THREE STORIES

1. WAYNE AND GARY

Once upon a time, when I was about seven (1952) & Wayne was six, we had a summer to remember. We lived next to each other in a duplex, across the street from the US Customs House & Port Director’s residence. Barefoot and brown, we wandered all over town wherever curiosity led us, as only small boys can be curious. So, the story is in five parts.

Innocent times and interesting memories (they might all be close to true) ….  The way life should be.

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The lower floor of the Customs House was an office, with a hallway-lobby sort of space with huge doors front & rear.  We liked to go in & creepy-mouse through, so we could go down the outside stairs to the Railyard level. Then we’d peer into Station windows, pass through the waiting room (it had actual real toilets), then the freight shed, car knocker shop, and ice house. Often, we’d go way out to the barn & corral, to see if any cows or horses were in residence (international quarantine…don’t know which direction they were coming from/ going to).

There were always a lot of curiosities to explore. On one of the best days we discovered the cold pole in the trees behind the maintenance storage shed (ground forces & campers know what that is).  After the quite natural, EWWWW… we found the shed door open. Gold mine.… Tools & parts to examine & a shelf filled with something wrapped in brown paper!  Peeking at an open packet, we concluded it was black licorice!

Of course, sweets to a boy?  We had to steal a bite!  Ppfffaagghh …. solid petroleum grease used in the railcar bearing boxes….  Aub Raye, who had spied us in there, watched through a side window .… he nearly busted the proverbial gut laughing. He did honor that he wouldn’t tell our folks.

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Another day, we found the Port Director’s garage doors open, housing his spanking new Buick. There was a bunch of other stuff… ladder, tools, workbench, cans of paint, loose hardware.  I can’t recall who brought it up (probably me), but we concluded (that again), that the paint was there for the car.  We looked for brushes, and finding none, we decided that we could dip large nails in the paint, drip it on the vehicle, and then smooth it with our hands.

We were doing quite well when the Port Director appeared. He was not happy (I seemed to have that effect on people sometimes). Anyway, we were hustled (not quite as gently as that sounds) to our homes. Got the Ma-threatened licking when Dad got home, but we somehow managed to clean off the paint, leaving no evidence, or damage. Not sure about Wayne, but I don’t think I got to leave the house for about three weeks.

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In the middle of the summer, road crews appeared to surface the dirt road to our place. Big trucks filled with really great dirt (OK, not that big, except if you’re 6 & 7); a huge grader beast; a roller thing that flattened everything; and a TAR TRUCK! It had a liquid tank, kind of like a small home fuel delivery vehicle, and a spray bar extended off the back.

We watched them prep, and then the tar truck drove down one side of the street, spraying that beautiful, slippery, shiny, black stuff. Then the gravel trucks backed down that pathway, spreading their mix as they went along.  Well…that was an ugly-looking mess…. So, when the tar truck made its next run along the other side…. we walked right behind it…. squishing our toes and splashing away.

The downside was that the stuff hardened pretty quickly. And needless to say, Mothers were not happy. No switching, but really strong words and a painful cleaning…. it might have been kerosene.  Oh well.

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As Fall approached the gardens were lush. Rambling around the neighborhood, we encountered School Principal Don Wescott’s barn door open …. another sinful invitation.  Right there in the middle of the doorway was a bushel basket filled with freshly picked peanuts!! Pretty sure you’ve figured out what happened then. OH MY WORD (not what we really said) …. Nastier taste than the grease bar! Naturally, Mr. Wescott was watching us where we didn’t see him…. He did the nearly busting a gut thing, too.

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And next we’re into Fall or early winter….’bout the same in V’boro…. Wayne kifed his father’s hatchet and we scurried down to the ice house to hide with it. He refused and refused and refused to let me even touch it. But I whined well enough as we started home that he let me. After a minute or so, his younger brother Bill whined and whined and whined for me to give it to him. So, I turned around and tossed it to him.

How was I to know he couldn’t catch it and it would smack him in the forehead? Immediate blood and howls and we ran home, telling his Mom I threw it AT him (matter of perspective, I guess). My plea to Ma that all I did was toss it to him fell on deaf ears. Unhappy as she was, no belt, but lots of strong words, and I was grounded ‘til Christmas (at least that’s how it seemed).

2. PLAYING GAMES

Other than Cowboys & Indians it was baseball, baseball, baseball!  Playing pass…  throw the ball back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Wayne threw good… I caught good. Lessons for later. Best ever was with Billy Kaine in front of all the glass windows on Illa Susee’s front porch. A mirror image made it look like we were left-handed! Cool (no, we still didn’t say that then).

And anywhere anytime we could… something of a game. Mostly “Scrub”. With five players (notice I didn’t say guys, because girls played too). Someone would call it and everyone would shout numbers in sequence. Scrub 1 was the batter… 2nd was the pitcher, 3rd the Catcher, 4th was 1st Base…5th) 2nd… any more…. On around the horn, then the outfield. If you had more than nine players the lowest numbers were at bat… until each field position was filled.

Varied rules depending on how many…. with five you only had to make it to first base…. Up to a number (at least four….one could be on every base and there was one to bat) that you had to make it home. Any batter making an out, “scrubbed” and took the place of the highest number in the field (Duuuhh…right field)…. the lowest went in to bat, and everyone else shifted to the next lower number position.

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Sidestep… a bunch playing in the field (garden) next to Monk’s house. Rubber ball (real ones were hard to come by and usually ended wrapped in electrical tape). There might have been a score, but that wasn’t important… I batted ahead of Genie Glew and managed to make it to first every time. Then he would knock it so far, we’d both make it home.

After a bit, Robbie McLaughlin (St. Croix) came and asked to play. He brought his own bat. It was a peavey…. Cut off at point where the metal parts were…  rounded a bit on the edges.  Bats at our age were 30 inches… 28 ounces… or a pound 12. His weighed, probably, about seven pounds… Riighhht! Up to bat… pass on the first throw… swing… we never found the ball.

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And there was also real practices & games (more or less).… occasionally on the “Ball Diamond”, often on the field (like a cow pasture) down the hill from the first Legion Hall… (it’s gone & I think someone built a house down there now). And with Rev. Lance Bird’s Peewees on the farm field next to the parsonage (forgot who the owner was, then).

The Reverend had made the field… set the bases & lines… mowed a circular outfield, and a hit beyond that (into the high grass) was a homer. The Reverend formed the team… somehow acquired T-shirts & hats… but before those… we went to Wytopitlock… most of us in the hearse….  The parent guys there outrightly laughed at us. We had 35 & 36 inch bats…  Their kids used 26 & 28s. They razzed, “no way (in a place the Rev didn’t want us) could we swing those heavy beasts.”

As visitors, we hit first… our first four batters hit home runs…. I managed a triple… and so it went. At the end of the 4th inning, with the score 44-0.… the local Dads had had enough.  The Rev graciously agreed that the game need go no further (maybe the first mercy ending ever?).

He was not unhappy.

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That was the only game I ever played with them because I aged out. Became the scorekeeper and was allowed to practice, though. Joe Burke, being youngish and shortish, in his batting crouch had a strike zone about a foot high… got some good hits, and a lot of walks. One year-end star was brother Michael… he did not have the build or bearing of a ballplayer (best I could do, bro)… but the stats showed that he not only had the highest OBP (on-base percentage); the highest number of stolen bases (factor of 6); but also, the most runs scored. Deceptive little fleet foot he was.

At season’s end, we played an intra-squad game for kicks that I got to play in. I put four balls onto the street, 30-yards beyond the outfield “homer zone” line. Except (owner) had mowed and the “line” was not there. So, the Rev said I had to run them out. I was not happy.

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Time passed and we got a little older. We played any time we could gather enough to get some kind of game going. And we began to play high school ball. Most practices were in the cow pasture below the old Legion Hall. Random watch-your-step cow patties a frequent hazard. Not really mowed so much as chewed down. Humps and hollows to catch the unwary.

No one cared. We were happy. One infamous practice incident took place during batting practice. I was the only catcher (the one dumb enough to sit on his heels about six inches from the end of a big wooden stick slashing in front of his face).

I rather liked the “tools of ignorance” and the fact that I didn’t have to run all over the place.  It might be that I actually knew that the label was a misnomer…. its usage was meant to be ironic, contrasting the intelligence needed by a catcher to handle the duties of the position with the foolishness needed to play a position hazardous enough to require so much protective equipment.

Eventually it was my turn to take my licks, but no one wanted to catch. Finally, we egged Billy Monk into setting up about 12 feet behind the plate to pick up any throws I passed on. Sure as God made Indianapolis, the first pitch was high and I let it go. I looked back just in time to see it hit one of the little humps (don’t think it was cowflop); jink away from Billy’s glove; and; hit him just under the left eye. The fastest, largest, most purplish shiner, ever! He was not happy.

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Some of the old guys in town (usually called “Dad”) had played in the past and often spoke of their feats against other towns. Some, like Percy McPhee, wanted vicarious repeat of past glories through sons. He collected a gang and took us to McAdam to play an old rival there (of course, we played the other kids and let the Dads rival).

We played a sort of field near the CPR Tracks and company housing. I think the batter’s box and base paths were coal cinders from the old steam engines. So, whoever was pitching was getting a bit wild and Percy wanted a change. No one else wanted to, so he egged me into it. Off with the tools and out to the mound…. Five throw warmup…. Really don’t remember how the first pitch went, because I concluded (there it is again) that I must throw the hardest fastball next I possibly could. Wicked windup, step and chuck really, really hard. Except the ball slipped in my fingers at the top of the throw and landed 10 feet wide of the plate on a huge rock between the Dads. Percy laughed, but ended my pitching debut. Oh well.

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At another practice on the real “Ball Diamond”, down by the river…. I think the year after it flooded spectacularly…. The other details are vague, but Bobby McIver was pitching and brother Billy catching. I hit a pop fly almost straight up on a line between home plate and the mound. Bobby came charging in. Billy went charging out. Both looking skyward until they collided. Billy’s catcher’s mask right into Bobby’s chin (did I not mention the intelligence of wearing the tools of ignorance?). Don’t remember it as a serious cut, but it sure bled a lot.  Bobby was not happy. I was on first base.

Another time we were in a high school game there. Wayne was pitching and I was doing the usual ignorant thing. One of the catcher’s prime responsibilities, after catching pitches that is, is to be constantly aware of how the pitcher is doing. We were in a late inning and Wayne was getting a bit wobbly. Another neat thing catcher’s get to do, if you don’t abuse it, is to call time…. walk slowly to the pitcher’s mound…. and conference with the pitcher.  So I did.

Wayne looked like I was loony and wondering what was going on. When I got there, I rubbed the ball and said, “What are we gonna do after the game?” He looked at me like I came from an alien planet and (instant temper jump), said,” What in hell are you talking about?” (we were teenagers then…. cussing was mandatory). So I laughed at him… handed him the ball…  went back to the position and called the next pitch. Nicely enough, he went to rocketing spot on. We won. Everyone was happy (well, except maybe for the other team).

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Dances were held in the Legion Hall during the winter. One Saturday, polkas were popular and couples were twirling about hectically like whirling dervishes on speed. One dance, I think it was with Jeanie, we were going in one clock direction…. Billy Monk and his partner were going the other clock way. In physics we learned that bodies in motion tend to stay in motion. True, except for two bodies in motions opposite to each other who happen to intersect in the same space-time continuum. Especially hurtful at that point is your nose into the back of someone’s head. Though I didn’t bleed as much as Bobby, it was quite broken… for the first time. I was not happy, but did have a nice walk home.

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On to basketball. The KofP Hall had 15-foot ceilings…. The court wasn’t regulation length or width. If there was an inbounds play, you stood on one foot within one foot on the wall (or the stage) and your other knee-bent foot up on the wall. The entry side had a maybe 8’ wide open space with an actual court end line on one half…. The other half had a pipe and chicken wire floor-ceiling barrier so we couldn’t run into the wood stove. In short, not much space for clever or tricky inbound plays. Except (as you might suspect) for the notorious “sposed-to play.”

Open… ball out of bounds… step out and wait for the ref to hand me the ball. Wayne is to the left outboard of the foul circle. Ref hands over. I say loudly, “OH HEY WAYNE…YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO THIS INBOUND!” He starts toward me and two steps from the basket I do an underhand pass because everyone is waiting for the change.  Except, he shoots and scores.

Two-point Wayne and Gary play! We were happy.

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We played a lot of basketball there. Practiced in the summer on a dirt court next to Holly’s store. One day I had earned a whole dollar somewhere… so as not to lose it I put it in my sock to play. After the games, I took it into the store and asked Holly for change for the pop machine. Soaking sweaty it was and he was not happy. He did it anyway, but advised (rather pointedly, I thought) that I’d better not do that again. Oh well.

Playing Princeton at the Hall one time, I (maybe 5’ 6” then) tied up Colby Fahey (6’ 5”ish) for a jump ball. I leaped like a gazelle, caught the ball and mashed it down to Wayne. I think Colby didn’t consider me a jumping threat and didn’t put his all into it.

The ref (Wendell??) convinced himself that there was no way I could have done what I did without encroachment (crossing the circle center line moving the other player out of the way) and blew the whistle, awarding the ball to Princeton. I was not happy.

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Another game in the Hall, Principal Bryant was Coach, we played Wytopitlock. Final score Us-107, them-10. Although everyone played… and everyone scored… that was it, we just played like we were supposed to. Percy McPhee was the referee (also Chairman of the School Board). He was not only unhappy…. he was, as they say, ripped. That we had run the score up. Mercy rules and other means of avoiding a team being embarrassed by another were far in the future. I did always wonder why Mr. Bryant didn’t return the next year. Maybe he was not happy.

Playing one team, I don’t recall which, we found them to be a tad more “physical” than the usual mode in those days. Ralphie Ames set a hard pick on the guy guarding me and I scrubbed him off, open lane to the basket… made the shot… grabbed the ball as it dropped down… handed to one of the opponents. And turned up court straight into the elbow of the pick guy who was winding up to hit Ralph. Yeaah…. broken nose number two. The guy was thrown out and we won, so I was not unhappy. Just hurting.

Ending these episodes with one more of baseball. The next Spring at McAdam… really nice real ballfield they had. Warming up Wayne along the first base line while the Coach warmed up the team in position on the field. Coach finished and called the team in to get ready to start. I stood up, took off the mask and put it under my arm, and said to Wayne, “Ok, toss me the ball.” The right fielder, might have been Bobby Lane, heard me say that. He had the ball the outfield had been tossing around, so naturally he threw it to me. Didn’t see it. Caught the one from Wayne about a half-second before the other hit right between the eyes. Yep.… broken nose number three. Oh well.

3. NOT A LOG DRIVE

After the last St. Croix River log drive in 1962 the first ever upper-river cleanup began. With Canadian-American crews, using bateau and 15-horse Johnson outboards, pick poles, cant dogs, pickeroons, and pulp hooks, we dug the 4-foot sticks off the shores and out of the riverbed.

The pulp had been snared or sunk over the years of the river highway usage. Mostly waterlogged, they could not move downriver with the flow. Regular small or large jams would always leave some in that condition. I only recall Happy Wright, Rodney Wright, Marty Grass, and I, on the American side.

The Americans were paid $1.00/hour and the Canadians 90 cents. Bragging rights!… until we discovered that the exchange rate favored their side…. Their 90¢ equaled $1.21 USD. I think there was also a kind of piecework incentive.…  Load out a minimum per week and all volume (in cords) after that received bonus pay.

Since Rodney & Marty were older and bigger than I, they decided they had to team, leaving me to Happy (Rod’s Dad), who, looking at me, was not particularly happy. I was 17 (lied about my age to get hired), and weighed maybe 127 lbs. soaking wet (which was how I ended up most of time).

We started each day at the Eastern Pulp Co. rolloff in St. Croix. Hap drove the boat….and we’d look for sticks…  if it was 2 or 3, he’d spear them with the pick pole (an 8’ handle with a sharp metal point and pick on the end). I’d haul them in with the pulphook or pickeroon (sometimes running water would hold them way from the boat). I don’t recall that we ever used the cant dog…used to put pressure to roll/move stuck pieces.

When loaded (about a half cord – 4’ x 8’ x 2’), he’d motor us to a small wharf that had a gas- powered conveyor that lifted the sticks up to a dump truck. He’d put them on and I’d haul them off and stack on the bed (seems I could climb up and down better than him). Had to be fast because all the teams used the one setup and they got a bit antsy if we were too slow (bonus).

When the driver had a load, he hauled it to a yard where it was stacked until it dried, and then was hauled off to the mill by pulp truck.

Everyone was doing the job, but my take was, hey, I’m playing in the water and getting paid for it! Soon enough the boat moving, stopping, picking, loading, gave me pause to think, Shucks…. We’re in water about 3-4 feet deep or less…. I can jump in… walk along… pick them up… lay them over the side a whole lot faster.  Hap was quite happy with that because we loaded bonus levels every week!

Nicely enough, the outboard let us get back to the rolloff and go home at the end of long, hard, wet days.

Unfortunately, in the 4th week, a nick in my right hand from something (lots of sharp things about) caused blood-poisoned swelling in the arm, with it getting as big as my leg all the way to the shoulder. Dr. Brown fixed me up, but I didn’t heal quickly enough to go back.

Notably, it was one of the first environmental efforts to clean America’s rivers. Hard work, good times, great memories. Somewhere at summer’s end is a story about beer and missing a weekend that will remain untold.