across the street, money changed hands.
The sport had a hiatus for several months while Main Street was closed to be widened and repaved, a project that also caused the street to be lowered by about two feet. The curb became two steep steps.
The game resumed the first Saturday after the street reopened, and the results were not unexpected. Lewis had no chance. When he fell, he went the new distance right onto his head.
The boys hustled Lewis to the hospital, where his only injury was found to be a nasty cut that required a few stitches.
That incident didn’t deter Lewis from resuming his Saturday afternoon drinking, but it did insure that someone took him home as soon as Nick cut him off. The betting game was over.
Among Nick’s more notorious patrons was Lewis Kilpatrick, one of the town’s several ne'er-do-wells, who in middle age still lived at home with his mother, and earned a little money by taking whatever odd job might be available on a given day. He drank moderately during the week, made necessary more by limited funds than by any desire to temper his alcohol consumption. But Lewis always seemed to have a payday on Saturday, and on Saturday Lewis got his load on.
He started shortly after noon, Saturday morning being part of the normal work week. Lewis was what was called an “easy drunk.” It didn’t take much for him to get to the point where one of his drinking companions had to stand on either side of him to keep him from falling off his bar stool.
Eventually, Nick would cut him off: “You’re through for the day, Lewis. Go home.” And Lewis would nod obediently, stand slowly, align himself with the door, and head out, teetering, rolling, and wobbling like a scow in a storm.
On most Saturday afternoons, my uncle Curry and several of his cronies gathered in front of the hardware store to listen to a ball game, gossip, and wager at precisely what time Lewis would fall off the sidewalk as he left the bar. He always did. That step from the sidewalk to the street was just too much for him. He usually stood for a few seconds, surveying the task before him. Then he slowly lifted one leg, waved it about cautiously for a moment, and stepped off, to be followed by the anticipated flop on his face. Across the street, money changed hands.
The sport had a hiatus for several months while Main Street was closed to be widened and repaved, a project that also caused the street to be lowered by about two feet. The curb became two steep steps.
The game resumed the first Saturday after the street reopened, and the results were not unexpected. Lewis had no chance. When he fell, he went the new distance right onto his head.
The boys hustled Lewis to the hospital, where his only injury was found to be a nasty cut that required a few stitches.
That incident didn’t deter Lewis from resuming his Saturday afternoon drinking, but it did insure that someone took him home as soon as Nick cut him off. The betting game was over.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
GRASS ROOTS POLITICS
Vote early, vote often, and vote Democratic
--An old Democratic Party battle-cry
Party politics in Hernando County, Florida, in the 1940’s and 50’s were essentially in the hands of a few men, my father among them. The others were the president of the only bank, the postmaster, one of the county’s leading cattle farmers, and the manager of the local citrus processing plant. They were effectively the Democratic Party of the county, although I never learned how they were selected, or which of them held the office of chairman, or performed any other specific function.
They just seemed to come together and decide who was to run for what county office whenever the need arose. You could seek local office without their endorsement, of course, but that would have been a perfect example of that colorful bureaucratic activity known as “pissing up a rope.”
One could also run as a Republican, an even greater exercise in futility, as few people of that persuasion then held public office, at any level, anywhere in the state of Florida.
The group met anywhere that happened to be convenient at the time. The back room of my father’s hardware store was one such regular venue, but used only after the store was closed for the day, and their deliberations would not be disturbed (nor witnessed, I think). An empty nail keg made a good seat. A pad of blank order forms was usually handy to make notes. An old paint can served as a spittoon for the excess juice generated by those chewing on cigars. And the chugging old refrigerator by the back door kept the beer reasonably cold.
On most days after school, I walked to my father’s store to perform chores I came to hate: emptying kegs of nails into bins, stocking shelves, unloading newly arrived merchandise, and sweeping up at the end of the day, to name but a few of those tasks assigned “to make a man of me.”
At the close of business, I rode home with my father in his pickup truck. Our departure was delayed on the days party business was conducted in the store. Usually I spent that time reading comic books, but sometimes I drifted back to the rear of the store to listen. Whether or not that was permitted, I was never told, but I understood quite well that anything heard there was to remain there. I kept that covenant for many years.
Fuller Warren was the Governor of Florida, the state’s U.S. Senators were Spessard Holland and Claude Pepper, and Hernando Country was represented in the House by J. Hardin Peterson. As far as the “boys” of the Democratic Party of Hernando County were concerned, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
Then came a dark cloud. Senator Holland announced his intention to appoint as the town’s new postmaster someone other than the candidate chosen by the boys, triggering the need for an immediate meeting.
The language was loud, angry, and colorful that evening in the rear of the hardware store. Smoke from furiously puffed cigars rose thickly, and angrily thrown empty beer cans bounced off the gravel outside the back door.
The postmaster had announced several weeks earlier his intention to retire later that year. The group had anointed his longtime deputy to replace him, and had routinely sent the name to Washington for Holland’s approval, to be followed by the necessary bureaucratic paperwork. When the usual formal appointment was announced, there would be the ritual drinking and backslapping. In rural Florida in the forties and fifties, this was Grass Roots Party Politics 101.
Senator Holland’s announcement was an astonishing, even heretical, development for the boys in the back room. It could not be allowed to stand, as I learned while listening to their disgruntled discussion. They decided they must send a personal delegate to Washington to confront the senator face to face. It was a proud moment in my young life when my father was chosen to make the trip.
Senator Holland’s choice was the son-in-law of one of the town’s three physicians, Dr. Rupert Smithfield, the doctor of choice among the town’s more affluent citizens.
“Doc” Smithfield was a significant fixture on the streets of Brooksville, one I might have described in later life as a bit of local color sent from a Hollywood central casting office. He was a big man who dressed habitually in a white linen suit, topped off with a wide-brimmed matching straw hat. He carried a black cane with a silver handle as he strode the streets of town. Doc Smithfield was one of those figures to whom a young boy dared not speak; indeed, it was just as well to move to the other side of the street if about to cross paths with him. I knew of no actual reason to fear him, only that it had always seemed prudent not to seek his company.
On the way home that evening, I decided to expose what I had overheard by asking my father why the news of the nomination of Doc Smithfield’s son-in-law had triggered such a heated reaction.
My father jerked back in his seat as if struck in the chest. He jammed on the brakes and immediately pulled to a stop at the side of the street. His face reddened and the pace of his breathing increased. There was a long silence. I feared I had angered him, possibly by eavesdropping on his meeting, and that he was pondering my punishment. But when he finally turned to face me, I did not see in his eyes the fire that normally accompanied his bursts of temper, but rather a look of bewilderment. He was simply at a loss for words. At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.
“Son,” he said, “you really don’t know about Doc Smithfield, do you?”
“No, sir, I’ve never even spoken to him.
He paused again for a moment. “This thing is big trouble and that’s why I’m going to Washington to try to fix it.”
I waited. I may have been holding my breath.
“Son,” my father said at last, “Rupert Smithfield and his family are Republicans!”
I would like to report that there was a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning that enabled me to see the future. It was certainly there before me. But by the time I had had my supper, listened to the radio, read for a while, and gone to bed, the incident had passed from my consciousness. The idea of Republicans actually living in Hernando County was simply too difficult for my young mind to contemplate.
--An old Democratic Party battle-cry
Party politics in Hernando County, Florida, in the 1940’s and 50’s were essentially in the hands of a few men, my father among them. The others were the president of the only bank, the postmaster, one of the county’s leading cattle farmers, and the manager of the local citrus processing plant. They were effectively the Democratic Party of the county, although I never learned how they were selected, or which of them held the office of chairman, or performed any other specific function.
They just seemed to come together and decide who was to run for what county office whenever the need arose. You could seek local office without their endorsement, of course, but that would have been a perfect example of that colorful bureaucratic activity known as “pissing up a rope.”
One could also run as a Republican, an even greater exercise in futility, as few people of that persuasion then held public office, at any level, anywhere in the state of Florida.
The group met anywhere that happened to be convenient at the time. The back room of my father’s hardware store was one such regular venue, but used only after the store was closed for the day, and their deliberations would not be disturbed (nor witnessed, I think). An empty nail keg made a good seat. A pad of blank order forms was usually handy to make notes. An old paint can served as a spittoon for the excess juice generated by those chewing on cigars. And the chugging old refrigerator by the back door kept the beer reasonably cold.
On most days after school, I walked to my father’s store to perform chores I came to hate: emptying kegs of nails into bins, stocking shelves, unloading newly arrived merchandise, and sweeping up at the end of the day, to name but a few of those tasks assigned “to make a man of me.”
At the close of business, I rode home with my father in his pickup truck. Our departure was delayed on the days party business was conducted in the store. Usually I spent that time reading comic books, but sometimes I drifted back to the rear of the store to listen. Whether or not that was permitted, I was never told, but I understood quite well that anything heard there was to remain there. I kept that covenant for many years.
Fuller Warren was the Governor of Florida, the state’s U.S. Senators were Spessard Holland and Claude Pepper, and Hernando Country was represented in the House by J. Hardin Peterson. As far as the “boys” of the Democratic Party of Hernando County were concerned, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
Then came a dark cloud. Senator Holland announced his intention to appoint as the town’s new postmaster someone other than the candidate chosen by the boys, triggering the need for an immediate meeting.
The language was loud, angry, and colorful that evening in the rear of the hardware store. Smoke from furiously puffed cigars rose thickly, and angrily thrown empty beer cans bounced off the gravel outside the back door.
The postmaster had announced several weeks earlier his intention to retire later that year. The group had anointed his longtime deputy to replace him, and had routinely sent the name to Washington for Holland’s approval, to be followed by the necessary bureaucratic paperwork. When the usual formal appointment was announced, there would be the ritual drinking and backslapping. In rural Florida in the forties and fifties, this was Grass Roots Party Politics 101.
Senator Holland’s announcement was an astonishing, even heretical, development for the boys in the back room. It could not be allowed to stand, as I learned while listening to their disgruntled discussion. They decided they must send a personal delegate to Washington to confront the senator face to face. It was a proud moment in my young life when my father was chosen to make the trip.
Senator Holland’s choice was the son-in-law of one of the town’s three physicians, Dr. Rupert Smithfield, the doctor of choice among the town’s more affluent citizens.
“Doc” Smithfield was a significant fixture on the streets of Brooksville, one I might have described in later life as a bit of local color sent from a Hollywood central casting office. He was a big man who dressed habitually in a white linen suit, topped off with a wide-brimmed matching straw hat. He carried a black cane with a silver handle as he strode the streets of town. Doc Smithfield was one of those figures to whom a young boy dared not speak; indeed, it was just as well to move to the other side of the street if about to cross paths with him. I knew of no actual reason to fear him, only that it had always seemed prudent not to seek his company.
On the way home that evening, I decided to expose what I had overheard by asking my father why the news of the nomination of Doc Smithfield’s son-in-law had triggered such a heated reaction.
My father jerked back in his seat as if struck in the chest. He jammed on the brakes and immediately pulled to a stop at the side of the street. His face reddened and the pace of his breathing increased. There was a long silence. I feared I had angered him, possibly by eavesdropping on his meeting, and that he was pondering my punishment. But when he finally turned to face me, I did not see in his eyes the fire that normally accompanied his bursts of temper, but rather a look of bewilderment. He was simply at a loss for words. At last he spoke, slowly and deliberately.
“Son,” he said, “you really don’t know about Doc Smithfield, do you?”
“No, sir, I’ve never even spoken to him.
He paused again for a moment. “This thing is big trouble and that’s why I’m going to Washington to try to fix it.”
I waited. I may have been holding my breath.
“Son,” my father said at last, “Rupert Smithfield and his family are Republicans!”
I would like to report that there was a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning that enabled me to see the future. It was certainly there before me. But by the time I had had my supper, listened to the radio, read for a while, and gone to bed, the incident had passed from my consciousness. The idea of Republicans actually living in Hernando County was simply too difficult for my young mind to contemplate.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
OTIS
When the Nazis were forced to surrender or retreat during the “Battle of the Bulge” of World War II, orders came down to leave no Allied prisoners alive. Otis Rottenbury was one of the captured Americans. He was tied to a tree, a Luger was forced into his mouth, and he was shot.
No one knows how long Otis remained tied to the tree before the advancing Americans found him. He was still alive.
After extensive surgery and a long recuperation, Otis was discharged and returned home. His German executioner had apparently directed the barrel of his gun upward, rather than toward the rear of Otis’ head, and the bullet had taken out a large portion of the upper front of his skull, which had been replaced with a steel plate. The surgeons could not restore that part of the brain that was also blown away.
Otis had been a respected member of the town’s working class before he went away to war, and his fellow citizens would never have stigmatized him with a derogatory label. Nonetheless, if this were a piece of fiction, Otis would be identified as the village idiot.
He lived simply; I never knew where. He was big and he was strong and he was frequently in demand for jobs that called for those attributes. My father often hired Otis to help unload trucks bringing supplies to our hardware store, especially those that came laden with merchandise such as kegs of nails, cases of paint, or quantities of galvanized lead water pipe.
Otis could perform most tasks necessary to sustain himself, such as dressing and buying food that needed no preparation. And in any case, there was usually someone around to help him. Unfortunately, he found no special need to bathe regularly, nor was he shy about where he urinated. But people were tolerant. Otis was a war hero. The town took care of its own.
At some time during my early teen years, people began to notice that Otis had developed a propensity to take out his penis even though he had no need to pee. Moreover, he had developed a fondness for stroking it. The boys of the town soon learned that they could precipitate that action simply by giving Otis a couple of laughing suggestions. “Take it out, Otis!” “Whack it, Otis!”
Those caught indulging in this pastime were quickly dealt with, and a kindly civic leader would take Otis away for a stern lecture. The practice was largely brought under control.
The teenage son of a family that had recently moved into town was told of the sport that could be had with Otis and was warned that he must not be caught goading him into action. But this lad was eager to make his name in our community of boys and daringly approached Otis while he was sitting on a stool in Murphy’s Drug Store sipping on a milk shake. “Take it out, Otis,” he said loudly and with a laugh. And Otis did. “Whack it, Otis.” Otis did. And with encouragement from the instigator, he whacked it until the predictable result occurred, at which point the waitress behind the counter screamed and fainted.
We never saw Otis again. When we asked our parents what had happened to him, we were told simply, “He went away.” I later learned that Otis had been committed to the Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee (the State’s mental care institution), where he remained for the rest of his life.
No one knows how long Otis remained tied to the tree before the advancing Americans found him. He was still alive.
After extensive surgery and a long recuperation, Otis was discharged and returned home. His German executioner had apparently directed the barrel of his gun upward, rather than toward the rear of Otis’ head, and the bullet had taken out a large portion of the upper front of his skull, which had been replaced with a steel plate. The surgeons could not restore that part of the brain that was also blown away.
Otis had been a respected member of the town’s working class before he went away to war, and his fellow citizens would never have stigmatized him with a derogatory label. Nonetheless, if this were a piece of fiction, Otis would be identified as the village idiot.
He lived simply; I never knew where. He was big and he was strong and he was frequently in demand for jobs that called for those attributes. My father often hired Otis to help unload trucks bringing supplies to our hardware store, especially those that came laden with merchandise such as kegs of nails, cases of paint, or quantities of galvanized lead water pipe.
Otis could perform most tasks necessary to sustain himself, such as dressing and buying food that needed no preparation. And in any case, there was usually someone around to help him. Unfortunately, he found no special need to bathe regularly, nor was he shy about where he urinated. But people were tolerant. Otis was a war hero. The town took care of its own.
At some time during my early teen years, people began to notice that Otis had developed a propensity to take out his penis even though he had no need to pee. Moreover, he had developed a fondness for stroking it. The boys of the town soon learned that they could precipitate that action simply by giving Otis a couple of laughing suggestions. “Take it out, Otis!” “Whack it, Otis!”
Those caught indulging in this pastime were quickly dealt with, and a kindly civic leader would take Otis away for a stern lecture. The practice was largely brought under control.
The teenage son of a family that had recently moved into town was told of the sport that could be had with Otis and was warned that he must not be caught goading him into action. But this lad was eager to make his name in our community of boys and daringly approached Otis while he was sitting on a stool in Murphy’s Drug Store sipping on a milk shake. “Take it out, Otis,” he said loudly and with a laugh. And Otis did. “Whack it, Otis.” Otis did. And with encouragement from the instigator, he whacked it until the predictable result occurred, at which point the waitress behind the counter screamed and fainted.
We never saw Otis again. When we asked our parents what had happened to him, we were told simply, “He went away.” I later learned that Otis had been committed to the Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee (the State’s mental care institution), where he remained for the rest of his life.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
THE STRANGER
There were two hardware stores in my small hometown, one owned by my father and the other, just two blocks north on Main Street, owned by the Weeks family. Business contacts between the two were infrequent, but cordial.
My father had adopted as his business slogan, “Yes, Sir, we have it!” It wasn’t true, but it was catchy. And to his credit, he taught his clerks to make every effort to treat the slogan as a store philosophy. If, in fact, we didn’t have it, we were to make every effort to get it. That included calling the Weeks to see if they had it. If they did, someone was to take money from the cash register, run up to the Weeks’ store, and buy it. It was resold to the customer with no mark up.
On a chilly winter day, but with warming, bright sunshine flooding the streets, when I was eleven or twelve years old, a customer asked my uncle (who worked for my father) for a certain size Phillips head screwdriver. We didn’t have it. With a phone call, my uncle learned that the Weeks did have it. I was dispatched to get it.
I didn’t usually like this chore, as it meant running at full speed, unable to pause to take in the sights: the bustle at the post office, the wonders in the windows of the five and dime store and at Jessie Mae’s Jewelry, the colors of the fruits and vegetables on display at Al’s Market, and the splendid languor of the checkers players across the street on the courthouse square. But this customer had said he had other errands to run and would be back in an hour or so to get the screwdriver. So there was no rush. Plus my uncle gave me an extra dime so I could treat myself to an ice cream cone at the drugstore across the street from the Weeks’ store.
On my way into Weeks’, I noticed a stranger, an old man, sitting on the public bench between the store and the offices of the weekly “Brooksville Sun” newspaper. When I came out with the screwdriver, hell bent on dashing across the street to get my ice cream cone, he called to me.
“You going to a fire, sonny?” he asked.
When I paused to tell him the reason for my haste, he licked his upper lip and said, “Hell, boy, I like ice cream. How about you come back over here and give me a lick or two?”
Those were simpler days. We weren’t taught not to talk to strangers. It was even considered impolite not to do so. Besides, this fellow looked harmless, even though the cuffs of his pants were ragged and there were holes in the sleeves of the old cardigan he clutched to his chest with both arms. He struck me as a nice old man who had simply sat down on the bench to warm himself in the bright winter sun and maybe get a little color into his ashen cheeks. I told him I’d be right back.
He didn’t respond when I came back and offered to share my ice cream cone with him. With his chin resting on his chest and his eyes closed, he seemed to have fallen asleep, but he didn’t react when I shook him a bit. I left him there and went back to deliver the screwdriver.
My great uncle Eddie owned the newspaper. It was he who called my father an hour or so later to tell him he had found a dead man sitting on the bench outside his office, and that apparently I was the last person to be seen talking to him.
The dead body was the lead story in the next edition of the newspaper. The man had no identification on him, nor was there any way to tell where he had come from or where he was going. The newspaper story said simply that the body had been “turned over to the county sheriff for appropriate disposition.” Because my family didn’t want me connected to this mysterious tragedy, my name wasn’t mentioned.
I didn’t mind too much, although the ensuing notoriety at school would have been nice. I had never seen a dead man before and I was hoping for a long hiatus before I came across another.
My father had adopted as his business slogan, “Yes, Sir, we have it!” It wasn’t true, but it was catchy. And to his credit, he taught his clerks to make every effort to treat the slogan as a store philosophy. If, in fact, we didn’t have it, we were to make every effort to get it. That included calling the Weeks to see if they had it. If they did, someone was to take money from the cash register, run up to the Weeks’ store, and buy it. It was resold to the customer with no mark up.
On a chilly winter day, but with warming, bright sunshine flooding the streets, when I was eleven or twelve years old, a customer asked my uncle (who worked for my father) for a certain size Phillips head screwdriver. We didn’t have it. With a phone call, my uncle learned that the Weeks did have it. I was dispatched to get it.
I didn’t usually like this chore, as it meant running at full speed, unable to pause to take in the sights: the bustle at the post office, the wonders in the windows of the five and dime store and at Jessie Mae’s Jewelry, the colors of the fruits and vegetables on display at Al’s Market, and the splendid languor of the checkers players across the street on the courthouse square. But this customer had said he had other errands to run and would be back in an hour or so to get the screwdriver. So there was no rush. Plus my uncle gave me an extra dime so I could treat myself to an ice cream cone at the drugstore across the street from the Weeks’ store.
On my way into Weeks’, I noticed a stranger, an old man, sitting on the public bench between the store and the offices of the weekly “Brooksville Sun” newspaper. When I came out with the screwdriver, hell bent on dashing across the street to get my ice cream cone, he called to me.
“You going to a fire, sonny?” he asked.
When I paused to tell him the reason for my haste, he licked his upper lip and said, “Hell, boy, I like ice cream. How about you come back over here and give me a lick or two?”
Those were simpler days. We weren’t taught not to talk to strangers. It was even considered impolite not to do so. Besides, this fellow looked harmless, even though the cuffs of his pants were ragged and there were holes in the sleeves of the old cardigan he clutched to his chest with both arms. He struck me as a nice old man who had simply sat down on the bench to warm himself in the bright winter sun and maybe get a little color into his ashen cheeks. I told him I’d be right back.
He didn’t respond when I came back and offered to share my ice cream cone with him. With his chin resting on his chest and his eyes closed, he seemed to have fallen asleep, but he didn’t react when I shook him a bit. I left him there and went back to deliver the screwdriver.
My great uncle Eddie owned the newspaper. It was he who called my father an hour or so later to tell him he had found a dead man sitting on the bench outside his office, and that apparently I was the last person to be seen talking to him.
The dead body was the lead story in the next edition of the newspaper. The man had no identification on him, nor was there any way to tell where he had come from or where he was going. The newspaper story said simply that the body had been “turned over to the county sheriff for appropriate disposition.” Because my family didn’t want me connected to this mysterious tragedy, my name wasn’t mentioned.
I didn’t mind too much, although the ensuing notoriety at school would have been nice. I had never seen a dead man before and I was hoping for a long hiatus before I came across another.
JOYRIDING
The thing about bulldozers is that they look so imposing. They are not the vehicles of choice when contemplating a leisurely drive in the country or a little pleasure jaunt. And yet that would be the only excuse we could come up with to explain why we took the one we did. In any case, the event took place at one o’clock in the morning at a highway construction site, clearly a factor rendering any mitigating explanation a formidable task at the outset. They had us cold.
A swimming place known as the “Sand Banks” on the Weekiwachee River, at a wide bend about a mile from the river’s source--a cold, clear spring--was a favorite spot for high school boys to end a summer Saturday night. Birthday suits were the requisite dress, and serious hootin’, hollerin’, and horse play were the standard activities. The drive back to town did little to extinguish the youthful enthusiasm for adventure that had thus been spawned.
The old road was being replaced that summer by a wider, straighter link between the town and the Gulf coast. For a few miles, the old road paralleled the work in progress. The bulldozer was just sitting there on a slight hill, lit by moonlight and unguarded.
I was driving, but Billy triggered the action which was to make us a lifelong memory. “Stop!” he yelled. “I want to drive that thing!” So I stopped and parked on the side of the road.
The four of us piled out. Billy led the way, with the rest close behind, none of us knowing exactly what we were doing, and certainly not why. Billy never broke stride; he leapt onto the bulldozer’s steel tread and bounced into the driver’s seat. I took the spot beside him, while the other two draped themselves across the elongated engine covering.
The key was in the ignition. Billy turned it and then pushed the red button next to it. The huge diesel coughed twice, sputtered a bit, and then burst into a full roar. Billy fiddled with the pedals under his feet and with the myriad of levers and knobs under his right hand. The thing shuddered, slid a bit to the left, skidded back to the right, and then, to our absolute amazement, began to move forward. Billy had no time to learn the difference between stop and go, unfortunately, but he soon accomplished the former by crashing into a stout pine tree. The treads spun menacingly for a moment or two, digging into the sandy soil, but the tree’s tap root held and some mechanism in the machine brought the motor to a halt.
We were so shaken and absorbed that we didn’t at first notice the red, white, and blue lights flashing back on the road, but the spotlight soon captured our attention. We froze. All but Billy, that is. He instantly jumped from his seat, bounced off the hood of the bulldozer, wrapped all four appendages around the pine tree, and then shinnied up it like a gangly bear. Apparently the deputy sheriff didn’t see him, as when he arrived at the scene, he looked at and addressed only the three of us. He learned I was the driver of the car, loaded the other two into the back seat of his cruiser, and told me follow him.
As I was pulling onto the road, I heard a back door open and, looking over my shoulder, saw Billy launch himself onto the floor behind the front seat. There he remained while I followed the deputy to the county jail.
We stopped in front of the jail, a modest, square, white brick building, and while the deputy shepherded his passengers inside, he directed me to take one of the two visitors’ parking spots and follow along. He seated us on a wooden bench while he went behind the counter, shuffled some papers, and made a phone call. He then led us through a metal door into the rear of the jail where the four cells were located. Only one was occupied, by a drunk sleeping off his evening excesses. The deputy ushered us into one of the other cells, clanged the barred door shut, locked it, and went back to the front of the jail, also slamming and locking that door behind him.
There was only a cot hung to a wall to sit on, so the three of us perched there. The only other furnishings in the room were a toilet with no seat and a sink, the insides of both showing signs of use but little cleaning. We stared around us and at each other for a minute or two. Someone got up to check that the toilet flushed and that water actually ran from the sink tap.
There wasn’t much conversation initially and what there was, as I recall, was basic and uninspired.
“Jesus Christ! We’re in jail!.”
“What’s gonna happen now?”
“What if they call our parents? My daddy will kill me!”
“How much trouble you reckon we’re in?”
But we soon realized there was nothing for us to do but wait, and the humor of the situation began to creep into the conversation. We conjured up a host of notions relative to jailhouse life, and bantered about digging a tunnel to escape, joked of working on a chain gang, and exchanged some scatological remarks about the porcelain pieces in front of us. Someone came up with a ballpoint pen and we wrote our names and the date on a wall. We even dozed off for a time.
At about six a.m., the deputy came to escort us back to the reception and office area. Seated behind his desk was Slim Loman, the Sheriff of Hernando County, resplendent in starched khakis, wide black belt, a holster holding a pearl-handled pistol, and a black ten gallon hat perched on the back of his head. He was leaning back in his chair, his feet in their filigreed cowboy boots resting on his desk.
‘Mornin’, boys,” he greeted us. “I don’t reckon ya’ll have had any breakfast. Slim, tell Annie Rose to cook ‘em up some eggs and bacon. And git ‘em some coffee.”
The deputy exited through a side door and returned promptly with a pot of coffee and three plain crockery mugs. Someone poured the coffee for us, but no one offered sugar or cream. We sipped it while the sheriff spoke.
“Now, here’s the thing, boys. You dumb shitheads done stole a ‘dozer and that’s grand larceny. You could be sent up to the pen at Raiford for that.”
Apparently one of us cleared his throat as if to speak, because the sheriff banged a heel on his desk and barked, “Shut your hole! I’ll tell you when you can talk. Now then, I’ve sent for Mr. Bennett, the supervisor on that road construction. Had to wake him up, so I don’t reckon he’ll be in a good mood when he gets here. Tough titty for you turds. So here’s the thing of it. If Mr. Bennett decides to press charges against you, I’ll lock you back up ‘til Monday, when we can send your stupid asses up to the courthouse so the judge can ‘rain you. After that, it’s outta my hands. Now go on back yonder and git some breakfast. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.”
We were led through the door the deputy had used to get our coffee into what was obviously the jailhouse mess hall. Our hungover companion of the night was already there, feeding from a mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and grits. Annie Rose soon arrived to provide us each with similarly heaped plates. She went back to her kitchen to bring in a large platter of homemade biscuits. Fresh butter, maple syrup, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a pot of coffee were already on the table.
(Years later, I came across a book about jail facilities in the United States, something like a Michelin Guide to the city, county, and state penal institutions of America. I was proud and pleased to note in the food ratings that the Hernando County jail ranked fourth in the entire country.)
The construction company supervisor proved to be a nice fellow. He said he had a teenage son of his own whose punishment for an antic such as ours he would want to administer personally. He told the sheriff to let us go. But he had one condition: we had to tell our parents what we had done and where we spent the night, and he had to receive a phone call from them to confirm that we had lived up to our commitment.
That subsequent confession cost me driving privileges for a month.
I later learned from Billy that he had fallen asleep on the ride into town, woke up when the birds started chirping, figured out where he was, slipped unseen out of the car, and walked home.
A swimming place known as the “Sand Banks” on the Weekiwachee River, at a wide bend about a mile from the river’s source--a cold, clear spring--was a favorite spot for high school boys to end a summer Saturday night. Birthday suits were the requisite dress, and serious hootin’, hollerin’, and horse play were the standard activities. The drive back to town did little to extinguish the youthful enthusiasm for adventure that had thus been spawned.
The old road was being replaced that summer by a wider, straighter link between the town and the Gulf coast. For a few miles, the old road paralleled the work in progress. The bulldozer was just sitting there on a slight hill, lit by moonlight and unguarded.
I was driving, but Billy triggered the action which was to make us a lifelong memory. “Stop!” he yelled. “I want to drive that thing!” So I stopped and parked on the side of the road.
The four of us piled out. Billy led the way, with the rest close behind, none of us knowing exactly what we were doing, and certainly not why. Billy never broke stride; he leapt onto the bulldozer’s steel tread and bounced into the driver’s seat. I took the spot beside him, while the other two draped themselves across the elongated engine covering.
The key was in the ignition. Billy turned it and then pushed the red button next to it. The huge diesel coughed twice, sputtered a bit, and then burst into a full roar. Billy fiddled with the pedals under his feet and with the myriad of levers and knobs under his right hand. The thing shuddered, slid a bit to the left, skidded back to the right, and then, to our absolute amazement, began to move forward. Billy had no time to learn the difference between stop and go, unfortunately, but he soon accomplished the former by crashing into a stout pine tree. The treads spun menacingly for a moment or two, digging into the sandy soil, but the tree’s tap root held and some mechanism in the machine brought the motor to a halt.
We were so shaken and absorbed that we didn’t at first notice the red, white, and blue lights flashing back on the road, but the spotlight soon captured our attention. We froze. All but Billy, that is. He instantly jumped from his seat, bounced off the hood of the bulldozer, wrapped all four appendages around the pine tree, and then shinnied up it like a gangly bear. Apparently the deputy sheriff didn’t see him, as when he arrived at the scene, he looked at and addressed only the three of us. He learned I was the driver of the car, loaded the other two into the back seat of his cruiser, and told me follow him.
As I was pulling onto the road, I heard a back door open and, looking over my shoulder, saw Billy launch himself onto the floor behind the front seat. There he remained while I followed the deputy to the county jail.
We stopped in front of the jail, a modest, square, white brick building, and while the deputy shepherded his passengers inside, he directed me to take one of the two visitors’ parking spots and follow along. He seated us on a wooden bench while he went behind the counter, shuffled some papers, and made a phone call. He then led us through a metal door into the rear of the jail where the four cells were located. Only one was occupied, by a drunk sleeping off his evening excesses. The deputy ushered us into one of the other cells, clanged the barred door shut, locked it, and went back to the front of the jail, also slamming and locking that door behind him.
There was only a cot hung to a wall to sit on, so the three of us perched there. The only other furnishings in the room were a toilet with no seat and a sink, the insides of both showing signs of use but little cleaning. We stared around us and at each other for a minute or two. Someone got up to check that the toilet flushed and that water actually ran from the sink tap.
There wasn’t much conversation initially and what there was, as I recall, was basic and uninspired.
“Jesus Christ! We’re in jail!.”
“What’s gonna happen now?”
“What if they call our parents? My daddy will kill me!”
“How much trouble you reckon we’re in?”
But we soon realized there was nothing for us to do but wait, and the humor of the situation began to creep into the conversation. We conjured up a host of notions relative to jailhouse life, and bantered about digging a tunnel to escape, joked of working on a chain gang, and exchanged some scatological remarks about the porcelain pieces in front of us. Someone came up with a ballpoint pen and we wrote our names and the date on a wall. We even dozed off for a time.
At about six a.m., the deputy came to escort us back to the reception and office area. Seated behind his desk was Slim Loman, the Sheriff of Hernando County, resplendent in starched khakis, wide black belt, a holster holding a pearl-handled pistol, and a black ten gallon hat perched on the back of his head. He was leaning back in his chair, his feet in their filigreed cowboy boots resting on his desk.
‘Mornin’, boys,” he greeted us. “I don’t reckon ya’ll have had any breakfast. Slim, tell Annie Rose to cook ‘em up some eggs and bacon. And git ‘em some coffee.”
The deputy exited through a side door and returned promptly with a pot of coffee and three plain crockery mugs. Someone poured the coffee for us, but no one offered sugar or cream. We sipped it while the sheriff spoke.
“Now, here’s the thing, boys. You dumb shitheads done stole a ‘dozer and that’s grand larceny. You could be sent up to the pen at Raiford for that.”
Apparently one of us cleared his throat as if to speak, because the sheriff banged a heel on his desk and barked, “Shut your hole! I’ll tell you when you can talk. Now then, I’ve sent for Mr. Bennett, the supervisor on that road construction. Had to wake him up, so I don’t reckon he’ll be in a good mood when he gets here. Tough titty for you turds. So here’s the thing of it. If Mr. Bennett decides to press charges against you, I’ll lock you back up ‘til Monday, when we can send your stupid asses up to the courthouse so the judge can ‘rain you. After that, it’s outta my hands. Now go on back yonder and git some breakfast. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.”
We were led through the door the deputy had used to get our coffee into what was obviously the jailhouse mess hall. Our hungover companion of the night was already there, feeding from a mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, and grits. Annie Rose soon arrived to provide us each with similarly heaped plates. She went back to her kitchen to bring in a large platter of homemade biscuits. Fresh butter, maple syrup, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a pot of coffee were already on the table.
(Years later, I came across a book about jail facilities in the United States, something like a Michelin Guide to the city, county, and state penal institutions of America. I was proud and pleased to note in the food ratings that the Hernando County jail ranked fourth in the entire country.)
The construction company supervisor proved to be a nice fellow. He said he had a teenage son of his own whose punishment for an antic such as ours he would want to administer personally. He told the sheriff to let us go. But he had one condition: we had to tell our parents what we had done and where we spent the night, and he had to receive a phone call from them to confirm that we had lived up to our commitment.
That subsequent confession cost me driving privileges for a month.
I later learned from Billy that he had fallen asleep on the ride into town, woke up when the birds started chirping, figured out where he was, slipped unseen out of the car, and walked home.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
BOOGER
Booger Martin fished. Sometimes he fished by himself for his own purposes and enjoyment, and sometimes he made a little money guiding small fishing parties in the shallow Gulf waters off the coast of Bayport. He also occasionally earned a few dollars by frying fish and making hush puppies for church socials and family reunions. He lived in a simple, one room cabin where the only running water was that produced by the hand pump next to his sink, and the only electricity was in a single bulb hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. I never knew his real name. He was “Booger” to one and all, adults and children alike.
Like many of the county’s residents, Booger only came into town on Saturday, usually in the afternoon. He drove a battered Model A Ford, not an unusual vehicle in central Florida in the 1940’s, which he left in the public parking lot while he walked across the street to drink beer and swap lies for a few hours. Sometime during the afternoon, he bought whatever supplies he needed for the week ahead. He never displayed any signs of consuming too much beer and he always left before dark to drive the 15 miles back to Bayport.
I never ran into Booger when he didn’t stop to pat me on the head and ask about my health and my “schooling”. Sometimes his gnarled and sun-baked hand would descend into a pocket of the overalls he always wore and emerge with a coin, a nickel or a dime, which he handed to me without a word.
I once asked my father to tell me something about Booger, but all I got was, “Don’t worry about it. He’s a good man.”
Some of the well-off families in town kept what were known as “fishing cabins” in Bayport. It is true these were sometimes used in the pursuance of that sport, but they were more often havens for the men to escape to for a Saturday night of serious poker and serious drinking. My best friend’s father owned one of these simple weather-beaten houses. Like most of the other cabins in the little port enclave, it sat alongside a tidal creek fed by the Gulf, on an unkempt piece of clayey dirt with a few clumps of saw grass poking up here and there. An old rowboat was usually tied to the dock, rocking and bobbing in the shallow water.
My friend and I spent many happy summer Saturdays at the camp. There were wonderful ways for two young boys to amuse themselves. No supervision was necessary or wanted. We dug holes in the soft mud of the creek bank to look for fiddler crabs, fished futilely with hand lines and hooks baited with bread for the graceful needle fish that glided through the shallow water, and lay contentedly on our backs to gaze at floating clouds and give names to their endless shapes. We wore only our bathing suits, eschewing any oils or lotions. And on one especially clear, hot day in early summer, we burned to the color of cooked lobsters.
We knew the full force of our folly only after we had joined the men for a supper of Booger’s batter-fried Gulf mullet, hush puppies, and fresh tomatoes from his small garden. There were chilled canned peaches for dessert.
When we were sent to the screened porch to bed down on our cots, sleep was impossible. The burning on our backs and legs was torture. I don’t know how successful we were in holding back the tears. I know we tried. In any case, the men were too drunk and too loud to notice. But Booger knew.
As soon as he finished washing the dishes and making sure the bar was provisioned for the night, he left for a few minutes and then joined us on the porch. He didn’t say anything, but quietly opened a large Mason jar and began gently to spread some of its greasy contents all over us. The stuff reeked--of what, I could not tell. Its medicinal effect was almost instantaneous; the burning began to subside and was soon bearable enough to allow us to relax and shortly to sleep. When we awoke the next morning, our skins were still red and puffy, but the pain was gone.
We asked Booger to tell us what was in his powerful pomade. “A little a this, and a little bit a that,” he said. “They’s a touch a weeds what grows down by the creek and they’s some clayey mud. And it’s got some bacon fat. Oh yea, they’s piss. They’s a whole lotta piss.”
Like many of the county’s residents, Booger only came into town on Saturday, usually in the afternoon. He drove a battered Model A Ford, not an unusual vehicle in central Florida in the 1940’s, which he left in the public parking lot while he walked across the street to drink beer and swap lies for a few hours. Sometime during the afternoon, he bought whatever supplies he needed for the week ahead. He never displayed any signs of consuming too much beer and he always left before dark to drive the 15 miles back to Bayport.
I never ran into Booger when he didn’t stop to pat me on the head and ask about my health and my “schooling”. Sometimes his gnarled and sun-baked hand would descend into a pocket of the overalls he always wore and emerge with a coin, a nickel or a dime, which he handed to me without a word.
I once asked my father to tell me something about Booger, but all I got was, “Don’t worry about it. He’s a good man.”
Some of the well-off families in town kept what were known as “fishing cabins” in Bayport. It is true these were sometimes used in the pursuance of that sport, but they were more often havens for the men to escape to for a Saturday night of serious poker and serious drinking. My best friend’s father owned one of these simple weather-beaten houses. Like most of the other cabins in the little port enclave, it sat alongside a tidal creek fed by the Gulf, on an unkempt piece of clayey dirt with a few clumps of saw grass poking up here and there. An old rowboat was usually tied to the dock, rocking and bobbing in the shallow water.
My friend and I spent many happy summer Saturdays at the camp. There were wonderful ways for two young boys to amuse themselves. No supervision was necessary or wanted. We dug holes in the soft mud of the creek bank to look for fiddler crabs, fished futilely with hand lines and hooks baited with bread for the graceful needle fish that glided through the shallow water, and lay contentedly on our backs to gaze at floating clouds and give names to their endless shapes. We wore only our bathing suits, eschewing any oils or lotions. And on one especially clear, hot day in early summer, we burned to the color of cooked lobsters.
We knew the full force of our folly only after we had joined the men for a supper of Booger’s batter-fried Gulf mullet, hush puppies, and fresh tomatoes from his small garden. There were chilled canned peaches for dessert.
When we were sent to the screened porch to bed down on our cots, sleep was impossible. The burning on our backs and legs was torture. I don’t know how successful we were in holding back the tears. I know we tried. In any case, the men were too drunk and too loud to notice. But Booger knew.
As soon as he finished washing the dishes and making sure the bar was provisioned for the night, he left for a few minutes and then joined us on the porch. He didn’t say anything, but quietly opened a large Mason jar and began gently to spread some of its greasy contents all over us. The stuff reeked--of what, I could not tell. Its medicinal effect was almost instantaneous; the burning began to subside and was soon bearable enough to allow us to relax and shortly to sleep. When we awoke the next morning, our skins were still red and puffy, but the pain was gone.
We asked Booger to tell us what was in his powerful pomade. “A little a this, and a little bit a that,” he said. “They’s a touch a weeds what grows down by the creek and they’s some clayey mud. And it’s got some bacon fat. Oh yea, they’s piss. They’s a whole lotta piss.”
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