CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE—POST PUBERTY OR ADVENTURES IN UNCERTAINLAND

   

Seal copied from Wikipedia.

     

1957 Shepherd yearbook photo and high school comment.

     Prior to puberty my relationship with girls was awkward. That's just a fact. Post puberty my relationship with girls got more awkward or uncertain. That's an undeniable fact too. It was all so confusing. I mean that I was beginning to find girls attractive. It seemed to me that it was much easier to tease or insult a girl than to court and woo her properly. Before puberty I used to tell a girl she was too fat, or too skinny, or that she gave off the distinct odor of dogs or cats. I used to pull a girl's hair, too. Teasing and annoyance were my tools of comedy and attention-getting. First I practiced these words and actions on my sisters at home and then I practiced with the girls riding on the school bus. My sister Eustelle bore the brunt of it. Eustelle was U-smell in my lexicon. Peggy was Pig-head. I know, I know, unforgivable. Mean boy. Exile him to Siberia. (My guess is that the Russians wouldn't want him either.)

     Why the confession? The arrival of puberty changed me. Something was happening that I could not understand. When I was twelve years old I told Janet Malzo that she was too fat. I knew that I hurt her but I did not care. Her family lived in a house between my house at 253 Sprout Brook Road and Al Lazar’s house at 301 Sprout Brook Road. When Janet was eighteen years old she had lost the extra weight and she was absolutely beautiful. But she never forgot my hurtful words and I would never ever be a close friend. The door to her heart was closed to me and many others until Stanley Esposito opened it. 

     By the way, Janet and Stanley witnessed my five-mile, non-stop swim from inlet bridge to dam and back again, several round trips, in Cortlandt Lake in the summer of 1957. I could see them sitting together on the beach whenever I lifted an arm and took a deep breath. They stayed for the entire event.

     Graduating from Assumption School in Peekskill and enrolling in Archbishop Stepinac H. S. in White Plains was a complicated transition. It pulled me away from many of my regular friends who attended public school at Lakeland. It also cost my family $15 each month for tuition and $15 each month for transportation. That was costly to my family. It was my mother's idea to continue my education in a Catholic high school, and she took responsibility for financing it. I was enrolled at Stepinac in 1954. My mother took a job paying $35/week at Reader's Digest in Pleasantville, N. Y. Later Rose Cillis and Beatrice "Sis" Holmes joined her. They car-pooled.

     My first girlfriend of consequence was Miss Jane McGee, who with her family lived on Locust Ave. in the town of Cortlandt. She was an honor student at Assumption School. We got to be friends in the eighth grade, and puppy-love took over in the ninth grade. We rode the same school bus and we spoke on the phone after we got home from school. Correction. She spoke. For the most part I was tongue-tied. For the first time in my life words deserted me and fear and shyness took over—a sure sign that I was in uncertainland. She was pretty, she was intelligent, and as time went by she obtained her driver's license and the privilege to drive the family car. It was a Nash or Hudson with convenient fold-down seats. Before you begin to make any assumptions, know that we never experienced misadventure in the back seat of that car. The boys I knew always said it was the perfect car to park at a drive-in movie. Jane enrolled in Ladycliff Academy when I enrolled at Stepinac H. S. We discontinued our relationship soon after. To this day I remember her with appreciation and fondness.

     Barbara Clune was my next girlfriend. We knew each other from our school bus days in elementary school. The relationship didn't blossom until she was fourteen and I was sixteen years old. Barbara and her family lived on Lafayette Ave., off Crompound Road, a mile or so east of Peekskill but five miles from my house in Continental Village. Stepinac H. S. classmate Robert Clores also lived in her neighborhood. Barbara and I dated for over a year. I remember running all the way to her house, up and down Gallows Hill Road and up and down Locust Ave., then on Crompound Road and up Lafayette Ave. After visiting at her house I ran back home again. I did not jog. The entire run each way was a rapid non-stop effort. I ran between the two homes in falling snow on weekends too. I got to know her mother and father and her younger sister Janet. They were good people. The family was Irish Catholic.

     Barbara and I had much in common. We enjoyed the same popular music and activities. She especially enjoyed the singing of Elvis Presley. A major drawback in our relationship was the lack of transportation. I did not have a car or a driver's license in 1955. In 1957 I bought a car (too late) which I later sold to George Perry. Barbara and I relied on our parents for some of our transport needs. But this lack of transportation and my absence in the summer of 1956, during which I was employed as a camp counselor at a Catholic Youth Organization summer camp near Lake Peekskill, became a major factor in Barbara's decision to leave me for another boy.

     The breakup wasn't easy for me. Her new boyfriend, Frank Tucceri, was also a classmate of mine at Stepinac H. S. He had a new car and a driver's license. His car was a white Cadillac convertible, owned by his father, a lawyer who practiced in Peekskill, N. Y. This turn of events ended my friendship with Barbara and Frank. Enter song lyrics: "Breaking up is hard to do." Despite the unsettling emotions of the breakup, I recall with admiration her pretty eyes and spirited laughter during the happy times when we were friends.

    At this time in the narrative I wish to apologize to my classmate, Frank Tucceri, for the payback, knockdown punch to his stomach in a boys' toilet room at Archbishop Stepinac H. S. in the spring of 1957.

CHAPTER THIRTY—O'DELL SHAMPOO AND HAIR TREATMENT

    

Cortlandt Lake and Clubhouse. Photo credit, Eustelle Palmer.

      Brothers Bobby and Snooks O'Dell showed up at the Zeliph-Croft-Holmes compound one late summer day in 1952. Bobby was the big one. Taller and heavier than his older brother, he was someone to be reckoned with. Snooks was the aggressor and schemer, the more daring one. If the two brothers were to fight each other, it would be difficult to predict a winner. They were not looking for a fight on the day they showed up. They had something else on their minds.

     Cliff Holmes, Winifred Zeliph and I were there at the time they arrived. I don't remember if the meeting was prearranged or not. After snatching several eggs from the Zeliph's chicken coop, we boiled them and ate them for lunch. We pumped and drank deep well water, spraying each other for fun, and then talked about what to do next. Someone mentioned gold in the old quartz quarry.

     It was decided to investigate the old quartz quarry near Mr. Singer's residence. We walked south along Sprout Brook Road and turned left at the bridge over Sprout Brook. Soon we were scaling the face of the quarry and searching for the yellow stuff. I would guess that at that time Cliff, Winifred and I were about thirteen years old. Bobby was fourteen and Snooks was sixteen years old. We called to each other when we found something that looked like gold. We examined each rock closely. We were disappointed at the results. We determined that most of the glittering specimens were Fool's Gold, and the rest of the rocks were pyrite. We quit searching after half an hour. Little did we know about the old narrow gauge railroad that used to run by this point as far back as 1870. The railroad transported iron ore and cinnabar from Continental Village to Annsville, N. Y.

     Winifred was the female member in our expedition and she soon became the object of teasing and taunts. She was an attractive, intelligent country girl and well developed for her age. Some of the taunts included sexual innuendos. Several times she threatened to go home unless the taunts were stopped. Her reaction put the brakes on the teasing and the taunts.

     For some reason the boys decided to walk back to the Zeliph compound through the woods on the hillside. Winifred was reluctant to follow. All the boys lied to her that the taunts would not resume if she followed. Trusting us because she was inexperienced, she followed us into the woods. The boys pretended to be looking for gold among the scattered rocks and boulders. With the exception of her nephew Cliff, we boys focused on Winifred. She followed us but lagged behind.

     At some point the suggestion was made to stop and rest. Winifred caught up with us. We stopped next to a long flat boulder and a small spring. Here we took turns drinking water with cupped hands. A suggestion was made that Winifred should lie down on the flat boulder while the boys "inspected" her. It was apparent that three of the boys were no longer searching for gold.

     In a flash she ran down the hill and walked home by herself. Disappointed, we followed at a distance. When we reached the Zeliph compound, she was nowhere to be seen. She had gone into her house where she found safety.

     The O'Dell boys decided to go home too. They asked Cliff and me to follow them and visit with them. Having nothing else to do, we accepted. The O'Dell house was located north of the Smith's house, which was located at or near 394 Sprout Brook Road. We walked more than a mile from the Zeliph compound to get there. In that year the house was a covered basement, the O'Dell family living in the foundation. There was a shack or garage nearby on the same lot.

     Mrs. O'Dell greeted us when we got there. She was a perky woman with dark brown hair and a nice smile. She asked if we were hungry. The four of us said yes, and she prepared and served us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We drank bottled soda to wash it down. After showing us around the place, Snooks suggested we look for nuts in a hickory tree near the road. But when we got on Sprout Brook Road, walking north, our attention was diverted to the many piles of road apples instead. They were very easy to see on the dirt road. Some were still moist, and some were almost dry.

     Snooks ran forward, scooped up a handful and threw it at me. I ducked. It was the curtain opening on an epic horse manure battle. The actors were quickly chosen. Snooks decided it would be unfair if he and Bobby were one team and Cliff and I were the other team. So he chose Cliff as his team member, and Bobby chose me. Sides about even, the fight commenced.

    At this point a further explanation may be needed. It was obvious that this was not a sensible activity that girls would engage in. With the exception of country boys, very few boys would engage in it either. I was a city-slicker, and I was clearly a misfit. I should have opted out. However, I got in the spirit of things with rash enthusiasm and the battle soon got nasty.

     Bobby scored a messy dump on his older brother, hitting Snooks in the back. Snooks picked up the wet mess that was thrown at him and threw it at me. I turned and got hit in the back. Then I picked it up and threw it at Snooks. While I was throwing the stuff back at Snooks, Cliff got me in the chest with another wet clump of horse manure. It stuck on my shirt. I reached for it and got hit again by Snooks. Bobby nailed Cliff. This back and forth went on for at least ten minutes until Snooks called time out.

     During the short intermission we took off our shirts and scratched ourselves because the hay in the manure made us all itchy. The dry manure was the worst of it. It may be hard to believe but the stink of horse manure no longer bothered us after playing in it for several minutes. It permeated our skin as well as our clothes. A passerby on a bike, who suggested that we smelled like apple blossoms or roses, should have been given a ticket for inappropriate and untimely sarcasm.

     Round Two started with a surprise attack. Bobby threw a messy handful at Snooks, and nailed him in the upper chest area and in his face. Snooks wiped his face and threw manure back at his brother. I hit Snooks with a dry bomb that blew up when it hit him. It was a dry brown spray that bounced off his back. He returned the favor by running up to me while I was facing off with Cliff. I did not see him behind me and he gave me a resounding horse manure shampoo. Two handfuls of the wet stuff directly on my head and rubbed in for better grooming. Whoa! I retreated from the field and witnessed the rest of the battle from the side of the road. Bobby continued to fight Cliff and Snooks alone. Not until all participants had acquired an O'Dell shampoo and hair treatment did the battle officially end.

     There was a short discussion among the weary combatants as to who won and who lost. We came to the conclusion that the horse manure had been distributed equally and fairly. Consequently, no winner was announced and no date was selected for a resumption of the epic horse manure shampoo and hair treatment.

     The horse flies that accompanied Cliff and me on the way home declared victory.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—GEORGE PERRY BUYS A 1934 DODGE BROS. SEDAN FOR FIVE DOLLARS

      While writing this blog I thought about George Perry and the car he bought from me years ago. In 1957 I was introduced to George by my friend Billy Wert, who lived a short distance up Gallows Hill Road from George Perry's house.

     George Perry was a year older than I. Discovering his recent obituary [Nardone Funeral Home] by a search on Google, I was saddened by his death. His obituary claims that he was Mr. Fix-it. It must have been in his genes because he was Mr. Fix-it when I knew him. At age 19 he could drive a farm tractor and a car, and he was a competent mechanic on both. What really impressed me about George was his personality. Boys and girls would seek his companionship for the fun he almost always provided. If help was requested, he would always oblige. I never heard him complain or say anything disrespectful about anybody.

     I was introduced to George at his home and I will never forget the unusual introduction. When Billy and I showed up at the front door, Mrs. Perry sent us to the family garage where George was working on an old Model T Ford. George had the car hood up, and he said he was setting the time on the ignition. After a short chat he gave me a disconnected spark plug wire to hold to test the spark between the cable and the spark plug. I had never done this before. I knew nothing about car engines. When he started the engine, I got a shock that made me drop the wire and fall backward. Either the insulation on that wire was inadequate or I was a superconductor. He and Billy were laughing. I found out Billy had qualified as a member of George's "spark squad" a few weeks before I got my initiation by shock. Apparently this was George's electrifying way of saying howdy. I wasn't hurt and I laughed too. As I recall, Mr. Perry had played the trick on George and George later played the trick on Billy and me. Perhaps his early fascination with electricity and gadgets provided the incentive for George to make a career with the telephone company.

    The three of us became good friends that summer. Billy and George had their driver's licenses but, in addition, George had a job and a car of his own. On weekends George would take us in his car on drives to Lake Peekskill, Peekskill and Lake Oscawana. Cliff Holmes joined us, as did some girls that George knew. George paid for the gas. It cost less than 25 cents per gallon in 1957. On clear summer nights he would take us to Beacon, and we would cross the Hudson River by ferryboat. The ferry ran every half hour before the bridge was built. The novelty of the sights and sounds on the river, especially the ferryboat horn, was impressive. When we reached Newburg on the other side of the river, we stopped and ate pizza. Sometimes we got beer. George was a conscientious driver and he never drank the beer. He bought an ice cream soda. We all chipped in with the money. George drove his car along the Storm King Highway and re-crossed the Hudson on the Bear Mountain Bridge, to Anthony's Nose, and then he followed Rt. 202 and Rt. 6. Often he would stop at Custard's Last Stand, the name we gave to Mr. Truett's Carvel Ice Cream and Frozen Custard Stand. The custard stand was located on the north side of the old South Street Bridge at the intersection of Rt. 9. The view of the Hudson shorelines at night, with all the lights and shapes and imaginative things, was beautiful and unforgettable.

     As for the 1934 Dodge Bros. sedan I sold to George, I will start with my purchase. The car cost me $10. It had a minor oil leak in the oil pan, and some dents in the heavy framework. Very little rust, as I remember. The car had a device called free-wheeling, which was turned on or off by a knob on the dashboard. Engaged, free-wheeling pulled in the clutch and allowed shifting without use of the driver's foot. It was also very dangerous when engaged going downhill. The driver had to rely on drum brakes, which were not reliable.

     I registered the car in New York State but I did not have a driver's license. My mother kept the key in the kitchen. I was not supposed to drive the car until I got a license. I practiced driving with Billy Wert and with my step-father. Before I had scheduled a driving test and exam, I took the 1934 Dodge Bros. sedan on a joyride to Lake Peekskill. In a short time my mother discovered that the car was not in its usual parking place on the old tractor road near the Salt Box house and that the keys were missing. Also missing, coincidentally, was her son Gene. She phoned Mrs. Wert, who volunteered her son Billy to help my mother find me and the missing car.

     I was intercepted and stopped on Locust Ave. in the town of Cortlandt. My mother was driving the family car and Billy was with her. I remember that my mother yelled at me and she said I was lucky that the police did not stop me first. Billy got in the driver's seat of the Dodge, and I slid across to the passenger seat. Billy drove back to my house and parked the hijacked Dodge on the old tractor road, which connected Sprout Brook Road and Putnam Road. My mother followed us. She then took Billy home. After a short conversation between his mother and my mother, my mother and I returned to our house. During the ride she encouraged me to sell the Dodge or get rid of it.

     FOR SALE: 1934 Dodge Bros. black sedan in fair condition. Minor oil leak in oil pan. Must have tractor to pull vehicle off rock wall on which it is firmly suspended—$5. 

     If I had to write an advertisement today, this is how it would appear. Permit me to explain.

     Within a week or two I took the Dodge for another joyride. This time it was to George Perry's house and to the tractor road which led from his house into the woods nearby. It was a simple dirt road consisting of two parallel paths. Billy, George and I were all involved in this escapade. I was driving the car off-road, so to speak. Billy rode in the passenger seat and George rode in the back seat. George was familiar with the tractor road but had not been on it for several weeks. I drove as far as an old rock wall which had partly collapsed across the tractor road. Small boulders were strewn about, and rather than stop the car and remove them, I was encouraged by Billy to drive over or through them. George cautioned us, but Billy and I wanted to try. I gassed the car and drove into the pile. More rocks fell or were displaced and soon we were perched on the highest rocks with rear wheels spinning. We got out carefully. The Dodge was tilted to one side. We tried for half an hour to rock or push the car off the rock pile. Finally we gave up and abandoned the Dodge on the rock wall in the woods behind George Perry's house.

     We did a lot of talking as we walked back to George's house. George asked me if I wanted to sell the car. I said he could have it for $5. He gave me the five dollars when we reached his house. The next day I gave him the signed registration/transfer paper. I asked him how he would get the car off the rock pile.

     "I pulled it off the rock pile yesterday," he told me. "I used dad's tractor and two chains. Luckily the car did not fall on its side. I drove it this morning. It runs fine."

     Later I saw the Dodge in his garage. It had another small dent on one side. I lost five dollars in the transaction but gained peace of mind. During the following week, George replaced the oil pan gasket, all six spark plugs, changed the oil and tinkered with the engine timing. For better or worse, he had another vehicle to use for the Perry hand-me-down ritual involving "spark squad" membership.

     Goodbye, George. You were one of the best.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—BAKE SALES, TRAPPING CLOSURE, AND A PAINTING LESSON

    

Eustelle Melville Palmer.

     Eustelle Palmer was an excellent cook and there was always a strong demand in our house for her baked goods. However, she was not the only reputable cook in Continental Village. Mrs. Monowitz, Mrs. Lazar and Rose Cillis baked Jewish specialties. Gertrude Kuty baked Hungarian and Norwegian specialties. Mrs. Esposito baked Hispanic and Italian specialties. Mrs. Zeliph baked Dutch specialties. After the volunteer fire department was organized and money was needed, the wives of the firemen sold cakes, cookies, pies, etc. The bake sales were advertised my word of mouth and held at the Clubhouse.

     My mother was known for her decorated and very tasty double layer cakes covered with rich chocolate icing. Unfortunately, she had a difficult time protected them from her own children. My brother John and I were the worst offenders. If she could bake her cakes and get them out the front door of our house without our interference, she could be proud of her accomplishment. Thumbs-up she would signal with one hand, while holding a large wooden mixing spoon in the other hand. She used the mixing spoon as a defensive weapon. More than once I was hit across the forearms, as I reached for a cake that was cooling on a tray table near the electric stove. She used a broom to keep John out of the kitchen. I don't remember why a filched piece of cake tasted better than the unfilched cake, but I thought it did.

     My mother, Eustelle Melville Palmer, was the oldest of five children and a person who possessed considerable management skills. She was responsible for the organization of a boys' club in Continental Village, and later a Cub Scout troop. She was a major influence behind the organization of a ladies' auxiliary in the fire department. She was a homemaker, a practical nurse and a clerical worker at Readers Digest in Pleasantville, N. Y. Intelligent, practical and caring woman is the best way I can describe her.

     I remember that she used Mason jars to store tomatoes, apples, jelly and jams. Some of her Mason jars had latches on the glass tops. Before latching the tops, she would place a layer of wax on the top of jelly or jam. Everything was sealed tightly to her satisfaction.

     In autumn of our second year in Continental Village John and I experimented with homemade apple cider and hard cider. John bought a used still from our neighbor Han Schmidt, and installed the copper tubing apparatus in our cellar. We picked crab apples from the old apple orchard which stood between the Salt Box house and the Zeliph's house. Our first production was almost pure alcohol and tasted awful. Attempting to produce a better product during the second cooking, a soldered joint in the copper tubing came undone and that ended all experiments. I will note that my step-father was not at home when this activity took place in the basement of our house.

    Another memory I have was the building of Hans Schmidt's house. Hans lived on Sprout Brook Road between Schuyler Lane and Lakeview Drive. He was a WW2 veteran of the German army and a new citizen of the United States. His house was at or near No. 270. The house was recognizable by an old red brick exterior. The day the bricks arrived, Hans, my step-father Art Palmer, John and I tossed and carted the bricks from the road to an area near the house foundation. It took several hours. Mrs. Schimdt rewarded us with food and drink. While we rested my step-father told Hans that he possessed a German mauser rifle that he bought in Tripoli while assigned to the USS Delta in 1944. Hans wanted to see it. My step-father showed the rifle to Hans the next day. According to my step-father, Hans held it and pulled back the short bolt to examine it. "It needs more grease," he said with a defined German accent.

     The mention of a name or place can bring back associated memories. When I deployed my trap line and attended to it on a regular schedule, I remember adding a raccoon trap behind the Schmidt's house. It was about 100 yards away from the house, higher on the hill. I baited the trap with sardines. Four consecutive days I checked the condition of that trap and nothing was caught. The sardine bait was missing each time, so I added more. On the fifth day, as I approached the trap, I saw something struggling in the leaves near the place that the trap had been set. It was a colorful domestic Angora cat, and it belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt. I loosened the trap and freed the cat. It tried to get away but I held it. While holding the cat in one arm, I examined its paws one by one. The first joint above one paw was raw and bloodied. I had nothing to clean it with except the sleeve of my shirt, which I used. Then I found a straight stick on the ground and tied it to the cat’s leg for support. I set the cat loose and it ran toward the Schmidt's house with a noticeable limp. I was too afraid to follow it to the house and explain to the Schmidts what had happened, so I dismantled the trap and took a circuitous route through the woods and returned to my house. I never heard anything about it afterward on the Continental Village grape-line of rumors and hearsays. But I felt guilty and I began to consider giving up trapping.

     I had another reason for putting a stop to trapping. In winter of the same year I caught my family's dog in a raccoon trap at the Beaver Pond. This pond, a section of Canopus Creek, was located past the aqueduct and north on Sprout Brook Road.

     Our dog was outside the house when I departed to inspect my trapline. I did not see her until I was walking past Al Lazar's house on Sprout Brook Road. I yelled and chased her away. I never permitted her to follow me when I walked the trapline. She ran back toward the house and disappeared. Thinking I was successful in chasing her home, I continued past the junction with Gallows Hill Road and then past Frankie Smith's house. On the way I noticed the burned out stumps of old chestnut trees in the fields along the east side of the road in the vicinity of Valley Lane. Mr. Zeliph told me that the chestnut blight came to Continental Village about 1910, and in an effort to save them all the trees with blight were cut down and burned.

     I continued walking toward the Beaver Pond. This place was really a bog with some shallow pools of water and a broken stream running through it. There were a few paths. Knee-high boots were necessary foot gear to get through the place. When I walked slowly along the trap line, I realized nothing was caught in the several traps I had set there. I had been successful the week before this day, when I caught and killed a big raccoon which I skinned the same day. I stretched and dried the fur about five days on a homemade stretcher. That raccoon fur netted me $2 at Singer's.

     Disappointed, I turned to go home. As I was leaving the Beaver Pond I heard familiar barking behind me. I retraced my steps through the bog and found my dog caught in one of the raccoon traps. My first reaction was anger because she had followed me. It would be a mistake to yell at her while she was in distress, so I opened the jaws of the trap and removed her paw. I petted her, examined her paw, and found that her nails had been caught in the trap. She limped slightly as she followed me home.

     The dog's limp was noticed inside the house, and I was questioned by my mother. I made up a story about how the dog escaped from the bite of a snapping turtle at the Beaver Pond. It was a stupid thing to say. It was wintertime. My mother looked at me in disbelief. "I wasn't born yesterday," she said. I resolved to stop trapping.

     A memorable and painful incident occurred between my step-father and me the following summer. On a warm June day he asked me to paint the side of our garage with Sear's best white paint. "Best" meant most expensive, probably $5 a gallon. My step-father handed me a gallon can of paint, a scraper, a paint brush, a rag, and some old Peekskill Evening Star newspapers in which to wrap the paint brush when the work was completed. He would clean the brush himself when he returned from fire department parade practice. "No holidays," he said—meaning no unpainted surfaces. "I have confidence in you, Gene."

     It was a beautiful summer day. All my friends would be at the lake swimming, I thought, and I would be painting. My step-father left the house in his fireman's dress uniform. I watched him leave in good spirits. I dragged myself and the painting supplies to the open field at the side of the garage and started painting. Each stroke of paint on the garage was lost time swimming at the lake. I was miserable. Soon I was rehearsing in my mind the steps needed to shorten the misery and join my friends at the lake. I came up with an idea. I could dig a hole in the field and pour half the paint in the hole and cover the top with a large sod of field grass. The paint would be covered and the sod would blend in. The sod would float on the thick paint. It would cut my painting time in half. That was my plan. It was lacking one important consideration: What if?

     I painted the garage until the paint can was half empty. I dug a hole with a spade and poured the remaining white paint in the hole. When I covered it with sod I saw some paint oozing along the sides at the surface. I sprinkled dirt over the paint and the sod-covered hole looked the same as the dirt and grass in the field. No trace of white paint. The thickness of the paint must have held the sod up, I reckoned. Then I placed the lid on the empty paint can, wrapped the paint brush in newspapers, put the painting items in the garage, and after a quick change into a bathing suit I was running barefoot to the lake to join my friends.

     My friends and I had a hellava good time that afternoon at the lake. We swam to the island and to the dam, and back to the beach. We used two rowboats and gave the neighborhood girls a ride across the lake and back. The water was warm; the weather was great. I thought, shucks, if summer fun could always be pleasant like this.

     My step-father practiced marching with the other volunteers who showed up that fine summer day. When he returned home he ate a late lunch. He asked my mother, "Did Gene finish painting the garage?" "Yes," she answered, "Gene finished earlier than I expected."

     Still in dress uniform, he finished his lunch and went outside to inspect my paint job. He walked in the field on the side of the garage, his eyes fixed on the drying or dried oil paint and he was searching for "holidays"—a Navy term I'm sure. He inadvertently stepped on the piece of sod I used to cover the paint that had been poured in the hole. His right foot—shoe, sock and bottom of trouser—were temporarily immersed in white paint. He almost fell, he told me a few days later. He did not tell me what he said at the time—a Navy term I'm sure.

     Fire Chief Art Palmer quickly changed his clothes. He spent a good portion of the afternoon using turpentine and other solvents to clean his shoe, sock and trousers. Then he sat down on the breezeway steps and waited patiently—like a cat waiting for a mouse. He was waiting for me to come home and receive my just reward.

     At 6 p. m. I came home hungry, tired and sunburned. I was not expecting what happened next. My step-father sprung at me like a lion, and dragged me into the house. He said very little, but I got his message. He forced me down on the kitchen floor on my back, took my legs and drew them up over my head and he proceeded to open-hand slap my butt forever and forever, or so I thought. No amount of screaming stopped him. I got at least thirty of his best and hardest hits before my mother intervened. "Art, you’re killing him," she said, which was as much of an exaggeration as were my screams. But it worked. He stopped. Later he told me it was because his hand hurt.

    And that punishment put a lid on the painting incident. No grudges were held by either of us afterwards. I suspect he thought that he handled my transgression in a just manner. Feeling guilty, I thought that I deserved the punishment. It was arguably more effective than a pusillanimous call for a time out. Proof's in the pudding, some people say. I never did anything like it again.

     My step-father and I had a short conversation afterwards. He did most of the talking. I don't recall all that was said, but he told me that short cuts don't play out. "Wise up," he advised me. Before nightfall he drove to Peekskill and bought more paint. I painted the remaining unpainted surfaces of the garage over the next two days. He did not have to ask me or order me to do it. I felt that it was an obligation. Perhaps it was the advent of the transitional stage of growing up.