The Crab Hollow Chronicles

By Karen Gennari

Step into your virtual time machine and set the controls for 1961. Then sit back, put your feet up, and relax as you join nine-year-old Karen Schmidt in her attempts to navigate Crab Hollow Road amidst the overwhelming male majority who beleaguer her at every opportunity. Does Karen have the fortitude to weather toadnappings, midnight escapades, false impersonation, and more? Along the way, relive the people, products, music, sports, and headlines of the early 1960s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eLectio Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611879704

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The Crab Hollow Chronicles

By Karen Gennari

Copyright © 2013 by Karen Gennari

Cover Design by Jesse S. Greever

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (eLectio Publishing) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

eLectio Publishing wishes to thank the following people who helped make these publications possible through their generous contributions:

Chuck & Connie Greever

Jay Hartman

Darrel & Kimberly Hathcock

Tamera Jahnke

Amanda Lynch

Pamela Minnick

James & Andrea Norby

Gwendolyn Pitts

Margie Quillen

Other titles from eLectio Publishing:

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Learning to Give in a Getting World by Marcus R. Farnell, Jr. and Jesse S. Greever

At the Back of His Mind by T. Marcus Christian

Never Prosper by T. Marcus Christian

The Wall & Beyond by Joanna Kurowska

Drunk Dialing the Divine by Amber Koneval

The Advent of the Messiah: Finding Peace, Love, Joy, and Hope in a Modern World by Tony Turner

More From Life: 99 Truths to Understand and Live By by Christopher C. Dixon

Living to Give in a Getting World by Marcus R. Farnell, Jr. and Jesse S. Greever

Anabel Unraveled by Amanda Romine Lynch

The Sons of Hull: Book One of the Advocate Trilogy by Lindsey Scholl

Absolute Positivity: An Inspirational Story of Positivity, Prayer, and People by Karl B. Sanger

Hunger by R. H. Welcker

Striking Out ALS: A Hero’s Tale by Ethan D. Bryan

Soulmates by Mindy Kincade

The Woven Thread by Todd Oliver Stewart

Obsidian: Book Two of the Advocate Trilogy by Lindsey Scholl

Good Shepherds: Living the Faith by Dana Yost

www.eLectioPublishing.com

In Memory of

My best childhood friend in all the world, Patty Mascaro Thisen

and

My beloved cousin Jim Gallagher

May God grant them light, happiness, and peace.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to extend my gratitude to my family, who provided significant input as each story unfolded:

My husband Frank, who enlightened me on such indispensable topics as the price of Black Cat penny fire crackers in 1961, the fine art of blowing up green plastic army men, the difference between a toy bolt action military rifle and a Buddy L Machine cap gun, and the benefits of glass packs and primed quarter panels on a ’53 Belair.

My son Frank, my reptile and amphibian expert and consultant on making devices from mechanical and electronic components around the house.

My daughter Leslie, who was an endless source of advice and encouragement, and, in particular, who spawned an ingenious idea that transformed Fuzzy Horgan into one of my favorite characters.

Kudos to my siblings—Sandy Lasley, Shirley Shoup, Bill Soost, Ed Soost—and childhood friend Dale Raymond for stepping into their virtual time machines, turning the dial to 1961, and assisting in making my fictitious stories realistic and historically accurate.

Special thanks also to Steve Meno, who regaled me with entertaining stories from his youth, affording me fodder for a number of stories on...uh....youthful indiscretions.

Finally, a hearty thank you to Jesse Greever and all the staff at eLectio Publishing for giving my stories a chance.

1

Snips and Snails Lament

Occa bocca soda crocka, occa bocca boo. In comes Uncle Sam, and out goes Y-O-U. Geez, first one out again. Feigning indifference, I unwrapped the Tootsie Roll Pop from my pocket, ceremoniously popped it into my mouth, and set off for greener pastures.

I made my way down Dogwood Drive toward the empty lot where the neighborhood boys had been playing wiffle ball. Maybe they’d let me play today. It was always a toss-up. Would it be Kenny Wells with his Get lost, Snotrag or Woody Woodward with his Oh, come on; let her play? Sometimes it depended on how desperately they needed another player, or perhaps it was simply a matter of making the teams even. But, hey, just last week I had caught a screeching line drive in the outfield with my gloveless hands, resulting in a third out and abruptly ending a rally, all to the amazement of even the hardcore disbelievers. It wasn’t so much that I had caught the ball but that it had somehow miraculously wedged itself into my open hands. It was a purely lucky catch, but I would never divulge that and usurp that glorious moment. Although the play didn’t quite elevate me to Gold Glove status, maybe that bit of instant celebrity would secure me a spot on the roster, for a day at least. So I turned the bend onto Crab Hollow Road, preparing to plead my case, when, to my dismay, the boys were nowhere to be found. They had just been there, fully engaged, a scant fifteen minutes ago.

I sat down on the edge of the road overlooking the creek that ran along the empty lot. Contemplating my next move, I picked a black-eyed Susan and decided that I would tempt the hands of fate and test my chances with my heartthrob—Ronnie Dempsey, pitcher on my brother’s Little League baseball team. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, each time tossing the petals into the ambling waters of the creek below. He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not. Huh! A loser again. With a resigned sigh, I tossed in the stem and looked for another object to entertain myself. That empty pack of Teaberry gum would do nicely. Tossing it into the creek, I darted across the road to wait for its entry on the other side and on down past Kenny Wells’s house into uncharted territory.

Suddenly, up went Lorenzo Vecchio’s garage door to my left, and out trotted seven or eight boys with Lorenzo in the rear, walking his brand new bike—a 1961 Raleigh English racer—a masterpiece of a bike with the latest wonder of technology: hand brakes. Whoa! He’d be the envy of every boy and girl in the area.

But it wasn’t my first look at a bike with this latest feature. The previous Thursday, Art Fontana, a boy from an adjoining neighborhood, had come down to show off his new gem of a bike—a Schwinn Jaguar Mark IV—and since no one else was around, I became the beneficiary of his benevolence. He instructed me on how to maneuver the hand brakes and graciously allowed me to test them out. After a period of tentatively pedaling and braking, pedaling and braking, I was soon cavorting up and down the streets on his 26-incher, a far superior experience than my little 22-incher. Needless to say, I was delighted to be the chosen one.

As I grew nearer to the swarm of boys, I detected a barely audible, Here comes Karen followed by inaudible rapid-fire bursts of chatter. As I approached, my cousin Eddie glanced up and acknowledged me.

Hokey smoke, Bullwinkle, it’s Karen.

Hey, Kaaaren, come look at Lorenzo’s new bike, came a voice in the crowd. The conciliatory tone in their voices put up a red flag, and I sensed another conspiracy in the making. The boys cordially proceeded to show me all the marvelous features of the bike:

How do you like this snazzy metallic red paint?

And the gold pin striping!

Look, Karen! Check out the three-speed hub and the all-steel fenders. Art’s Schwinn was a beauty, but this Cadillac of bikes—sleek, lightweight, and FAST—was on the wish list of every red-blooded American kid. Curiously, throughout their protracted exhibition—pointing out the horn, the light, the bell, the lock, the rack on the front and back—the fellows somehow rather conveniently neglected to mention the hand brakes, the bike’s most striking feature.

Presently, Kenny Wells piped up, Hey, Lorenzo, why don’t you let Karen try out your bike?

I—I don’t-a know, Lorenzo stuttered in his familiar Italian accent, It’s brand new.

Aw, come on, exhorted my brother Bobby. Be a pal. Your bike is safe with Karen. She’s a great bike rider for a girl.

Yeah, come on, Lorenzo. Don’t be a killjoy, the others chimed in. Whada’ya say?

I knew what they were thinking. I knew exactly what the little con artists were thinking. Their devious plan was as transparent as Scotch Tape.

Awash in skepticism, Lorenzo reluctantly acquiesced. A look of apprehension painted his face, but I suppose the temptation was too great; any fear of damage to the bike was overshadowed by the prospects of my forthcoming humiliation. Ah, the pleasure they would get as I futilely spun the pedals, desperately attempting to brake by foot, and ultimately crash landing in a heap of bruised knees and scraped elbows. Ah, the merriment that would ensue.

But had even one of them contemplated the consequences of a plan gone awry? What if I suffered more than a few superficial wounds, limbs contorted beneath my body, sucker stuck down my throat? Most likely, they’d scatter like they did when they talked the neighborhood sissy, Robert Doyle, into swinging on a tree branch overhanging the creek. Robert fell with a splat on a big rock in the creek, breaking his arm, and every one of the perpetrators, even chubby Lorenzo, had beaten a hasty retreat into the woods like rats into the sewer.

So, what if a similar scenario befell me? You could bet that there would be a full investigation by the parents of the culprits, especially mine, wherein the felons would conduct plenty of finger pointing but disavow any knowledge of wrongdoing. Nevertheless, the boys embraced the idea, the lure of Karen’s degradation overpowering any vestiges of common sense, and Lorenzo uneasily handed the bike over to me.

Further fueling the challenge, Skipper Lowry exclaimed, Hey, Karen, I double dog dare you to go all the way up to Steeley’s house.

You see, Crab Hollow Road was indeed a hollow—level at the bottom with steep hills on either side. One took the bike as high up the hill as one dared before plummeting down into the valley below, a manifestation of one’s status as a premier daredevil.

Or are you chicken guts? Kenny inquired.

Who, me?

She’s prob’ly scared stiff, Michael Tomko charged. Yeah, I can see the yellow streak from here.

Just watch! I grabbed the handlebars, now firmly committed. Surely, I had enough experience under my belt to pull it off, I thought to myself, vacillating between confidence and self-doubt.

Got any more of those Tootsie Roll Pops? Eddie asked.

Nope, last one.

As I took control of the bike, the boys assembled on the side of the road, a level stretch next to Gretz’s yard.

So there they were:

Kenny Wells, precursor to Beavis and Butthead, who liked to boast that of all the bugs he’d ever eaten, only the bumblebee made him sick.

My cousin Eddie Flanagan, the joker, otherwise known as Damn It Eddie, a moniker that belied the countless times those words had been uttered from his exasperated mother’s lips.

Redheaded Roger Woody Woodward (Woodsy to me), namesake of my baby doll Woody Elroy (also named after Elroy Face, Pirates star relief pitcher); Woody was not quite as cruel as the others but was always game for some fun at my expense.

Vinny Palmieri, male equivalent of the dumb blonde, wouldn’t hurt a flea, couldn’t spell flea, guaranteed.

Skipper Lowry, endowed with the rare talent of turning his eyelids inside out, was the closest any of them came to being a genuine juvenile delinquent. Not long ago, when I was playing with Robert Doyle’s Silly Putty, Skipper had commandeered it and thrown it into the creek, causing me considerable grief from both my parents and Robert’s parents.

Michael Tomko—My anything you can do, I can do too mentality got me into one too many fixes recently when I challenged him to a wrestling match and was soundly defeated in the first round.

Lorenzo Vecchio, a pudgy Italian boy who had immigrated to the United States with his family two years ago but still fit in as a suburban Pittsburgh kid, not to mention the new owner of the coolest bike around.

My own dear, sweet brother Bobby Schmidt, two years my senior; ours was a typical brother/sister relationship; in other words, he was very possibly the instigator of the whole affair.

Perhaps a few other boys long forgotten in the annals of Crab Hollow Road history.

Yes, there they were—brother Bobby et al, circling like buzzards awaiting a carcass. Even cousin Eddie’s dog Scrappy, with his doleful beagle eyes, seemed to be in on the act.

I slowly made my way up the road. As I began the ascent of the hill, I spied my best friend and coconspirator, Jackie Mancuso, standing in her front yard. Together we knew the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat with those boys. We were the only two girls in the neighborhood whom they would allow to infiltrate their inner circle; come to think of it, we were the only two girls interested in infiltrating their inner circle.

Prolonging the suspense for the unwitting gaggle of vagabonds, I stopped to give her a play-by-play of what had just transpired. Look at those smarty pants down there. They think I’m gonna crash and kill myself when I can’t figure out the brakes. They have no idea I rode Art’s bike last week, and I wasn’t gonna tell them.

And spoil all the fun? Jackie responded.

Joining me in laughter, she wished me well. You show those boneheads, Karen.

I purposefully took off again, but before long, the hill became too steep to pedal, and I walked the bike a bit shy of Steeley’s house. Straddling the bike, I took a few long, slow sucks from my lollipop and stashed what was left of it in my back pocket for safekeeping. To prolong the theatrics, I double knotted my shoelaces, flicked an imaginary fuzz ball from my blouse, gave the hand brakes a few tweaks to make sure everything was in working order, and positioned myself at the ready.

Savoring the moment, I panned the scene unfolding before me. In the valley below stood the boys of summer, visions of mayhem dancing in their heads. Wrapped in anticipation, Jackie sat straight up on the edge of her lawn, the perfect front row seat. It wasn’t often that I had a captive audience such as this one.

Apprehensive of my perilous journey ahead, I was nonetheless determined. After all, nothing less than my pride was at stake. And so, there I stood, pigtails and pedal pushers, ready to take on the world, or the neighborhood boys, anyway. PF Flyers to the metal, I took one last deep breath and took off. Full speed ahead! I whizzed past O’Dell's house and steamed by Joey Boehm's house. Pigtails blowin’ in the wind, I raced obliviously past Jackie on her front lawn, resolve permeating from my wiry frame. Old Mrs. Hall, engrossed with the weeds in her petunia garden, knew naught of my brush with ignominy. It was now or never. As I came clearly into view of the nefarious onlookers, I proceeded to apply the hand brakes—little by little, carefully, carefully, smoothly, smoothly. Dexterously, I pulled up right in front of those gawkers and cruised to a perfect landing like a veteran pilot at the controls of his aircraft. You would have thought you were entering the capital O convention. You could have strung a set of Christmas lights across all those open mouths that afternoon.

I dismounted as skillfully as a girl can maneuver herself from a 26-inch boy’s bike and, with authority, coolly kicked the kick stand down. As Mark Twain would say, The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated. Nice bike was my only comment as I stuffed the Tootsie Roll Pop back into my mouth and headed up the road to the Mancuso house without looking back. Chalk one up to the victory side. Ain’t life grand? Especially when you get to the chewy chocolate center.

2

The Ecstasy and the Agony

Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, those days of soda and pretzels and Jujubes stuck to your teeth. Who knew that a little fruit flavored candy could wreak such havoc with a loose bicuspid? I had barely wiped the morning sleepers out of my eyes, and already I was in a predicament: Yank a baby tooth not ready to vacate for another week or coexist with a foreign object in my mouth. Unlike M & M’s that melt in your mouth, a rock-hard stale Jujube, with its life expectancy, could take out a thirty-year mortgage. So instead of cruising Crab Hollow on my scooter as originally planned, I was standing in the driveway with my fingers in my mouth. For the fifth time, I clasped the Jujube, hoping it would relinquish its grasp of my loose tooth. For the fifth time, I wiggled that molar, considering the possibility of liberating the entire mass, and, for the fifth time, I promptly lost my nerve. It was all my brother Bobby’s fault. If he weren’t always sneaking into my room to steal my candy, I wouldn’t have stashed those Jujubes in my underwear drawer where they had months to harden before I remembered their existence.

All of a sudden, my best friend Jackie Mancuso came tearing across the empty lot, heading straight for me. Good. Someone to give me solace and advice in my hour of need. Someone who wouldn’t cluck, That’s what you get for eating candy at breakfast. Someone who wouldn’t seize the pliers and insist that extracting the candy-topped tooth was the only way to go.

But Jackie had other issues on her mind. Karen, the boys are building a clubhouse up in the woods. They’re carrying boards up there right now. Do you want to go see what they’re up to?

Well, I supposed that the Jujube wasn’t going to devour my body like the icky-sticky Blob, so Jackie’s news was a good excuse to put off my dilemma. Besides, my curiosity had gotten the better of me.

Catty corner to my house was the empty lot where we kids often played ball. Beyond the outfield was the duplex that Skipper Lowry shared with another family, and beyond that house were a few acres that we called the woods. At that moment, it wasn’t difficult to find the boys’ location due to the voluminous pounding that emanated from the woods.

Oh, no, it’s the Bobbsey twins, my brother smirked. "What are you doing here?"

Just looking, I answered as I wiggled the Jujube and surveyed the construction site.

Four boys—brother Bobby, Woody Woodward, Kenny Wells, and Skipper Lowry—had already constructed an uneven yet adequate floor and were rather haphazardly working on the walls, where bent nails jutted out here and there in a variety of directions. An assortment of boards—two by twos, two by fours, two by sixes, and some odd and broken pieces—were randomly spread around the area. Some looked brand new; others appeared dirty and worn. Piled six deep were wooden pallets that looked suspiciously like the ones I’d seen at the Quinlan Brick Company yard where the Little League games were played.

Pointing, I asked, Where’d you get those?

What’s it to you? Skipper retorted.

Swipe them from the brick yard, did you, Skipper?

Hey, Idiot-stick, he quipped, why don’t we make like I’m the sun and you’re Pluto and go away, far away, like to another part of the universe?

Yeah, well, why don’t you pretend this crick’s a boiling cesspool and jump in?

We could help you find some wood and stuff, Jackie offered. We can make this a real good clubhouse.

What do you mean ‘we’? Kenny asked through the nails between his teeth. This is a boys only clubhouse. No girls allowed. So why don’t you two take a hike? Those two boys were as ingratiating as a Pennsylvania pothole.

Briefly exploring the notion of shoving nails down Kenny’s tonsils, I instead looked at Woody, the tolerable one of the group, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

It’s a free country, I countered. You don’t own the woods.

Yeah, it’s not private property, Jackie chimed in.

Well, step inside and see what happens, Kenny threatened.

Not wanting to appear intimidated by Kenny’s strong-arm tactics, Jackie and I lightly touched our toes to the wood—a daring act of bravado, wouldn’t you say?

Shit! I don’t got no more nails, Skipper cursed.

Oooo, I chided. You’re gonna burn in to h-e-double hockey sticks if you keep talking like that.

Huh?

Never mind. That’s crooked, I informed Bobby as he positioned another board slightly askew.

Don’t you have some dolls to go play with or something? he probed as he stopped in mid-swing.

You know, Karen, we don’t need their crooked house anyway, Jackie acknowledged.

Yeah, look at it, I assented, and, after jiggling my loose tooth, chanted, There were some crooked boys who had a crooked house. They bought a crooked cat that caught a crooked mouse, and dodging a baseball glove that had come flying my way, I added, And they all lived together in a crooked little house.

Laughing, Jackie said, Yeah, we’ll just make our own clubhouse then.

Oh, boy.

And it’ll be way better than yours, she added.

Oh, boy.

Okay, then, Bobby challenged. Build your clubhouse, and we’ll see whose is better.

Yeah, Skipper agreed. How about we say twenty-four hours? Exackly nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Then we’ll see whose is better.

It’s a deal, Jackie agreed as I stood wondering if maybe she’d sniffed too much Play Doh lately.

What’ll be the booby prize for the losers? Bobby queried, seemingly smug in his conviction that Jackie and I would surely be the vanquished.

How about the losers drink a cup of crick water? Woody suggested.

Yech! I countered as I stuck out my tongue. I’m not getting the jungle rot over some dumb clubhouse.

Okay, Kenny snickered, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a small container. How about the loser has to eat some Mexican jumping beans?

Now it was Jackie’s turn to object. I know what’s in those things, and I’m not eating any bug that’s gonna make me sick to my stomach.

Aw c’mon, Kenny entreated. It’s not gonna kill you. I’ve ate all kinda bugs. Remember the praying mantis head? And I’m still breathin’.

It was easy for him to say; Kenny considered insects a meat lover’s special.

I don’t care what you say, Jackie retorted. I’m not swallowing some caterpillar that’s gonna eat my intestines from the inside out.

Ha! Chickens, chickens! Brock, brock, brock.

The other boys laughed weakly and added a few brocks of their own. Although they’d never admit it, I could tell they were just as skittish about ingesting those Mexican jumping beans as we girls were.

I came up with a suggestion. How about the losers have to clean the winners’ bikes?

You’re not touching my bike, Bobby snapped.

Yeah, mine neither, the boys echoed.

Gee, and wasn’t it not long ago that they had fallen all over themselves offering me a bike to ride?

Hey, Woody bargained, How about we compete for baseball cards? Winners take their pick.

Now that was an idea that appealed to me. Though I had a nice little stash of baseball cards, I had nowhere near the amount of milk cartonsful that the boys had. I didn’t have much money to spend on them, and it was only on select occasions—perhaps if the stars were aligned or the moon was full or I had malted milk balls to share—that the boys let me flip cards with them to add to my collection. Still, to get some of those precious Topps cards, I had spent hours scrounging around for discarded pop bottles that garnered me two cents apiece or a nickel for a Regent quart, and I wasn’t about to give them up easily.

That’s fine by me, but nobody gets my Roger Maris card, I declared. Roger Maris, the 1960 MVP, was on his way this year to surpassing Babe Ruth’s home run record of sixty, which had stood for thirty-four years. I remember the day I picked up that pink slab of bubble gum from the Topps wrapper and jumped in jubilation when I came face to face with Roger Maris, bat in hand, ready to rip another one. Ever since that day, those boys regularly tried to beat me out of that card.

Right away I thought of another card I was reluctant to give up.

Or my Ted Williams, I added. My flipping prowess had earned me the coveted Mr. Williams fair and square, compliments of Woody Woodward, who was still mourning his loss.

Or my Bill Mazeroski. It was back on October 13 during the seventh game of the World Series, that my brother and I had jumped off the school bus and run home in time to see Maz slug his legendary homer in the bottom of the ninth, making our Pittsburgh Pirates the 1960 World Champions. I’d step on a crack and break my mother’s back before I’d give up that baseball card. (Just kidding, Mom)

"And you’re not getting my Willie Mays or any of my Pirates," Jackie informed them.

"Well, what are you gonna give us? Skipper asked with irritation. Cripes, we don’t want your 1960 Strikeout Leaders you’re always trying to pawn off on us."

It was easy for the boys to be magnanimous; they had duplicates, even triplicates, of the same player. They could afford to lose a few on a bet. After some wheeling and dealing and wrangling and tangling, we reached a settlement. If Jackie and I won, then we’d each get ten cards, each boy having contributed five. If the weasels won, then Jackie and I would fork over eight cards, each individual weasel receiving four cards. At stake, among others, were Mickey Mantle, Sandy Koufax, Elroy Face, Hammerin' Hank Aaron, Stan the Man Musial, and Yogi Berra.

Huddled together like umpires and team captains discussing the lineups, we further established ground rules:

The girls’ clubhouse should be built on the opposite side of the woods.

Only the parties present could help with the physical construction.

No sabotage was allowed.

If the winner could not be determined among us, then we would find an impartial judge who was acceptable to both parties.

Terms settled, Bobby closed the deal. May the best man win.

Or girl, ha! I responded. With a jiggle of the Jujube, I went off with Jackie to find the perfect location to stake our claim. Adios, muchachos, I added flippantly. Once out of earshot, however, I played a different tune. It’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into this time, Ollie. And where do you think we’re going to find enough wood?

Elementary, my dear Watson. We’ll ask all the neighbors who aren’t on the boys’ side. We’ll think of something.

Jackie and I were at a distinct disadvantage. Our limited carpentry skills aside, we lived in a neighborhood overrun with boys. Girls, especially those who might be inclined to build a house in the woods, were few and far between. My sister Brenda, age fourteen, was too mature to be seen participating in such childish pursuits, and my sister Cindy, who had just turned six, was not allowed in the woods.

Oh, there was Janice Clark, who lived next door, but a cold war had developed between her mother and my mother years ago. The petty crimes of her brother Gary—Dennis the Menace to the tenth power—had raised my mother’s blood pressure to catastrophic levels—like the time his back storm door broke and he threw the glass over the fence and into our yard. Thus, the cold war filtered down to the rest of our families, leaving us to speak perhaps three sentences a year to each other.

Vicki Jean Fox, Janice’s best friend, lived just a few houses away, but she and I may as well have lived on different planets. While she was prancing around in her first bra, I was still in an undershirt with a little white bow at the neck. When she was showing off her first nylon stockings with a seam down the back, I was still in anklets. And when she was delving into the world of high-heeled shoes, I was still in Buster Browns. My mother said I’d grow up to be a hussy if I dressed like that, but then again, sister Brenda and I strongly suspected that Mother was a reincarnated fossil from the Paleozoic Age.

Bosom buddy Jackie and I, on the other hand, spent summer day after blissful summer day together, filling them to capacity like a sack full of overflowing Halloween candy. She was like my third sister; I spent nearly as much time with her as I did with Brenda and Cindy. Best friends since we were four years old, we were like peanut butter and jelly, nachos and cheese sauce, liver and onions—with an occasional oil and vinegar mixed in. Though she was four months older than I, we had just completed fourth grade at St. Joan of Arc Parochial School. I was on the thin side; she was on the heavy side. I had a big scar on my wrist from playing tag with a glass door; she had a big scar on her knee, permanently embedded with cinders, from a fall off her bike in the empty lot. We should have been included in the Guinness Book of World Records for most badminton games played in one year. Or most croquet games. Or most weeds transformed into characters of a medieval kingdom.

There was no time to dilly dally. Reaching the opposite end of the woods, Jackie and I quickly found a level, open area that was big enough to accommodate a clubhouse. Then we parted ways to see what treasures we could unearth from our basements.

It was Wednesday, my dad’s day off, and I found him conversing across the hedges with our elderly neighbor on the other side, Mr. Hall. They were talking about that Fidel Castro and those Communists down in Cuba and the Bay of Pigs fiasco back in April. I didn’t understand all that talk over the past few months, but my nine-year-old brain envisioned atomic bombs showering poison rain down on us and the world blowing up. It brought back memories of Nikita Khrushchev slamming his shoe on the podium at the UN, sneering We will bury you. Just mentioning the names Castro and Khrushchev sent chills down the spines of us kids, especially those of us in the Catholic schools, where the nuns with Eastern European accents and woebegone faces would describe life behind the Iron Curtain in just enough detail to leave us equating those two leaders with Hitler and Satan.

You know, people are building fallout shelters, Mr. Hall commented, but he changed the subject when he saw me approach.

What can I do for you, little one? my dad asked.

Do we have any boards or materials we could use for a clubhouse?

"I had a few pieces of plywood, but Bobby already took them. So, you’re helping the boys out, huh?

"No, me and