I have posted snippets from my memoir
Sleeve 'n Me. I hope you enjoy reading it. I hope to have it out next year. Vic
SLEEVE AN’ ME
At the Feet of the Greatest Generation
1940-1949
Introduction
Late Summer, 1942
The Battle of the Atlantic.
German U-Boats sink ninety-eight allied ships. A Japanese sub sinks the U.S. aircraft
carrier Wasp off the Solomons, and the U.S. battleship North Carolina is badly
damaged.
The air raid siren on top of the fire station in Silver
Spring, Maryland, just outside of Washington, D.C., started wailing, and I ran
to the window to see if I could see any searchlights. All the dogs in Northwood Park began to howl
as they always did during an air raid.
Maybe this would be one of the times they sent our own bombers over on a
pretend bombing mission, and you could hear all those motors roaring away. My best friend Sleeve an’ me had decided to
be B-17 pilots when we got old enough to enlist. It didn’t take me any time to race around the
house and pull down all the blackout shades so no light could get out and tell
the bombers where to aim. I was good at
doing that.
The screen door slammed as my pop took off to be an air raid
warden. I was right proud of him,
wearing his helmet with the Civil Defense insignia painted on it. He wore an armband, too, and carried the
hugest flashlight a body ever saw. The
wardens patrolled the neighborhood. I
guess they must go looking for Jap or German spies. He was probably the best air raid warden in
Northwood Park, but it bothered me he wasn’t in the army or navy. My mom said it was because he was doing
important war work for the government, and he had a “deferment” from the
draft. Sleeve had an older brother who
would soon be fighting the Japs, he said, so I didn’t say too much about my pop
being an air raid warden around him.
Unlike Sleeve, I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. Didn’t even have a dog like he did—his name
was Boots—so it could get pretty lonesome.
Growing up in a war was hard. But it was exciting, too.
* * *
And it was special.
We were the kids of The Greatest Generation. Sometimes it felt like most of them were too
busy with the war to pay much attention to us.
I understand that now, from the perspective of more than sixty years
since that kid, whose name was Charlie Brown—long before the famous one—watched
for searchlights and listened for our bombers over D.C. This is that young boy’s story, in his own
words. Folks who write memoirs are
supposed to tell you what it all meant, and I’ll try.
The stories in Sleeve an’ Me are about beginnings and
endings, about relationships and loyalty, passages, loss and death, about
getting into trouble, and surviving dangerous stunts because God was our
copilot. We didn’t talk about God too
much, though; He stayed in church for the most part. But we did talk a lot about “The Hand of
Fate.”
For over three and a half years World War II consumed the
lives of almost everyone. We were a part
of The March of Time, the name of a newsreel series, and our days unfolded on
“Eastern War Time.” Everything worth
having was rationed: gasoline, tires, meat, sugar, cigarettes, and shoes. You could get a ticket for “pleasure
driving.” Bubble gum, Hershey bars, and
caps for your cap pistols were early wartime casualties. We saved or collected all manner of things:
old tires, tin foil off of cigarette packs, grease, newspapers—you name it—for
the “war effort.” We helped our parents
work in their victory gardens, sold victory seeds, struck victory matches,
bought victory stamps to put in books that, when filled, you turned in for a
war bond. We sang the “National Anthem”
before every movie, and halfway through the movie they took up a collection for
the Red Cross. Everyone contributed,
too.
We knew the words to “Praise the Lord and Pass the
Ammunition” by heart, along with all the other war songs except maybe the ones
about love. War news frequently
interrupted radio programs throughout the day, a deep voice stating: “We interrupt this program to bring you
important news from the front.” Families
with someone in uniform displayed a blue star in a window. They hung a gold star if that someone got
killed.
Well, if you want to know—or remember—what it was like to
grow up in the 1940s at the feet of The Greatest Generation, with Franklin D.
Roosevelt and Betty Grable running the country, Sleeve an’ me will help you do
it.
It was a special
time. And it is important to remember.
Chapter 1: Beginnings
September 1940
Battle of Britain.
German bombers continue to pound British airfields. Biggin Hill is almost put out of action, and
Debden, Hornchurch, and four other airfields are severely hit. Hitler signs the operational orders for the
invasion of Britain. He announces that
he will decide on the date for the start of Operation Sea Lion, the invasion of
Britain, on September 10th. Britain’s
Royal Air Force defeats the German Luftwaffe, and Hitler cancels the invasion.
Hot Summer Nights
It was hard going to sleep in a new house. I'd wanted the door to my room all the
way open with the hall light left on. Mom said she'd leave the light on and open my
door just a crack. A thin slice of light
went across the footboard of my bed and ended up on the corner of my
bureau. Which was only a little
help. Aunt Minnie sliced cake about as
thin as the light was. She didn't know
how much a boy liked cake. I hadn't even
had time to figure out what was way back in the storage closet off of my
bedroom yet, which is why I didn’t want it to be all the way dark.
I smelled the swamp
the first night we moved way out into what my pop called the suburbs, though it
seemed a deal more like country to me.
It was hot as all blue blazes, and the black Westinghouse fan my folks
had put in my room didn't do a whole lot.
It kept turning back and forth all the time. I'd get up and stand right in front of it but
had to keep moving all the time to keep it in my face. At least you could blow the sweat off of your
upper lip that way.
Nights were pretty eerie on Pinewood Avenue. We lived on a dead-end street with the woods
growing right up to our house. Well,
almost. There was a swamp just between
our house and the woods, in the middle of which was a slime-filled pit. It wasn't just the swamp being there I had to
worry about; there was an unnatural bunch of swamp noises that only came out at
night. Once you got used to the steady
hum of the fan you could hear 'em clear as day.
And when you added 'em up, it was like a long rumble of thunder. See, in the swamp were bullfrogs, crickets,
owls, mosquitoes the size of B-25 bombers, and copperheads—well maybe some of
them were black snakes—which you could hear slithering around.
Now that doesn't count all the normal sounds you could add
in. It was nothing to hear squirrels
scurrying across the roof, a faucet dripping, a neighborhood dog barking, a car
door slam, or the distant wail of an ambulance.
When it got to be late and the sheet and my Fruit-of-the-Looms were all
scrunched up at the foot of the bed, I'd go over to the dormer window. That's
where you could hear the loudest.
Mystery noises were what got a body upset. Every time I heard an unnatural creak in one
of the floorboards downstairs, a crash in the woods, a muffled thump from the
storage closet off of my room, or maybe a low moaning coming from somewhere,
I'd leap to the dormer window and look out.
There'd be pretty near a gazillion lightning bugs blinking on and
off. Buzzing would be coming out of the
old yellow Japanese beetle traps hanging in everybody’s front yards. If the wind was right I could smell the
sickening licorice-sweet smell of the dead beetles, but usually the
slime-filled pit would out-smell the beetle traps.
We only had this one ol’ street lamp at the end of our
street. The corrugated, rusty green metal shade around the bare bulb hung down,
like the bulb was wearing a hat. It
would shine into my bedroom through tree branches from the great big ol’ tulip
poplar in the front yard, and through the window dividers, which made the light
all splotchy on the walls and ceiling.
When a puff of wind came along, the shade on the streetlight would rock
up and down, making the light splotches in my room dance around. It was like
being in a rowboat when a wake went by.
Since there were two windows in my room, I'd have to check
the one lookin' out to the swamp every so often, too, even though there was
hardly any light that got to it from the one street lamp. And anyway, the swamp just sucked in light
and ate it!
Sometimes you'd hear
a loud splash come from the swamp. And light gray mist would rise up from the
black pit, and it would ooze out into the woods. Straining, I could sense it. There.
In the wavering mist. An evil
thing. A monster. Disturbed by our house being built almost on
top of it. And my bedroom was the
closest! But what could a body do?
Soon after we moved in I decided to make a sacrifice to
it. I wondered what it would want. Something dead. How about the dead crab I was saving in my
shirt drawer? It would probably be a good idea to get it out of there before my
mom found it anyway. And everybody knew
swamp monsters love dead stuff. And why
not give it all my jar full of lightning bugs I'd collected earlier in the
evening?
I went to dump 'em out and step on 'em so's they'd be good
and dead by morning.
But wouldn't you just know when I turned the jar upside down
they mostly all flew off before I could step on 'em. Oh well, plenty more where they came
from. And of course it was a grand sight
watching them flit around, blinking off and on, the light splotches from the
street lamp rocking up and down, up and down, up and. . . .
“CHARLIE BROWN, I’M GOING TO WEAR YOU OUT!” my mom yelled,
clean in the middle of the night.
I never could figure why moms were forever sneaking open
your door and waking a body up like that.
Mothers being what they are, she didn't like me letting loose all my
fireflies any better than me saving the dead crab in my shirt drawer.
Oh well, Mom had a lot to learn about raising a boy, and I
aimed to help her every chance I got.
How Sleeve an’ Me Met
September 1940
How you meet a guy has a lot to do with what happens after,
and this was to be no exception to that.
In the Brown family there were just the three of us: Mom, Pop, and
me. When Pop went to work that just left
Mom and me, but she'd always get real busy doing housework and talking to the
neighbor ladies, so I was on my own a right good bit.
One afternoon I decided to ride my trike all the way to the
top of Pinewood, which I hadn't done before.
It took a lot of peddling, and when I finally got to the top, where
Lorain Avenue comes down, I was pretty tired, having only stopped once on the
way up to rest. In two shakes of a cat’s
tail I heard this rattly kind of noise and looked up to see this other kid on a
tricycle tearing down Lorain like all get out.
It didn't look much to me like he knew how to drive it.
"Look out!" is all I got to yell before he bashed
right into me. The front wheels mashed
together and we both got pitched onto the street and the other guy tore the
knee in his dungarees and got a little blood out of it. The trikes went over too, a'course, and one
of the front wheels was spinning but the other one was bent and three of the
spokes had come out. Luckily it was his
trike they’d come out of.
"Wow! Did'ja see
that?" I asked, although how a kid could miss seeing his own wreck I don't
know, but if you're gonna start talking with a strange kid you got to start
with something.
"Yeah. I done
worse before though," the kid replied.
"My brother can fix it. He's
a lot older'n me. You got any
brothers?" he asked as we picked ourselves out of the wreckage and began
brushing the pebbles off.
"Nope."
"Too bad. I got
an older sister, too. You got any
sisters?"
"No, but my mom's home an’ if you wanna' come home with
me I betcha' we can get a cookie and some milk out of it. It'ud be good for us after the crash an
all."
"Where you live?"
"The house down on the end on that side," I
replied, pointing.
"What about the trikes?" he asked, looking at his
bent front tire with the dangling spokes.
"Let's haul yours to your house an’ then we can both
ride mine back down."
"Okay. What's
your name?” the new kid asked.
"Charlie Brown.
What's yours?"
"David Hattersley." David had blond hair; mine was brown. But we were both the same height so that made
everything even. And it turned out I
could run the fastest.
We lugged his busted up trike a block up Lorain and left it
in the yard behind a tree where his folks probably wouldn't see it and think
their son had got run over by a truck and was lying around bleeding and like
that. Parents were known to take on over
just that kind of thing a lot. Then we
ran down to where we'd left my trike, without David's skinned knee bothering
him enough to slow us down any. He stood
on the back holding on to me, and I got us going as fast as I could, sort of
hoping we could have another wreck so his brother could work on mine too, but
we didn't.
And that's how David Hattersley—soon to become
"Sleeve"—an’ me got started being best friends.
The Swamp Monster Club
September 1940
You don't just find a monster any ol’ place. You got to look for 'em in special places,
like haunted houses, the tombs of Egypt, sunken ships, and swamps. I’ve already told you that right next to our
house was a swamp in the middle of which was a slime-filled pit. This was long before people went around
putting houses over top of all the best swamps.
So if you wanted to bump right into a monster you couldn’t hardly asked
for a better place to start than the swamp that came almost right up to your
house. On the other side were the woods
and a creek over which the neighborhood fathers had built the ol’ green bridge.
It did all the things you'd expect out of a swamp. It oozed and bubbled, and it had snakes,
bullfrogs, giant turtles, and bats that came out at night. And it was bottomless, a'course. My mom said that all the mosquitoes from Perdition
lived in it, not to mention a million jillion lightning bugs and about any
other bug that crawled or flew for that matter.
On a good day you could find bones in it. One day you'd see 'em, next day they were
gone.
Some folks, grownups mostly, said it stank. It didn't, really. It smelled exactly like a slime-filled pit in
the middle of a swamp ought to smell like.
Dank, slimy, rotting wood smells.
Actually, it smelled right good for a swamp. And it wasn't just filled with mud. Like I been saying right along, it was filled
with slime, which is mud that's gone to seed.
When you take some good ol’ mud, keep it wet, let it lay around about a
couple hundred years, throw in some dead bodies every so often along with some
rotting plants and trees to give it the right color and help the smell, you end
up with slime.
All of the mothers hated the swamp just because of the
slime. When you came home with some good
ol’ slime on you, they took off to wailing and fussing about it to beat the
band.
"Charlie, how many times do I have to tell you to stay
out of that god-awful place?" She
didn't know to call it a swamp like us kids did.
"What place?" I would always say back.
"You know exactly what place I'm talking about, young
man. Look at your dungarees. How am I ever going to get then clean? The last time I washed them I could hardly
run them through the wringer, and you should have seen what came out! And those sneakers! If you ever once come home with a live turtle
in your pocket again I'm going to wear you out.
Honestly. You're going to be the
death of me. Let me tell you, young man,
there are trees growing yet that should have been worn out on you, and it's not
too late!"
Boy she could really talk up a blue streak when she put her
mind to it. I kind of think it helped
get her mind off of all the war stuff.
Being as she only had one kid, I had to work extra hard to make up for
it. And generally I did.
Before we moved in, the big kids had shinnied up this great
big ol’ tulip poplar tree that had a gargantuan branch that hung way out over
the swamp pit. Then they hung this used
tire to it from a long piece of hemp rope.
"You little kids stand back and watch how a
professional pit-jumper does," said Albert Jamison, from up on
Lorain. Then he swung way across the pit
and jumped.
Fred's jump was even longer than Albert's. "There.
See who can beat that."
"Nothing to it," Johnny Bladen jeered.
It went on like that as the big kids demonstrated the art of
pit jumping—something we were still too little to do.
"One day when I grow up I'm gonna set the world record
for swamp jumping," David announced.
"Yeah. Me
too," I agreed.
The big kids were jumping better than usual that day, we
noticed. Not one fell in. You had to time your jump just right else
you'd plunge right down into the gaseous bubbling ooze. Well, it probably bubbled mostly at
night. If a kid panicked and froze on
the tire as it swung out over the far bank, he was doomed to swing back and
forth until he found himself hanging about four feet overtop of the pit.
The big kids finally got tired of pit jumping and left. It was a warm, fall Friday afternoon, with
leaves raining down, and the scratch-scratch of rakes blending in with the
droning of a red Stinson overhead. We
all liked Stinsons better than Piper Cubs, which were usually yellow. Up the street somebody was pushing a lawn
mower, which clattered away. Layers of
blue smoke hung over the neighborhood from all the leaf fires.
"Sure smells neat when the leaf smoke drifts over the
swamp, dudn'it?" I asked.
"Reckon it does, but it's not so . . ." David
broke off and was just staring at the far bank of the swamp pit.
"What'sa matter?"
"Don't you see it?
The Swamp Monster!"
"Where?"
"There! Haven't
you got any eyes in your head?" He
was pointing at a half rotting stump that looked exactly like the decomposed
face of a monster rising up out of the ground with one bony hand stretched
toward the moon. It was a known fact
that monsters didn't point toward the sun.
"Wow. How'd we miss
seein' it before now?" I asked jubilantly.
It goes almost without saying that the discovery of a genuine monster in
one's very own swamp is accompanied by a moment of jubilation.
"'Cause it just rose up out of the ground. I saw it with my very own eyes." And with that David grabbed my arm and pulled
me around to the backyard. "We got
to figure out what to do about that there monster," he informed me.
"Right.
What?"
"In order to be in our club every kid'll have to visit
the monster by himself after dark for a whole hour!"
"What club?"
"The one we're gonna' start today. It'll be called The Swamp Monster Club."
"Yeah. Great
idea. Who'll we get in it?" David had lived in Northwood Park a lot
longer than I had, and he had met more kids.
"Gimme a minute to think. Jimmy Hamlin, Cugot, Doobie Barrington the
Third, and maybe Sydney Greenhouse."
Doobie’s first name was really Duane. We often would say his whole name followed by
making a noise like somebody cutting a fart 'cause we thought his name was too
snooty. Sydney and Doobie were almost
too young to join the club, but we decided to make an exception for them.
"Doobie an Sydney would wet their pants I'll bet,"
I said, laughing. David joined me doing
it. "What about Freddy Wymer?"
"He lives too far away.
'Sides, we got to keep this club a secret, you know. Our mothers don't much like us hanging around
the swamp anyway, never mind having a secret club about it."
By ten o' clock the next morning we'd rounded everybody up
in David's garage. "Charlie an’ me
are starting The Swamp Monster Club an’ you are gonna get initiated,"
David began.
"What's imishiated mean?" Sydney asked.
"Can you just possibly be still for a split second, an’
let me tell you?" David snarled, with no small amount of irritation over
the interruption.
"Well, I just wanted to know is all."
"If you don't pipe down I'm gonna give you an Indian
rub," Cugot said, taking a few steps in Sydney's direction. Sydney's eyes got big and bulged out, and he
piped right down.
"Yesterday afternoon we were at the swamp, just hanging
around after the big kids had finished pit jumping, and I saw the monster rise
up right out of the ground on the far bank next to the woods. Right before my very own eyes! Charlie saw it, too."
"Wha'dit look like?" Jimmy asked.
"The face was half rotted an’ you could tell it had
vengeance on its mind. You could tell
just by looking that it had been murdered an’ thrown in the swamp years an’
years ago, an’ now it was coming back to make somebody pay," David said.
You coulda heard a pin drop.
All eyes were peeled on David.
"Fact is, he's probably waiting for some kid to fall off of the
tire smack dab into the slime. Then
it'll pull him under an’ suck all the life blood right out of him."
"Yeah, an’ then there'll be two swamp monsters," I
added. David nodded in agreement.
"Well, what do we have to do to get in the club? Cugot
asked.
"I'm gettin' to that," David said. Each one of you has to go at night, when it's
pitch dark, an’ put a stone in its mouth.
Charlie an’ me will paint each stone a different color so's we can tell
if you really done it. Plus Charlie an’
me will be watching from the side of his house.”
"How we gonna see to do it in the dark?" Doobie
asked.
"You gotta grope your way an’ do it," David
responded. By now it was clear David was
in charge of The Swamp Monster Club.
"Well, I'm gonna carry a trusty ol’ flashlight,"
Cugot stated. There was a chorus of
"me too's," so we agreed it would be okay to carry one.
"When do we get imishiated?" Sydney asked.
David scowled at him.
"It's initiated, bird brain, an’ we're gonna do it
tonight!" A shudder ran through the
group. "Be at the side of the
Browns' house at seven o' clock sharp.
And sneak! We don't want anybody
knowing about this—especially any parents.
Now let's go out an’ play a game of guns, an’ act natural so we won’t
give away to anybody that something's up."
Just then Fred, David’s older brother, walked into the
garage, picked up a wrench, and walked out without saying a word.
“Cripes amighty,” I said, “Do you think he heard us?”
“Naw,” David said.
“Besides, what would he care?”
“Yeah, but he was smiling,” Cugot said.
“Probably ‘cause he’d found the wrench he was looking for,”
David said.
“Maybe . . .” Cugot said, looking at the rest of us.
“Just forget it,” David said. “Let’s get going on that game of guns. If we hang around here any longer we’ll just
give the whole thing away.”
And so off we went to the woods for an ordinary ol’ game of
guns. No one in Northwood Park suspected
a thing. Or so we thought.
"Turn that flashlight off, lame brain," David
hissed at Cugot. "We could see you
coming all the way from Ganaway's backyard!
"Sorry."
It was about five minutes past seven, and going on pitch
dark. David, me, Cugot, and Jimmy were
standing next to the side of my house, our backs pressed to it, speaking in
whispers.
"Ya think the dodo brains are gonna come?" I
whispered to David.
"They'll be here."
"Couldn't find my flashlight is why I'm late,"
Doobie announced upon joining us a couple minutes later. Everybody "shhhd" him, and David
shoved him roughly against the brick wall.
"Just stand there an’ keep quiet about it," he
hissed. David could out-hiss anybody I
ever heard do it. The next moment we all
heard a noise. It came from the
bridge. Footsteps.
"Hey. Anybody
there?" It was Sydney.
"That absolute Nincompoop is on the bridge! I bet he still can't wipe himself,"
David hissed, as he dashed over to the bridge and roughly hauled the hapless
Sydney to where he should have gone in the first place. After everybody settled down, David picked up
the bag with the small painted stones in it.
"Okay, who's gonna' go first?"
"Not me," Cugot stated immediately, followed by
"not me's" from Doobie and Sydney.
"I'll go first.
I'm not afraid of the Swamp Monster," Jimmy said.
It was a brave thing to say, and I admired him for it. Since David and me had started the club, we
didn't have to be initiated, of course.
David handed Jimmy the red rock.
"Now everybody turn off your flashlights 'cept
Jim. And remember, you have to put that
rock in its mouth and touch it on the face three times. We'll be watchin' with our trusty
flashlights, which we'll turn back on soon as you get there. Any cheating an’ you're kicked out of the
club," David warned.
My mouth went dry, and I was squeezing my flashlight for
dear life as Jim disappeared into the gloom of the swamp, just like a
wherewolf, headed for the monster. He
had just got to it and kneeled down, reaching out with his stone just inches
from its mouth. We clicked on our
flashlights. And that's when it
happened.
We heard a voice say, “Now.”
With a sucking sound a skeleton rose up over the pit, caught in the
beams of five flashlights, oozing green slime from its horrible empty eye sockets. Terrible moans erupted from its throat.
"Jumpin’jimminy!" Cugot yelled and dropped his
flashlight.
“Gawdamighty,” Jim hollered at the same time. He leaped backward from the monster so
violently that he rolled down into the pit, flinging his flashlight into the
middle of it where it slowly sank out of sight just like the Titanic going
down, the beam of light shining straight up on the dancing skeleton till it
sank under the green slime.
Sydney leaped sideways, tripping over Cugot's dropped flashlight,
and crashed into the corner of our house, head first, causing a nasty gash on
his forehead and another one on his knee, both of which started to bleed black
blood in the night.
Doobie, trying to dodge Cugot and run into our backyard, and
probably all the way to China, made too wide a circle, and his right foot sank
into the slime up to his knee.
Screaming, he yanked out his leg, but no one saw his right shoe ever
again. It hardly slowed him down
though. In the process he'd knocked all
the wind out of Cugot, who lay on the ground wheezing, as his flashlight rolled
down to the edge of the pit, following Jimmy’s into total obliviousness.
David and me stood rooted with fear, our flashlights
illuminating the horrible moaning skeleton that was hanging by the neck, green
slime dripping like ancient blood. From
across the swamp a pitiful mound of slime we'd once known as Jim emerged on
hands and knees, whimpering about how he couldn't see. He should have talked to Cugot, whose glasses
lay smashed on the ground where Duane Barrington the Third had stepped on them
just before he lost his right shoe.
Cugot was blind as a bat without his glasses.
If I live to be a hundred I'll never forget Sydney bellowing
as he hobbled up Pinewood Avenue. Porch
lights started going on all up and down the street. The slimy skeleton sort of danced as it hung
just above the old tire. And from behind
the tree the moaning disintegrated into howls of laughter.
"Charlie, what on earth is going on out there?" my
pop demanded to know from the front porch.
"I'm trying to write a speech.
How can I concentrate with all that hullabaloo?"
The laughter ceased abruptly. David bolted for the backyard, following the
slimy trail of Duane Barrington the Third and "Whimpering Jim." Cugot groped around the bank, found the
remains of his twisted frames, and wheezed off after them, muttering as he
went.
"Did you hear me, son?
I asked you a question."
"Uh, nothing, Pop.
Nothing special."
"Well, it's past time for you to be inside. Come in and read a book. Quietly."
I cast one last glance at the skeleton and shuddered, even
as I began to figure out what had actually happened.
I checked myself out in the mirror when I got in. It was reassuring to see my hair hadn’t gone
snow white like the guy who saw Dracula climbing out of his coffin.
The next day I was the only one that showed up at David's
garage.
"I guess that's the end of The Swamp Monster
Club," I said after awhile.
"Let's not even talk about it," David
replied. And it was a real long time
before we ever did.
Clancy and the Magic Hobo Dust
October 1940
David an’ me wandered down to my backyard. You’d have thought that after the thing about
the swamp monster initiation this would turn out to be an ordinary old day, but
oh no. The two of us were just about
never gonna have any of those. It was
getting on to lunch and we were playing pirates back and forth between
Ganaway's and my backyards. David was as
good at playing as any kid I'd ever met.
Besides, we couldn't go on our trikes till his brother fixed his. There were lots of pine trees for sneaking
around plus the ones on the ground for walking the plank, so it was right good
pirate country.
"Howdy, boys."
We both about jumped about out of our shirts 'cause we
hadn't heard anybody come up. David and
me looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Neither of us had ever seen him before, and
he looked right peculiar.
"My name's Clancy, what's your names?"
"Charlie. And
this here is my friend, David."
"Very nice to make your acquaintance,
gentlemen."
We looked at each other again. He had a mighty funny way of talking. And the stuff he was wearing looked all worn
out and right dirty in the bargain. Take
his hat for instance. It was real old
and looked like it had been in a dogfight.
His shoes, the elbows in his coat, and even his britches had holes in
them, and they looked like they hadn't been cleaned in a month of Sundays. More than that, he was wearing a coat and a
vest, which was yellow and frayed to beat all.
David and me were wearing just
regular old shirts, it being the end of September. On top of that, he had a kind of a pole with
a bag tied around it that he had slung over one shoulder. We kept our eyes peeled sharply on him.
"I don't suppose you gentlemen have had lunch
yet?" he asked.
It was the sort of question you'd never expect to come from
a complete stranger. And just then the
noon whistle sounded at the fire hall in Silver Spring, which you could hear
plain as day all the way out to Northwood Park.
"Uh, no, Mr. er, you didn't say your last name
yet," I mumbled.
"Sir Richard of the Rails, my boys, but everybody calls
me Clancy."
"Why?" David asked.
"Well now, if I tell you my story do you suppose we
might share lunch together? You could
ask your mothers to fix an extra helping, and we could all sit right here on
the deck of your pirate ship while dining, and I could tell you how I came to
be called Clancy. And tell your mothers
I can split some firewood for them.
They'll understand."
Never let it be said that David and me were ones to waste an
opportunity to turn an ordinary day into one that wasn't, so we set off to my
house to find my mom, while Clancy sat down on one end of our ship.
"Mom, Mom, David an’ me want to ask you about
lunch. Could you fix us an extra
one? We met this man who's wearin' all
wore-out clothes and carrying a bundle on a stick. His name is Clancy an’ he wondered if you
could fix an extra lunch for him while he tells us how he came to be called
Clancy. He said he'd split firewood if
you want him to, and that you'd understand.
Please, Mom?"
She looked at us for a moment without saying anything. Then she smiled.
"You tell Mr. Clancy I shall make him some lunch, and
if he will straighten up our wood pile there's a dollar in it for him, and I
might just fix some victuals for him to carry along."
"Yea!" we both yelled. "Let's go tell him, David. Maybe he'll start on the story while Mom is
fixing us our lunch." We ran back
to the ship and found Clancy lying against the fallen tree trunk with a cattail
between his teeth, eyes closed, one leg over the other. He'd taken his scruffed up ol’ shoes off and
you should have seen the holes in his socks.
There was more hole than sock left, for certain sure.
"Mr. Clancy, we got it all arranged," I said. "An’ Mom said if you fix up our wood
pile she'll give you a dollar, too, an’ some vitchuals to travel on." I hadn't the faintest idea what they were,
but Clancy must have.
"Well ain’t that nice of your fine mother to do
that," he said, pushing the dog-eared fedora back on his head. The cattail waggled up and down as he
talked. "I've been a bit down on my
luck of late. Haven't really had a meal
since yesterday morning. It will be a
real treat dining with you gentlemen on such a fine day as this." He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at
it, which was strange because the face of it was smashed in.
"It does seem to be story time, my boys, so we best get
started while we wait on your mighty nice mother to fix us an elegant meal for
our noon-time repast." He kept on
talking funny like that, but we liked him in spite of it. "Now how, you might ask, did a man named
Richard come to be called Clancy?"
We sat down Indian style on either side of him. "There is a thing or two you have to
know about names, my young friends. Who
gave you your names, by the way?"
"My parents," we both said.
"Of course. Now
have your parents ever made a mistake of any kind? Have they ever been wrong about
something?"
"Yeah," we both replied.
"Well, that's my point.
When it comes to names some parents haven't got the gift of giving the
right ones. And their offspring have to
go through life saddled with the wrong name.
That's exactly what happened to me.
I was no more the right person to be a Richard than Franklin Roosevelt
is. I mean can you imagine the very idea
of calling the President of the United States Richard Delano
Roosevelt?" We couldn't, and shook
our heads to let him know.
"When I first fell on hard times and began to ride the
side-door Pullman cars, I met up with some mighty interesting folks. One of them was Tin Pan Turpin."
"What's a side-door Pullman car?" David asked.
"Ah, my boys, your education needs attending to. The favorite mode of travel for a hobo is
riding the rails. And since we don't
have the money to buy a ticket, we avail ourselves of the freight cars, which
have side doors, unlike the Pullman cars for the paying passengers."
"Do you sneak on 'em?" I asked.
"Let's say we use the utmost of discretion when
traveling. There's a knack to it. Would you boys like to ride the rails? You'd have to miss some school—"
"Uh, I don't think my mom—"
"Just teasing a bit, don't you know. School is the most important thing for you
fellows now. Get as much education as
you can. That's the ticket."
Just then my mom gave her special whistle for me to come
home, which meant one thing. Lunch was
ready.
"Be right back, Mr. Clancy."
And before you could say “Jack Robinson,” we were back with
lunch. Mom had made a great big paper
plate of chicken salad sandwiches, and there were dill pickles, potato chips,
and cookies, with a coke each. She
absolutely couldn’t of done any better about it.
"Such elegant fare.
You must compliment the chef, my boys."
Before I even got one of the sandwiches off the plate Clancy
had almost finished his first. I'd never
seen a man eat like that. Mr. Clancy
didn't say another word till all the food was gone.
"Don't forget my mom said she was making you up a bag
of, uh, vitchuals to travel on," I said.
"Did she now?
Well how very kind. What splendid
company I have the good grace to have fallen in with." We didn't know exactly what he meant, but it
was obvious he was a deal pleased about things.
"Now. Where did we leave
off?"
"About the names an’ all," David said.
"Ah, quite right, my boy. You remember me mentioning Tin Pan
Turpin?" We nodded. "Well, Tin Pan took me under his wing
when I first took on the mantle of the hobo.
He taught me a great deal: how to ride the rails, polite pandering,
slight of hand, the art of story telling, where to find a handout, and many
another of the hobo's arts." He
paused, opened his hands, then reached over and plucked a potato chip right out
of David's left ear. It was amazing.
"How'd ya' do that?" I asked, gaping.
"Tricks of the trade, my boys. Now the first thing Tin Pan said was that
Richard would have to go. He told me I'd
need just the right name for my new, uh, profession. Said he would think on it and give me a new
name as a gift. And he did. He said the trick was to start with a formal
name and sprinkle some magic hobo dust on it and out would come the perfect
traveling name."
"What's magic hobo dust?" David asked.
"Patience, my boy, patience. You can't rush a man of the rails when he's
telling a tale. Tin Pan closed his eyes
and sat for a time, rocking back and forth.
Suddenly he grabbed his walking stick and wrote the name Clarence in the
dirt. Then he sprinkled some dust out
of an old handkerchief over it, and erased it with his foot. He closed his eyes, rocked back and forth
some more, and then opened his eyes again.
He said one word: ‘Clancy.’”
"Wow, that's neat.
I wish we had some magic hobo dust," I said.
"You are in luck, my fine friends. Just before Tin Pan left for California, he
shared some of his with me and taught me exactly how he used it to pick just
the right traveling name for any person I chanced to meet who needed one."
"Mr. Clancy, could you pick hobo dust names for David
an’ me?" I asked eagerly.
"I most assuredly could. And being such fine fellows I would be happy
to." With that he reached back into
a pocket and took out the dirty handkerchief again, which we guessed contained
magic hobo dust. "Now who wants to
go first?"
We both hesitated.
"I will," David finally said.
"Good. Let's
walk over to that patch of ground," he pointed to the path between our
backyard and the Ganaway's, "and we'll get started." David an’V
BrownPage
212/6/15 me skipped over; Clancy
walked, smiling the whole way. He
smoothed out a patch that was worn flat by so many people walking over it. "Let's sit in a circle, Indian style,
and close our eyes. I will sprinkle some
of this on the ground, calm my mind, and the Hobo Guide will inform me of the
first name."
We shut our eyes.
Birds were twittering, and somewhere up Pinewood a dog was barking in a
half-baked way. A lawnmower clattered,
probably up on Timberwood, the street David lived on. The sun's warm rays slanted through the trees
and a few puffy clouds seemed to perch here and there, making it just a perfect
day to get our new hobo dust names.
"The Great Gildersleeve has been given to me,"
Clancy said after about a minute. He
wrote that in the sand. "Now close
your eyes again and the Master Hobo Guide will tell me what to make of
that," he said, sprinkling some magic dust from the dirty handkerchief and
then erasing the name.
David was off to an interesting start 'cause we both
listened to The Great Gildersleeve on the radio every week.
"Ah, thank you, oh Master Hobo Guide," Clancy
intoned, as he wrote a name in the dust.
"Now open your eyes."
We looked down and there it was, David's new name: "Sleeve."
"That's the best name I ever heard," I said,
looking at my friend. "Sleeve! You're Sleeve now." Sleeve just nodded seriously. It just suited him perfect. "Me next," I said, looking
excitedly at Clancy.
Erasing Sleeve from the dust he told us to close our eyes
again as he sprinkled more hobo dust from his handkerchief. We sat silent for a long time, the birds
still twittered, some bees droned nearby, and that no-account dog went on
barking now and again. The summer sun
beat down on us, but my heart was thumping to beat all.
"I am hearing Edgar Bergen and Charlie
McCarthy." I held my breath. Peeping open my eyes I saw he had written
something in the dust. A'course Sleeve
an’ me always listened to Edgar Bergan and Charlie McCarthy every week, too.
"Speak to me again, oh Master Hobo Guide," he
said, his voice real deep. More moments
passed. "Now open your eyes."
Mac. My heart
sank. It didn't feel right, and I knew
it the first second. It wasn't near as
good as Sleeve. David didn't say
anything, just looked at me. I jumped up
quick so's they couldn't see I'd got some hobo dust in my eyes, and they'd gone
to watering. "I'll just go see if
Mom has any more cookies for us," I called over my shoulder as I ran
through our backyard.
But I went into the basement instead and sat down, my back
against the cool, whitewashed cinderblock.
Tears squeezed through my eyelids even though they were tight shut. Even Sleeve’s dog had a better name than I
did! Later I could hear Mom talking to
Clancy about the woodpile and the meal she'd fixed for him to take. I just couldn't let him see how bad I felt at
getting a hobo dust name that wasn't right for me.
I never saw Clancy again.
Mom came down to the basement to ask what was wrong, but I didn't tell
her. She never would of understood. I was stuck with Charlie, which I'd never
particularly liked. David, which was a
perfectly good name to begin with, got an even better name. It wasn't fair, I thought bitterly. Why hadn't I asked Clancy for some magic
hobo dust so I could try it on my own?
Hot tears of despair dripped onto my shirt as I thought
about spending the rest of my life as Charlie while David got to be Sleeve.
"Hey, Sleeve," I called to him next morning. "Wanna' play a game of guns?" We never spoke about Clancy again, ever. But from then on David was Sleeve.
I always wondered if he
knew how lucky he'd been to go first.
Reflections on the Beginnings
My mother taught me
to exaggerate. It all started when I was
in the womb, and she told my pop that she was carrying triplets at the very
least. She could see an ant crawling
across the living room carpet, and by noon the floor was sagging because the
beams had been hollowed out by a colony of termites the size of small birds.
She could really tell a tale, and folks usually coaxed her
into it. She also served the best ice
tea in Christendom. On a hot summer day,
the mothers would gather around to hear whatever tale my mom was telling—almost
a one act play—all the while drinking her ice tea, made with orange juice,
fresh-picked mint, lemon, sugar, and I don’t know what all else. And I sat at her feet on no few occasions
while she would entertain the neighbor ladies.
When I was born she inoculated me with a Victrola needle, at
least that’s what she always said, and I haven’t shut up since. It wasn’t really true; nobody could get a word
in edge-wise around Betty Brown. Okay,
so I exaggerate a little. Later in life,
about the sixth grade I think, I became a fiction writer. Okay, so a little exaggeration seeps out when
I go to “memoirizing.” I’ll point out
those places as best I can. It has been
six decades since Sleeve an’ me shared all these great adventures. So I’ve had to add a little mortar to the
bricks, you see.
Take the Swamp Monster Club for instance. I remember vividly the moment Sleeve pointed
the monster out to me. And we did form a
club, which was very short lived. I am a
bit vague on how the big boys spooked us during our initiation night, but they
spooked us really good, and that’s what matters.
God bless you, Clancy, for giving me my first opportunity to
cope with despair. And my first lesson
in being generous to those in need.
David, I have envied you your nickname all my life. The world just wasn’t ready for another
“Mac,” but it sure welcomed its first “Sleeve.”
We did meet by crashing our trikes together—that happy accident lives
vividly on the back roads of my memory.
Like Master Charlie said to his mom that evening at dinner,
“Even though we busted our trikes and got a skinned knee out of it, it couldn’t
of been a better day!”