1 comments/ 21699 views/ 1 favorites When The Magic Almost Died By: When The Magic Almost Died Hair still drying off, with fresh underwear and pajamas on, we were soon tucked into freshly starched crisp cool sheets, given our good night kisses, and left alone with the door to the hallway partly open, letting a wedge of light into the room from down the hall. "Dunky?" "Yes Beth?" "Mr. Beach came over today when you were across the street at Johnny's." Mr. Robert Beach was a friend of my mom and dad's, and the father of Becky and my best friend Bobby. A veteran of the Korean Conflict he had married my mom's best friend a gorgeous bright red headed woman named Jerry, short for Geraldine. Not to say that mom was anything but beautiful, but she was just my mother after all. "What did he come over for?" I asked, the hairs at the back of my neck suddenly getting stiff. "I don't know, picked up some things he'd left here in our attic," Bethy explained, "he told me to tell you that Bobby said hi as he took some stuff down to the basement for mom. Good night Dunky, and Merry Christmas." I looked at Beth as she rolled over on her side as if she were the very Devil's own messenger. Tears swelled up in my eyes as I felt the magic of Christmas die all around me, at last realizing what had taken place. My Parents had hid our gifts at Bobby's house, and his parents had hid their gifts in our attic. Bobby was getting my Colt 45's. The whole world seemed to melt around me through the tears of my frustration. This craftiness on my parents part had never entered my mind, and though a logical plan at that, I suddenly felt betrayed by them, and everyone around me. Then, as if to confirm the truth of that moment, I heard a squeaking noise over by my sister's bed. Slightly curious I cleared away the tears to see what demon had come to taunt me now. At first I didn't see anything. Then, as another squeak came from the foot of Beth's bed I saw something move, or rather creep, along the edge of her bed next to the wall. It was a rat. Perhaps not the biggest rat in the world, but as ominously ugly, and despised as any rat is anywhere. A filthy vermin, I knew that they carried diseases too horrible for nightmares. To this day, I don't know why, but that rat took on the whole cosmic injustice of the coming dismal Christmas about to be played out for me, and I jumped out of my bed right on to Beth's and caught him as he suddenly froze in place, and threw him against the far wall. As luck would have it, Bethy suddenly woke up as I landed on her and screamed loud enough to wake up God himself, throwing my aim off a bit. "MOMMY! The rat never hit the wall, instead it was impaled on the corner edge of our dresser, dying instantly, his weight causing him to fall to the floor, looking as if he were a bloody toy broken in two. By the time my mom and dad arrived, which could only have been seconds later, switching on the overhead light as they entered, Bethy was huddled in my arms shivering, great big tears smearing her face and my pajamas. "What in God's name?" My father nearly shouted, then suddenly stopped as he saw the rat. My mother preferring to rush to her children's aid first, brushed right past him, and joined us on Beth's bed. Which I'm sure is what helped calm Bethy down. "Damn!" Dad swore, something he rarely did, then he looked at me, "Did you do this son?" "Do what?" Mom asked as I nodded in the affirmative. "Your son just killed a rat, and bare handed at that." "Did he bite or scratch you?" Mom nearly whispered doing a quick inspection of my flesh, then Beth's. "No Mommy, Dunky was too fast for the rat! I was scared stiff, I couldn't move, or even scream for help when I saw that rat, but Dunky jumped over here and saved me! Grabbed that dirty old rat, and threw it away from me! Oh God Dunky, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, I'll never poke you again!" It then hit me, as my mother and father praised me as some kind of hero, patting me on the back, throwing me up into the air and such, that one of the things on my Christmas list had been that Bethy would stop poking at me forever. In fact, that had been at the top of my list to Santa, even before the Colt 45's. That's when I realized with a certainty, that Santa was real, just as I had thought all along. I also knew that I wouldn't get my six shooters this Christmas. But, that no longer mattered as much to me either, well at least not so all consumingly as it had. Some how this ordeal had put some of the magic back into Christmas. After all, there were many other great things on that list that I had sent him. ************ Christmas morning at our home roughly came sometime after midnight as mom and dad rushed into our room and woke us up with the cry; "Hurry up sleepy heads! Get out of bed! Santa's been here!" I don't know about Bethy, but I would be instantly wide awake, and after grabbing my robe, was charging down the stair way right behind our parents, with Bethy not too far behind. As I hurled down skipping the last three steps, I heard a sound that I never, in my wildest dreams ever, expected to hear in our house. Something so incredibly costly in any toy store that I had ever been in, that even I knew that I dared never ask for it, not even from Santa, at least not until I was nine or ten years old. Like most kids I loved all of those model displays, the ones where the cars, boats, and planes are painted and glued together looking like miniatures of the real things, and of course as suggested by my birthday gift, I loved all the accessories that came along with the better built toys. However, there is nothing in the world that comes close to comparing owning your own pony, getting a puppy of your very own, flying a real plane, as seeing a real honest to goodness Lionel® electric train set howling around your Christmas tree. Its real Locomotive wheels whirling a steady methodical beat along the track, real smoke coming out of the smoke stack, and that long lonely 'WooHooooooooooo!' every second turn around the tree. I wanted to stand there and gaze on it for hours, while at the same time I also wanted to rush over for a much closer inspection, the kind I'd seen local engineers do to their own steam engines. So I just stood there, praying that I wasn't dreaming, and if I was dreaming, praying that I would never wake up. Because compared to a Lionel® electric train set, those six shooters didn't exist. ************ As I remember it, Christmas day of 1955 went pretty much like every Christmas had, with only a few exceptions. About two hours after being rushed down stairs to open our gifts, both Bethy and I fell asleep in the living room, and were carried off to bed to sleep almost till noon. Though now that I have my own children, I see the wisdom of the Christmas rush for what it really was, as mom and dad always slept in on Christmas day while we two got to play with our opened presents. Quietly of course. Christmas dinner was always held in Grandma Betty's basement after we visited all of our cousins, and friends during our ritual afternoon of exchanging gifts. My tale of bravery, told at every stop, even impressed Wayne, and Bobby. Almost as much as hearing about my new train set. As predicted, both received the Mattel double holstered Colt 45's, but each in turn let me play with one of their guns in their bedroom as leverage for the honor of running my railroad when they visited our house later. So I at least had the chance to hold and play with my prior obsession, if only for a small time, on Christmas day. Another proof of Santa's existence that only I seemed to comprehend, something that kept me thinking until we arrived at grandma Betty's house around 4:30 in the afternoon. A widower, my grandmother lived with her father, a great round-bellied Austrian in his late 60's who had brought his family to America at the turn of the century. We called him grandpa Lentz. He spoke little English if at all, preferring to speak his native Germanic tongue most of the time, even around us kids, and I was sure that he didn't have the slightest idea of what my name was, as he always called me Yoehanness. I found out after he died that to this kindly old man I looked just like my father's brother Johnny Lentz, who had died in the war while fighting, of all people, the Nasi's of Germany. Grandpa Lentz may have been a little strange to most people, but living in his own neighborhood --where if one ate at a different house on the block each night, one would have sworn that they had visited all of the finest restaurants of east and west Europe afterwards-- this proud, yet humble, elderly gentleman fit in here like the Lone Ranger and Tonto fit in with the Wild West. Grandpa Lentz said more with his eyes than most congressmen said during a filibuster, and what he didn't relay with those gray eyes of his, he conveyed in other subtler body language long before he would have to break down and actually speak. Settling down to the long table prepared in the basement for our ritual clan feast, I found myself sitting by the head of the table next to Grandpa Lentz for the first time in my life. That place had always been reserved for my dad, but this year my dad was sitting by my grandma Betty's end of the table where her brother, my great uncle Adam, sat at the honored foot of the table with mom and Bethy. When at last all of the food was in place, and all of the women were seated, Grandpa Lentz put his hands together. His signal for grace. As head of our family Grandpa Lentz almost always did the honors, and it always sounded to me as if he were singing grace in his native tongue. However since none of us children understood one syllable of German, we had to wait breathlessly until he grabbed a plate of food before we knew for certain that the Amen's had been said. However, as each of us put our hands together, and prepared to bow our heads, Grandpa Lentz looked right at me with those gray eyes of his, gave a slight nod, and bowed his head in prayer waiting for me to say grace. Now to any child, being forced to say grace is at best an annoyance, but it's mostly considered extreme and unnecessary torture. After all, the food is hot and ready to eat, why not give thanks after you've eaten it, why wait for words with hunger digging graves in your belly? Why not just say, "Yeah God! Pass me the potatoes, please?" That would have been my usual thought when asked to say grace, but this wasn't the everyday kind of grace to be flippant about. No. This was a distinct privilege that had to be respected at all costs, no matter what embarrassment I might suffer later from the other kids seated there. Now here I was, all of six years old, with only a few years of Sunday school under my gun belt, and that mostly playing with cut out and paste, or coloring book scriptures, for my total religious experience in which to deal with this great honor. I knew that everyone was waiting patiently, and that they expected Grandpa Lent's beautiful song for Christmas grace, none having any idea yet that I was just made the chosen saint, albeit a temporary one. Sweat, like tiny demons peeked out to laugh at me, and my open mouth let all the moisture evaporate from my tongue as I struggled with every fiber of my being to find some way of singing grace in English. I have no idea where it came from, but suddenly I was singing the Lords prayer as I had heard it sung early every Sunday morning on channel 5 before we went to church. I don't know where that voice came from, because I wasn't the choirboy type, but the smile that slowly stretched across my Grandpa Lent's face as I sang, was like God himself had stopped by to listen, and was blessing our table personally. The pat on the head after I was finished, was to me, like receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor must feel to a warrior. What was even better, no one ribbed me about it afterwards. Until we were on the way home that is. "Hey Dunky," Bethy said, loud enough so that mom and dad could hear her, so I knew she was up to something, even if she wasn't going to poke me anymore, "Why didn't ya just say grace the way ya do at home? Why sing that prayer? I don't think that one's for grace." There was just that slight tone in her voice, that welding whine of Bethy's that always pushed me to the very edge of fury. Where I was sure nothing, short of busting her lips bloody, would cool me down. However, before I could do anything at all, even think, my father answered her questions with a true revelation to both of us. "Why Bethy, I'm ashamed of you. Haven't you heard Grandpa Lentz say grace every time we eat there?" "Sure I have daddy, but he sings a real grace," and she looked as petulant as ever. "So did Dunk, in fact he sang the same song Grandpa Lentz always sings in German, only he did it in English. I didn't know you knew how to sing it Dunk, but you sure made grandpa's day..." "...and it sounded wonderful too sweetheart," my mother added, "everybody said so." I don't know who was more astonished, Bethy or me, but I stuck out my tongue first when our parents weren't looking, as if I had known it all along, and refused to look at her the rest of the way home. It must have been sheer torture for her not to break her promise to poke me, and I wallowed in the moment the rest of the day. Part 2: Christmas of 1956 started a bit earlier than it had in 55, as my mother became pregnant sometime in April, and we once again moved to a new location on the west side of Lorain, Ohio that very summer shortly after school was let out. Normally moving wouldn't be considered any kind of present to me as it meant having to find new friends in a new neighborhood, and of course the added burden of a new school of strangers. So you can imagine my surprise, and Bethy's when we moved right next door to Bobby and Becky Beach at 1617 Nickels Ave., which was nearly a brand new house, and not something that the founding fathers had built. Even better yet, behind Bobby's house were two undeveloped lots side by side that would make a great baseball diamond, as well as a wonderful battle field due to all of the wild shrubbery, the trench between the lots, and the uneven ground. There was even a sturdy old mulberry tree close by the sidewalk on the Madison Ave. side of the lot to build a tree fort in. But best of all, there were a great many families with kids throughout the six block area to get to know and play with, and Bobby and Becky knew them all. All that is except for two or three, and that was because those families were what our parents called; 'well to do.' I suppose that it was inevitable, even for me, that I was to meet one of those in the, 'well to do' category the very first day we moved into the new house. Bobby and I had decided right off to have a mock combat out there in those two lots behind his house while our parents moved my family's possessions into our new home. As this was real mock combat, Bobby kept both of his six shooters figuring that would give him the edge. But I had devised a plan, thanks to my father's experience in the army, that was about to blow him away literally. "This is a machine gun cannon," I informed Bobby, holding up my Louisville Slugger®, a wooden baseball bat. "A what?" "A machine gun cannon," I replied triumphantly, "used during the Korean War mostly in jet fighters," I watched as worry etched a path on his face, "ask your dad, he'll tell you, they're like a cross between a bazooka and a machine gun." "But that's just a baseball bat," he argued. "Normally yes, but when I turn it around, holding onto the meat of the bat, notice how the end, usually held by a batter, looks like a cannon. Besides Bobby, you know the rules, wooden weapons have to be called, and once called that's what they are forever." I finally had him, and he knew it. There was no way that he could say that I missed when I shot this weapon at him. Something for which Bobby was famous for in any battle he fought in was the fact that he claimed no one could shoot straight, or how tough it is to hit a moving target, thus yelling out, "You missed me, you missed me!" even when you shot at him from three feet away. Just a note for all of those who don't know it, that's point blank for any weapon even a knife. Of course Bobby had a way out of that too with his famous, "It's only a flesh wound!" then he'd shoot you, and claim his kill. I said he was my best friend, not my best enemy. When more than one person was on a side, I always had Bobby on mine. The truth about Bobby in regards to being killed in action were two fold. First off, he hated to lose at anything and so he cheated if he could figure a way of not getting caught outright, and second, he died very badly, while I could die even better than the stuntmen on TV, something I had become famous for in our old neighborhood. To me the secret was very simple, when a person died they became a rag, and as a rag nothing could hurt you any more, so you just stopped control of what you were doing and let nature take it's mindless course with your body, and I never got hurt doing it that way. More than once I'd fooled people into thinking that something strange had happened, and that I was really dead, scaring them into praying to God, right out in the open, that it wasn't their fault. "Okay Dunk," Bobby agreed at last, "But just to even up the odds, we're gonna play Battle Tag, and your it!" I should have known the stinker would come up with an edge, and wondered why I bothered coming up with new things to counter him with, when he would just come up with a new scam every time. Battle Tag, is pretty much a twist on the Hide-and-go-Seek theme. Where if your it, you turn your back, close your eyes, and count to a fixed number, like this time I had to count to one hundred, but in Battle Tag you don't just go seek, you hunt down your enemy, who, like a sniper, can see your every move from where he's hiding. It was really a great game, because you could pass your enemy and not know it, getting shot in the back, if he was well hidden enough. And unlike his horrible deaths, Bobby was the master at Hide-n-Seek. I hit the field on the run, and just as I'd seen in many a good war movie, I tumbled into every depression I found along the way, using them like foxholes. I had no idea where my enemy/friend was, but I was duty bound to hunt him down like the killer dog he was. My plan was very basic, just criss-cross the entire field holding a graphic pattern that he couldn't slip through until I was right on top of him, then blow him away. The plan was a good one, the same used ironically by search and rescue from the air. There was only one problem with it that I hadn't taken into account. I had expected, and rightly so, that the battle was taking place in the confines of the two scruffy lots, and that everything outside of that area was off limits. The only problem with that kind of thinking was that it wasn't agreed upon at the very beginning by both of us. I had covered nearly every part of both lots in rapid time, and was coming up to the last corner where only six feet separated me from certain victory. It was the only place that he could possibly be on those two lots that I hadn't been to yet. Excitement, that wild innocent thrill of the predator about to pounce on its prey, was a stimulant every warrior knew about, and what pumped through all my veins at that moment. With gallant recklessness, I jumped up running, my machine gun cannon blasting at the ground in front of me. That's when Bobby stood up from behind the bushes in the yard next door to the lot and fired his cap pistol. At six feet away there was no way he could have missed me seeing as his guns, those wonderful Colt 45's were pointing straight at my chest. He'd done it to me again, but I would have my victory too, shaming him by showing off my perfect death skills right in front of him as I instantly became a rag. When The Magic Almost Died My momentum and gravity took over as I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew I was lying crumpled up, desperately keeping my breathing to a minimum. When I felt the wet seep into my clothing I knew that Bobby had planned this all along. My mother was going to kill me for getting me and my clothes muddy our first day in our new home. "You killed him," it was just a girls voice, so I decided right then that this would be my best death ever. After all, girls were the real enemy. "I sure did Kathy," Bobby gloated, I heard him coming to stand next to her above me. The girl actually started crying right then and there. And not that fake crap that my sister was always pulling either. This girl, who didn't even know me yet, was crying for me. I don't know what happened to me then, but I suddenly felt foolish, even ashamed of myself for being so good at faking death so well that I'd made this poor girl cry for no reason. The only thing to do was to show her that I wasn't dead, and that we had just been playing. So I moved, and opened my eyes to explain. I'll never forget that moment, not as long as I live. Heaven had come down to earth to visit and had left their finest representative to establish contact. More than just a girl, and better than any kind of angel I'd ever heard about, this vision, with tears in her eyes for me, stripped my heart right open. No words, no language that I was aware of would ever be good enough, and more importantly I knew immediately that I would never be worthy to speak hopefully with such words. She stood there, her hair in golden waves flowing down past her shoulders around a face that only God himself could have sculpted, beauty that shamed a morning sunrise as it fairly glowed with health under those tears coming from shocking blue eyes. I was entranced. "Kathy Pankratz, meet my best friend and, new next door neighbor, Dunkin." I'll give her this, she recovered from her shock instantly, and without screaming, but her next words, directed right at me were as cold as frozen meat that burned a certain brand on my soul. "Oh great, another loser in the neighborhood." As I still remember that moment, she turned her back and walked across the street, her simple white blouse tucked into new blue jeans, a picture of perfection I will never forget. The castle she entered was white and huge, and most appropriate for one of heaven's chosen. Add to that the playground to the left of the house with a Maypole, swings, teeter-totters, monkey bars and more, and I was quickly made aware of what real status was. "That looks like park equipment," I said pointing. "Yeah, nothing but the best for Miss Pankratz's." Bobby spate out as if he were swearing. "Rich?" "If they aren't, they're doing a great job of hiding it," at that he laughed, then patted me on the back, the clean dry part, and added, "and speaking of hiding, your still it." "I can't play now." "Why not? Your already filthy." "I have to go home," was all I could say, but the truth was, I needed desperately to talk to my dad about something only he could answer for me. Even if it meant a sure beating for getting all muddy, I just had to find out. ************ The water from the garden hose was cold, but since it was 80 degrees in the shade that day it felt pretty good. Best of all, dad wasn't mad at me for getting all muddied up on our first day in our new home, as he hosed me off. "So, you think your in love?" He asked the question as if a teacher to a student instead of a father to a son, his tone neutral, not judgmental at all, more probing than anything, as though trying to make me come up with an answer that he already knew. "I don't know dad, I mean," How to ask the impossible? I wasn't sure, but I had to take a stab at it, "how was it for you and mom, dad? You know, when you knew that she was the one?" "Dunk, it's different for everybody," he said putting down the hose and handing me a towel to dry off with, "but for it to work at all, both people have to feel the same about each other. How do you feel about this girl?" "That's just it, I can't explain it dad. I'm happy and sad both at the same time, I want to run and shout, but I also want to hide in a cave somewhere. In fact it's sort of like what I imagine death to be like, ya know, one second your heart is racing the next it just stops beating altogether." "Yep, you've got it bad all right," my father actually chuckled, "how do you think she feels about you?" "Right now she thinks I'm a loser, even said so, but she cried, really cried when she thought I was dead playing Battle Tag with Bobby. She lives over there," and I pointed to Kathy's house across the lot on the other side of Madison Ave. "Tough luck there son," he seemed to understand my plight, "still, I've known a princess or two that have kissed frogs. Your problem is, getting her to realize that in here," and he pointed at my heart, "there is a prince worth letting out. Not an easy task for a frog, heck, it isn't any picnic for a prince either, but if she's worth it, I'd say go for it. Just remember, be a gentleman, and be yourself. If she has any feelings for you then she'll give in soon enough." "But what if she doesn't?" "Then you'll have to learn to live with that as well," and a flicker of past pain swept across his face momentarily. Yes, dad knew all about love, or at least what was worth knowing, "now go back and play, and try to steer clear of mud holes Dunk." ************ Beginning my second year of grade school at Lakeview Elementary School was nothing if not embarrassing. Kathy was of course my age and in the same class. However she was in a click, having shown in her first year there to be a quick learner as well as a good student, she sat up front with what was later called the 'Four Eyes' section by the rest of the class. I being an unknown to the second grade teacher at this school I was seated towards the middle of the class, but it gave me a great view of Kathy from behind. As every child knows, teachers have an annoying habit of calling students by their last names, Mr. This, and Miss That. Unfortunately, I was so busy gazing upon my first love that when the teacher asked me a question, not hearing Dunkin or even Dunk, that when I did wake up to the fact that it was me being called on, I usually answered with, "huh?" or "Wha ...?" whichever came to mind first. So as to embarrass me or anyone else not paying strict attention, this teacher always asked someone in the front row to repeat the question, and of course having the floor that person would answer the question looking at the person who didn't answer correctly as if they were no better than dingle berry pie. Dingle berrys being what was left if you didn't wipe your butt properly, and even sometimes when you did, after using the toilet. What's left becomes little round beads growing in your privates that we called dingle berrys. I only mention this in passing so that you can appreciate the full impact of this insult coming from the front row. As you may have guessed, I wasn't doing too well in the second grade when my birthday came, and I turned seven years old. Destiny however was running on all cylinders though, as that was the day that all of the auto makers pulled the covers off of their 57 showroom models. The day that Mattel Toy® manufacturers also went way beyond perfection to the ultimate dimension in children's combat gear. September 19th, 1956 was a day blessed forever in the minds of all true car enthusiasts, and male children in America. A year to the day after standing in front of that wooden display case, I stood there once again. Only this time I didn't allow myself to be possessed. Perhaps that's because I had played with Wayne's and Bobby's six shooters many times in the past year, still I was fascinated by Mattel's new guns. Not only did the cylinder turn on this model of the Colt 45, but the bullets (plastic gray in a brass casing) were loaded into the cylinder like real ones, shot out of the barrel like real bullets, from a spring loaded brass cartridge that of all things had to have special green colored caps pasted to their base, and just like a real bullet they went bang when the hammer hit them. Another new innovation was the holster itself, it was a single holster, low slung on the side with leather strips to tie to your thigh, just like that new gunslinger Paladin wore, it had a much more natural arm, wrist, and hand action. Just reach down and draw, it was that simple, and that quick. I knew now why Santa had stalled on delivering the Colts last year. I also knew that I was going to keep this development a secret from everyone but Santa. I picked a baseball glove this time, a Rawlings®, and grandma Betty was so happy at my choice that she popped for a new football too, a real one. But the day wasn't over, Ford Motor Co. had at last seduced my father, and as Grandma Betty pulled into our driveway I stared in disbelief at the brilliant white Pegasus sitting where our old Ford Coup was usually parked. A two door white ragtop, with red interior, and winged tail lights, it resembled the famed Ford Thunderbird, even had it's 289 cubic inch engine under the hood. Standing right beside his Silver, my father was getting ready to ride off into the sunset with mom and Bethy, holding the door open to his side of the car for me to join them. "Hey Dunk, how bout we get some ice cream?" he offered, and for the first time in my life, I saw the kid hiding in my father peek out and wink at me. No matter what the future unveiled after this day, I was ready to play my share. ************ I kept my promise to myself to not tell Wayne and Bobby of my discovery even during the Big Bird Feast. I also, licked the flap on my envelope to Santa before giving it to my mother to mail, in effect making sure no one but Santa would see it, if you get my drift. By this time several things had happened to me that you need to be made aware of. My first report card from the new school was a disaster. I only had three S's satisfactories with the rest being U's unsatisfactories, and check marks every place a kid didn't want them to be when showing them to their parents. That look of disappointment in my father's face, was more punishment than my sister's giggles in the background. She'd managed all S's and one E Excellent. I had let my father down terribly, and was bitterly ashamed. "That girl, what's her name...Kathy, she's in your class, isn't she?" All I could do was nod yes. We both knew that it wasn't Kathy's fault, it was mine. "Does she get good grades?" "Well yeah, she sits in the front row." "What does sitting somewhere have to do with getting good grades? You go sit in the front row." "I can't, that's where all the 'Four Eyes' sit dad. You know, the smartest ones in the class. That's where the teacher puts them." "Dunk, let me ask you a question, man to man," he waited, and when I nodded, "where would you rather sit in that class, behind this girl, or next to her?" "Well next to her of course." "Then you had better change these grades before she becomes too friendly with the guy sitting next to her now, hadn't you?" Did I tell you that my dad knew everything that was important to know about love? I don't know of any motivation, including a blistering spanking, that could have motivated me more than that challenge. Unless it was the look of faith that stretched a smile across his face before being hidden, whisked away behind the Lorain Journal, our local newspaper. "I think grounding you for the next two weeks should be sufficient time for you to catch up, don't you?" The man was amazing sometimes, and to think that he was my father, mine. How did I ever get so lucky? Don't get me wrong, under the right circumstances my father can swing a belt with the best of them. The difference was, when dad spanked you, you knew without a doubt that you had it coming, and perhaps worse. I also know that spanking, though a last resort with us kids, hurt my dad's feeling more than it hurt my rear end. People say that men, strong men, don't cry. They cry. They just cry where and when no one else can see them do it. My dad was that kind of man, who like Grandpa Lentz, held back the pain until it was safe to let it out without effecting others. I could only hope that one day I would be such a man. He was also right about the two weeks. Mrs. Gardner went from astonished, to perplexed first, then from her bewildered state she moved onto the pleased as punch phase with me. Actually, second grade is a rehash of first grade for most of the first half of it, so catching up was easy. By Thanksgiving, I too sat in the first row, albeit in the only seat left there, and that was on the farthest side away from Kathy. However even that turned out good because now the teacher, Mrs. Gardner was between me and my love and thus much easier to keep up with. Unlike the others in the first row though, when asked to repeat the question, that's all I would do, unless she specifically told me to give the answer as well. As my dad had said, "Just be yourself Dunk," and being myself didn't mean that I had to humiliate someone else. I'd been there, I knew how they'd feel. Though I'm not certain if Mrs. Gardner was too happy with my way, I saw that she at least respected it as my choice. Enough so, that when the Christmas play came up, I was one of her first choices to be in it. Ironically, the play was to be; "The Night Before Christmas," a poem that my mother read to Bethy every Christmas while me and dad decorated the tree. Each of us children picked had to memorize one of the lines from the poem, and in their turn say it out loud in front of an audience consisting of mostly every parent of every kid that went to Lakeview Elementary School. What was even worse, my costume was to be one of those zip up pajamas with the booties on them. Thank God my mother came to the rescue, personally talking to my teacher over the phone that we couldn't afford to go out and buy something that I would never wear ever again in my life. Mom was fibbing, a white lie she called it, but it worked, Mrs. Gardener compromised. Standing before hundreds of people --in my matching red Roy Rogers pajamas, and Gene Autry slipper socks with the stage made up behind me to look like the interior of a large house that had a humongous picture window looking out upon new fallen snow-- I prayed to God that I wouldn't ruin the play. It was my honor to say the first line, and perspiring like a gravedigger, I moved out from the line of children waiting their turn behind me, and determined not to screw up, spoke as loudly as I could without shouting. "'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house..." After saying my one line I was to quickly get out of the way by sliding into a sleeping position on the stage floor just to the left of that massive painted window, and I did it as if sliding into home base as we had rehearsed. Then I pretended to fall asleep. Mrs. Gardener had fixed it so that the order of reading was boy, girl, boy, girl and so on. "not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse..." said the girl next in line. Kathy read the fourth line, perfectly I might add, then slid to the far side of the stage like she was supposed to. It was now my job to crawl across the stage, not necessarily next to Kathy, but then that was my goal. Mrs. Gardner had explained that it would create the feeling of realness to the play, since in truth, children never went straight to sleep. I was only too happy to follow her script. I just hoped she wasn't too mad when I improvised a little. My quest did gather the appropriate amount of laughter from the audience, as the poem went on without me. Kathy's blue eyes widened considerably as she saw that I wasn't going to stop until I was bedded down by her side. Less than a foot of space separated the two of us now, and we both knew that was no accident. The play was completely forgotten by both of us for that one glorious moment. I saw fear, and exhilaration staring back at me. I had never kissed any girl other than my mom and had no idea of what to do next. "Just remember, be a gentleman, and be yourself," my father's voice coached my mind. I slowly, so as not to startle her, reached out for her hand, brought it just as slowly back up to my lips and kissed it as I'd seen Errol Flynn do in 'Robin Hood.' "...Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night!" The applause was thunderous! Actually shaking the stage props next to our heads, and causing every one of us second graders to jump as one unit to our feet all at once in fear of being crushed, as if we had rehearsed it that way. Thankfully Mrs. Gardner came out on stage at that moment following the closing curtain. She quickly moved everybody up close to the curtain in a straight line, and had us bow for the whistling, foot stamping, hand clapping, rowdy parents. Of course she had seen the whole thing from back stage, but she wasn't mad at all. In fact after the curtain closed she rushed all of the children off stage except for me and Kathy, then stood behind us as the curtain swung open again, and we took a second bow. Then we stood straight up again with the curtain closing for the last time, and that's when it happened. Kathy turned to me taking my right hand, making me turn towards her to see what she was up to, and that's when she kissed me. Right in front of God, my parents, Bethy, all of our friends and neighbors, the entire audience, and every kid in school, her lips touched my lips. And the curtain closed just before she finished her kiss, turned away, and followed Mrs. Gardner back stage pulling me in tow by the hand she still held. To this day my mother still teases me about that night, but fondly, as it was special to her to. ************ Christmas rush 1956 never happened. Though mom did get to read to Bethy as dad and I decorated the tree including the Lionel, it was easy to see that she was very uncomfortable with her belly looking as if a watermelon had grown inside of it. In this new house we all lived on the first floor between a large basement and a small attic, so mom was able to help tuck us in after dad saw to our bathroom protocol. "Do you think mommy is all right?" Bethy asked timidly. Perhaps remembering the rat from last Christmas that almost bit her, she was looking around our bedroom sitting up in her bed. "Don't worry," I said, "we haven't seen a rat since we moved here Bethy. Besides that mom's about to have a baby, remember?" "I hope it's a boy," she nearly whispered laying back in bed while our parents moved around just beyond our door. "Why's that?" I asked, certain that I wasn't going to like the answer. "Then I can have my own room." "Listen kiddo, I got here first, so I would get my own room first," then rolling over to face her I gave her what for, "and I also asked Santa for a girl baby, just to make sure." The horror on her face as she realized what I had done was almost as good as her promise to never poke at me again the year before. I'm sure the smile on my face as I fell asleep brought her misery beyond compare. It was worth it though, after a week of listening to her whiny voice skipping through the house singing; "Dunky's gotta girl friend! Dunky's got a girl friend! I saw her kiss him! I saw her kiss him!" From morning till night, every day, even following me next door to Bobby and Becky's house, until one day, Becky just backhanded her, and told her to; "Shut up! Or so help me, I'll pull every hair out of your head!" Now I couldn't hit girls, especially my sister, that would mean the belt, but Becky was a girl, and she could hit another girl, and more importantly, she could get away with it too. Why she hit Bethy --and no she didn't leave a mark-- I didn't really know for sure. They'd become good friends since we moved in next to the Beaches. Still, I wasn't about to exchange such a wonderful gift as that, and it was the memory of seeing my sister flat on her rear end in the middle of Becky and Bobby's living room that I carried into the realm of elfin dreams that Christmas Eve. When The Magic Almost Died ************ "Dunky?" I wasn't sure if I was having a nightmare, or waking up to a bad dream, but there was no doubt that Bethy was shaking my shoulder. "Go away," I grumbled pushing her hand away from me, "you promised, remember?" "Dunky, it's morning." Was that fear in her voice? It couldn't be morning, I'd just gone to sleep, and besides mom and dad hadn't yet come to tell us that Santa had been here with the usual after midnight rush to the tree. "Can't be, go away." "But it's day light out." That got my immediate attention. I squeezed one eye open. Sure enough, it looked like morning was swimming into our bedroom through the window. How could that be? Something was very wrong here, and the fear in Bethy's voice became contagious. "Now don't worry Beth," I said using her proper name for the first time in my life, "mom and dad probably just fell asleep and never heard Santa come is all." Who was I fooling? That would never happen, I thought, as I climbed out of my bed putting on my slippers and robe. "You think they're still asleep? Shouldn't we wake them?" Fair questions, but I didn't have much more than questions to offer myself. Instead I suggested that we go check out what was waiting under the tree first. That brought her up short, and made her eyes open wide. Amazing, she'd forgotten it was Christmas morning, and that Santa had to have been here and gone a long time ago. She nearly beat me out the door this time as we rushed like always to the tree. There was something ominous about seeing the tree with the lights out, and the train parked quietly on its tracks as it wouldn't have been if this had taken place during the traditional after midnight rush. Sure all the presents were piled up under the tree wrapped in beautiful paper and fancy ribbons, waiting to be torn away, but this was morning. All of those presents should have been opened hours ago, and there they sat like dynamite without a fuse. "What do we do now Dunky?" "Let's go have breakfast," was about all I could croak out. "You think Mommy and daddy will be up by the time we finish eating?" "Maybe," I managed, then a great idea hit me, "but if they don't, we can fix them some breakfast in bed!" We got half way through our bowls of Kix when dad came into the house through the kitchen door, and grabbed both of us up in his arms shouting, "Merry Christmas!" and nearly squeezing the breath out of both of us in the process as we were danced around the tiled floor. "Merry Christmas munchkins!" Then the door to mom and dad's bedroom opened up and out stepped Grandma Betty in curlers and a floor length burgundy robe. "It's about time you got home, is everything all right, what about the baby?" Bethy and I looked at each other then, we only knew of one baby born on Christmas day before this day. "Both ladies are doing great," dad said, and I smiled at Bethy, "Doreen came screaming into the world at five AM weighing in at nine pounds three ounces, and 27 inches in length mom, and you two have a new sister to look after." How about that, dad even named her after my favorite Mouseketeer, as I had suggested. The pout on Bethy's face was priceless. "Say, did you guys check out what Santa brought yet?" We of course could only shake our heads no, we didn't have enough breath to speak, and suddenly we were carried away into the front room. With dad flipping the switch that lit up the tree and started the locomotive to chug along its tracks as we entered the room, Christmas had arrived. ************ High noon, January 1st, 1957, Kathy, along with Becky, and Beth, sat on the sidelines in the Beach's basement as Bobby and I stepped from the shadows at each end, and into the light closer to the middle. Bobby with his twin Colt 45's and me with my new gunslinger rig, stared each other down as we drew closer and closer, step matching step we came towards each other for a show down. Bobby snarled with cocky disdain under his Stetson, sure that no single six shooter could evenly win against his two handed draw. While I did math in my head to keep from laughing myself silly, thus giving away my advantage, my arm hung down straight by my side ready for action. A week of practice in my own basement had me ready, but I had to be close enough for this to work, range was everything. We drew within six feet of each other before stopping, Bobby was gonna make sure that I couldn't say that he missed, knowing full well that with only one six gun shooting at him he could faint being grazed. We waited breathless, watching each other intensely for the other to make the first move. Then I saw it, his face twitched. He was going to draw first, even if that made him the bad guy. As I said Bobby hated to lose. We both slapped leather, but the gunslinger rig gave me a lightening draw. However, Bobby didn't really have to aim, just shoot to claim his victory, while I had to try and dodge his shot while aiming from the hip. I fanned three shots so fast that even I was surprised, as Bobby at last pulled the two triggers on his Colt's. "Too late Bobby, your dead," I said cool as the snow outside. "No way Dunk, you know you only winged me, you ain't that good a shot. Your the one who's dead," and he actually laughed in my face, "no way you can get out of the way of two blazing Colt 45's. "That would normally be true Bobby, at least without evidence to the contrary." "What evidence? There aren't any cameras here to prove me wrong." "Well that's true enough," I drawled, making my point slowly now that I had his curiosity, I bent down to pick up the three rosy spent bullets, so as to savor the moment through eternity, "however, I'm not the one showing bullet wounds either, so I'm sure you missed me," and I heard all three girls giggling as I Showed Bobby the three plastic bullets and pointed to the three red splotches on his white T-shirt. All three across his chest from the lipstick that I had borrowed from my mother, and smeared all over the gray plastic bullets, "those look like chest wounds to me Bobby, and that's a sure kill." Looking down at his chest my best friend, and now my bested enemy, was stunned senseless. In his excitement he hadn't even felt the bullets hit him, though there was no reason why he should have, because they barely had enough momentum coming out of the barrel to hurt a fly, just barely making it out to six feet if there was no wind. "Bang... bang... bang, your dead," I said each word slowly for effect. He did the only thing that he could do, he clutched his chest and gave the most pitiful death scene ever performed, taking two whole minutes to crumple to the floor. As I said, 1957 was a great year for the American automakers, Mattel, and me. In fact I think it was their best year since it took two wonderful years in succession to make it happen.