MY BRIGHT IDEA (GAYLE AND THE NOOSE)

KER-KNOCKERS

    I’m going to take you back to a time when kids were kids. There were no cable channels, VCR’s, or in-home video games available, so we had to find other means of entertainment.We played with Ker-knockers—two heavy acrylic, golf ball sized balls on string with a ring in the middle. The object was to use momentum to get them to clack together—not only were they obnoxiously loud, but oh, the bruises we sported on our arms, not to mention, foreheads. And bike riding, no one ever thought of wearing a helmet back then. We’d play fun games on our bikes, like: “Who Can Ride Down The Hill The Fastest and Stop the Closest to the Garage Door Without Hitting It?” And, you know what, the large majority of us lived. That being said; let me get on with my story.

     

    It was summer of 1970, and I was almost eleven. One Saturday afternoon, I talked my parents into allowing me to stay home  while they went furniture shopping. It was my first time home alone without a sitter, so it took some convincing, but eventually they agreed under the following conditions: I was not to go outside, and no one was allowed in. 

    

    “Remember Susan,” my mother threatened. “No one had better come through the front, or the back door, while we are away. And, under no circumstances are you to open either door for anyone. Do you understand?”

    

       I swung my head up and down, and then happily waved goodbye to my family as they drove off.

     Proud of myself, and feeling quite mature, I went inside as  promised, and locked the door. I fixed myself a glass of Coke and went upstairs to watch an episode of The Flintstones on the portable TV in the den. I was behaving quite well until the doorbell rang, and tossed a large fly into the ointment.  Remembering I was not supposed to open the door, I ran to my room, which opened directly onto our wrought iron balcony, and I hung my head over the railing.

Gayle and me. (I'm the one with the red shoes)

      “Who’s there,” I yelled.

     

    My best friend Gayle hopped down off the porch and hollered, “It’s me! Can you come out and play?”

    

    “Sorry. My parents are gone, and I’m not allowed to go out and no one is allowed come in," I informed her.

      

     Her face fell, and then her chin drooped to her chest. She looked so gosh darn sad it tore at my heartstrings. I just had to find a way for her to come in and play. I just had to. (Now, what my mother failed to realize was that because she specified which thresholds were not to be crossed, her edict was left open to interpretation by my inventive, preteen mind.) The gears of logic began to turn in my brain.

     

     “Wait right there a minute. I’ve got an idea,” I said.

     

     I flew through the balcony door back into my bedroom, wheeled down the first flight stairs, rounded the corner in to the kitchen and then down the second flight of stairs into the basement. I ran straight towards my dad’s workbench and grabbed a thick rope that was hanging on the wall nearby. This was my dad’s special rope. It was a three-strand fiber braided rope, about one-half inch thick and incredibly strong. I stuck my arm though the middle and hung it over my shoulder, and then galloped up to the first floor, and then on to the second and back out onto the balcony.

     

     “I've got good news. My mom said no one could come in the front door or the back door, but she didn’t say anything about the balcony doors.”

      

    Then,  I ran back into my room on the South side of the house and looped the rope around my bedpost and then fed the rope over the side of the balcony on the North side of the house. Since my friend Gayle was never one to pass up a brilliant idea, I didn’t have to ask her twice to tie the rope first around her left leg, then around her right leg, then under her butt, and around her waist, and finally to back on to the hanging rope to form a harness/noose.

     

Click on the picture for a clearer view of the red diagram

     Once she was secure, I started my laborious walk towards her. At first, her weight proved too cumbersome, and my bed slid across the room. But once it crashed into the wall, it made a great anchor. Then I huffed and I puffed and I pulled and I tugged until  Gayle’s feet began to leave the ground. 

     

     The following three lines of dialog are  though my sister's eyes as she remembers it. 

  

    “I will never forget that day. We pulled up to the driveway and saw Gayle about four feet off the ground, dangling from a rope.”

     

     “Oh, my God!” Mom screamed.

   

     “Great Caesars Ghost! What in the hell is Susan up to now?” Dad screamed.

    

    I froze as I saw my parent's car pull into the driveway. Dad slammed on the brakes and  Mom flew out the car and grabbed onto Gayle.  “Let her down right this instant! What in the world were you thinking?” she scolded.

    

    I held my head over the balcony sideways and then threw her words back at her. “But Mom, you only said that no one could come in though the front and back doors. You never said anything about the balcony doors.”

    

    Mom was too flabbergasted to speak.

    Once Gayle was safely on the ground, Mom ordered me to come down from the balcony.  I crawled over my bed that was butted up against the balcony doorway, crept out of the house onto the front porch with my shoulders slumped and my head down and then slowly, I began the funeral march toward my mother. I stopped in front of her just outside of spanking distance and looked her in the eye. She glared at me and opened her mouth to speak. 
    I cringed. 
    Gayle turned white as chalk. 
    But instead of bawling us out, her mouth twisted into a wry grin and she said,“Why don’t you and Gayle go to her house and play for a while?” 

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved

Mr. ASS-gar And The Mulberry Tree Hide Out

front row 3rd from rt. Sara,
Gayle, and then me. Back row 4th from rt. Claudia, then Paula

    In the late 1960’s, my family moved into a brand new development in Omaha, Nebraska. Houses were springing up to the left and right of us everyday, and the new construction sites were fun places to play. A kid could always find something to do there.

     

     Occasionally we would get into mischief. For example, one summer, angry they were clearing a lot right middle of our yearly winter sled run, a teenager gave us the idea to stuff toilet paper in the exhaust pipe of the shiny yellow digger. He felt sure that would stop the construction crew from building the house. So, about ten of us went home and swiped a roll. We used a large stick to make sure the pipe was packed tight and none was sticking out the top. The builder, Mr. Asgar, or as we kids called him ASS-gar, didn’t like it too much when his tractor wouldn’t start, and he liked it even less when he found out why. He marched around from house to house, talking the neighborhood parents. There were many kids involved, but nobody squealed, and everyone pled innocent, so no one got in trouble.

      

     And then there was the time, four of my friends and I lay on our stomachs on top of a dirt mound, spying on an unsuspecting cement finishing man. When he quit for the day, he left behind a large patio of uncured cement. Like little commandos, we slid down the other side of the mound, and crept up to the patio. We placed our hands in the fresh cement and signed our names, pretending it was Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. By the time the builder came back the next morning, the cement had hardened, with our names and paw prints included. We left a little too much evidence that time. Mr. ASS-gar went straight to our parents. But miraculously, all five of us came up with the same story—we were good. We all told our parents, “I didn’t do it. Someone else must have signed my name.”

   

     Because we stood united, and there was a plethora of children in the neighborhood with small hands, no one could prove anything for sure so; we got off with merely a warning.

     

     Apart from those two mildly, vandalous, incidents, we never did much more at the sites than have dirt clod wars, or remove discarded wood and nails from the junk pile to make our forts. Well, maybe a little  more.

    

     Our forts, the monstrosities made with different sized scrap boards hammered together with an endless supply of nails. Our parents took turns housing them in the backyard a month at a time. Dilapidated sheds would have been a better word to describe them, which is what led to big trouble when it was my turn to supply the yard.

       

     It took almost a week of begging and pleading, before my parents finally caved in and said we could build the fort. But they attached a stipulation—a big one—my mom had to pre-approve the building plan. The fort had to be neat, or we would have to tear it down immediately. Now that was not an easy thing to accomplish when the wood came from a junk pile, and the experienced builders were between the ages of 7 and 12.

      

     Nonetheless, Saturday morning, elated to be back in the fort business even with stiff code  regulations, my friends Claudia, Paula, Gayle, and Sara, and my kid sister and I went to scavenge wood. Much to our dismay, all we found on the various junk piles were a few small pieces, most of which had been charred from fires the workers had set the night before.

    

      I shook my head. “My mom will never allow us to start building with this junk.” I said to my friends. Their faces fell. Everyone looked so saddened by my words I figured I needed to come up with another plan. I kicked a rusty nail on the ground and then, eyed the empty, half built, house up and down. “I got it! Let’s go inside. Maybe we’ll find some better scraps in there. “

    

     “But, Mom said to only use wood from the scrap pile outside.” My sister reminded me.

    

     I patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll only take the junk.”

     

     Immediately we started checking all doors and windows, in search of a way in. Fortunately, for us, Mr. ASS-gar conveniently left the back door to the kitchen unlocked. The six of us entered and began our hunt. We didn’t have to go far, because right before our eyes, just beyond the threshold, was a pile of perfectly cut blond 4’x6’s. They were about ½ inch thick, with feathery grain, and smooth as a baby’s butt. There had to be about twenty of them, so I was sure Mr. Asgar would’t miss a mere four. This had to be our lucky day because we also found a matching 4’x4’ that would seal the rear of the fort perfectly. I gave the small piece to my kid sister, and then my friends and I divvied up the remaining four boards, and dragged them up the hill to my backyard.

     

     We dumped the pilfered wood in the yard, and I pounded on the back door. “Mom, come quick! We got the wood!”Mom came out to observe our bounty.

    

      “Look, Mom. We are going to nail these pieces together and it will make a perfect rectangle. Our fort will be neat, just like you wanted.” I said eyeing her anxiously.

    

     My Mom looked surprised “My…Susan,” she said. “That looks like awfully good wood. Are you sure you got it off the junk pile?”

    

     “Of course. They were getting ready to burn it. Weren’t they you guys?” I asked my friends. They all swung their heads up and down.

   

     Now, my mom, being a girly, girl, did not know much about wood grains, or building supplies. Or maybe she just thought her daughter could tell no lies, but the important thing was, she gave us the go ahead to build. Everyone cheered.

    

     "Don’t worry Mom. You won’t be disappointed.” I assured her.

     

    With her back to us, she waved her hand in the air and hurried into house. My friends ran home to get their hammers. I went in the garage, grabbed a bucket of nails I’d collected earlier, and a can of army green paint that had been sitting around in the garage unused for years.

    

     We all met up in the back yard. First, we painted all the wood and let it sit in the sun for an hour or so. We did not mind the few pieces of grass that stuck in the paint. It was a fort, you know. Then we took one side, my sister and Gayle held it secure against the bottom piece while the rest of us tacked in a few nails. We did the same to the opposite side, the top, the back, and before we knew it, we had a perfect rectangle.

    

      “Okay, guys. Get busy hammering, ” I ordered, “We need this baby to be strong.”

    

      And they got busy. They pounded in nail after nail, about an inch apart. If a nail did not go all the way in straight, they pounded it sideways into the board, and used another one. In the mean time, I took my dad’s manual drill and cut air holes. When I thought I had created enough holes to be able to breathe easily, I circled around examining our creation with pride. This was gonna be the best fort ever.

     

     But, when I saw the opening in the front, it just didn’t look right. It was too large for a door. It wouldn’t allow any privacy, so I headed back to the empty house to find one more board.

     

     I reentered into the kitchen and found what looked like a pantry door, not yet attached. It was a little too tall, but I figured I could saw it off when I got home. Then it would fit perfectly, leaving a small open space for us to crawl in. I set off for home, holding onto one end of the board, and dragging the other end on the road behind me. I was about half way home when a car pulled up beside me and stopped. I gasped. It was Mr. Ass-gar and he looked pissed. He slammed on the breaks and jumped out of the car. I dropped the board and took off like a racehorse.

     

     “Hey you!” I heard him scream after me. And then I heard a car door slam. I kept running as fast as I could. But, he was closing in one me. Barefoot, I cursed myself for not wearing my PF Flyers. I dashed into my back yard to warn my friends.

    

     “Ruuuuun!” I screamed as I passed by. I ran, and I ran, for a few blocks. I didn’t stop until I got into the park. Once there, I shimmied to the top of a large Mulberry tree, and hid out.

     

     My friends, who were found at the scene of the crime—so to speak, told the next part to me.

      

     Mr. ASS-gar ran behind me into the yard. He rounded the corner behind the house, slid to an abrupt stop, threw his hands in the air, and screamed, “My wood!”

    

     Claudia froze in place; hammer in air. Sara, Paula, Gayle, and my kid sister ducked down on the opposite side, and continued hammering away.

       

     Mr. ASS-gar had a look of shock on his face that quickly morphed into anger. “You stole my wood. You little brats.” He spat. “You’ve totally ruined it.”

      

     At this very moment, my little sister popped her head up from the back of the fort and said in a nasally voice, “Who’s he?”

    

     Mr. ASS-gar turned purple. He marched around to the side of the fort and saw the other three with their hammers still pounding on the wood.

    

    “Stop that!” He screamed. “What makes you think you can just waltz into my house and steal my wood and hammer it to bits?”

   

     “Susan said we could.” Claudia told him. Everyone else agreed with her.

     

     He shook his finger at them. “Well, you go get Susan, and you tell her I want this fort torn down, and I want my wood back! Now! Do you understand me? Now! You tell her I’ll be waiting for her at the house.”

    

     And then, he stormed off.

     

     I had hidden in this same tree before, so my friends knew exactly where to find me. Frankly, I was a little relieved, if they hadn’t come, I would have probably stayed up there all night, I was that scared.

    

    “Susan, come on down.” My friends yelled in unison. “Mr. ASS-gar said we have to bring back the wood.”

    

     “No, he’s going to kill me.” I yelled back. I trying to guilt them into handling the return, but they refused to leave without me.

    

     “We told him it was your idea. He wants you to help bring it back. Don’t make us come up and get you,” Sara yelled.

     

      Knowing I had no other choice, I climbed down, and went to face my punishment. The six of us tore our neat fort into pieces and dragged the green wood back to the empty house. Mr. ASS-gar stood on lot with his arms folded across his chest, scowling at us.

     

     “Where do you want it?” I asked sheepishly.

     

     “Over there,” he said pointing to the junk pile. “And don’t ever let me catch you around any of my houses again.” We all nodded and tossed the wood in a heap. And then, he made us stand there as he set our former fort on fire. It was painful to watch.

     

      “Can we go now?” I squeaked after most of the wood had burned. ASS-gar gave us one last disgusted nod, and we all scrambled away in different directions. I’ll never forget the look on my mom’s face when she explained her part in it to Mr. ASS-gar, “She told me it was from the scrap pile.”

     

It was great to be a kid growing up in Nebraska.

     

© 2010-2011 Each Head Is A World - All Rights Reserved