Raising Arthur

By Will Sherwood

Will retired with the motivation and desire to document his findings about his family's origins. With a mother who died at an early age and a father whose social needs were met in the local pubs, and several substitute parents along the path of his early childhood, the end results could have been tragic. But with care and guidance from these families, and supporting brothers, and a sister who though she lived in a distant state, gave him guidance and support. Though his adventurous spirit often misguided him, the end result turned out better than one could expect. The author takes us through the conflict with his father, dwells on his father's motivation, and eventully comes to a conclusion about his father's motivation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543937350

Book preview

1905

Chapter 1 - The Outhouse

Bobby, six years old and precocious, entered the ‘two-holer’ outhouse and checked carefully for splinters and black-widows. He stepped inside, leaving the door open. The sunlight poured through the half-moon cut into the door, but it provided scant illumination. Dropping his pants, he turned around and carefully sat in the required spot. The freckle-faced boy with the short nose and hazel eyes looked around from atop the outhouse stool. As for me, I played with a stick near the edge of the yard, by the path into the forest, amusing myself by beating rhythmically on a hollow log.

Bobby glanced toward the woods and called, Arthur, Arthur, help me! Help me!  Inching his behind down the dank hole, in anguish, he screamed, Something’s got me, Arthur. Help me! 

My little legs moved quickly, and I soon reached my older brother. 

Help me, quick, I’m falling. 

I grabbed his hands. I’ll save you, Bobby! Don’t fall!

Hearing the commotion outside, Glenna, our older sister, hurried towards us, her curly blonde hair blown awry from the wind. She quickly assessed the situation. Exasperated by Bobby’s prank, she cried, What’s going on here?

Bobby’s falling down the hole, help me!

Glaring, Glenna fixed her eyes on Bobby. You should be ashamed of yourself, Bobby, fooling your little brother. He’s only four. Be nice to him. She dragged him out and closed the door. I have to go back to work, and then go see Mother. Now be good boys and stay out of trouble. Leaving us to invent our own form of amusement, she turned and headed back to the house.

With Glenna out of sight, Bobby contemplated obedience, but only for a moment. Quickly, he formulated a new plan, stood up, turned to me and commanded, Let’s go to Mr. Johnson’s house and look at the bunny rabbits. 

Nodding in agreement, I quickly followed Bobby into the woods. Through the towering fir trees, past the cottonwoods and the ferns sparkling in the sun’s rays that filtered through the trees, we trudged together down the winding path until we entered a clearing where sunlight completely enveloped us.

In the midst of the clearing sat a cozy little farm; smoke arose from the chimney of a small brown house in the foreground, and behind it stood a red barn with its doors slightly open. A chicken coop and two small rabbit hutches crouched in the shadows. There were four cages: two held black rabbits and two held white.

Gingerly, Bobby walked toward the rabbit hutches and after a moment’s hesitation, selected the cage with the pure white rabbits. Putting his finger to his lips, he turned to me and whispered, Shhhh. Opening the door, my older brother picked out his choice. Carefully, he lifted out a beautiful little white rabbit, and closed the door. He cradled the bunny in his left arm, where it struggled uncomfortably.

We hurried past the brown farmhouse, back down the path, reentered the forest, and returned home.

Bobby slowly opened the back door, slipped up the stairs to our bedroom, and put the little white rabbit in the closet.

At dinner, Bobby, Glenna and I sat at the kitchen table. Glenna dished out hamburgers, potatoes brought up from the cellar, and a selection of vegetables put up in mason jars from our garden late last summer.

Playing with my peas, I could not contain myself, and suddenly sang out just loud enough for all to hear. I’ve got a secret, I’ve got a secret! 

Bobby kicked me under the table, and glared at me with Shut up! in his eyes.

I cried out excitedly, We’ve got a bunny rabbit.

Where? asked Glenna.

Upstairs. In the bedroom, I replied. Leaving the table, I ran upstairs, followed by the rest. Glenna outran us and reached the bedroom first. Entering, she paused and looked for a likely hiding place. Her searching eyes spotted the closet. She threw the door open and there on the floor sat the little white bunny, its red eyes glowing in the dark.

Angrily, Glenna demanded, Where did this rabbit come from?

Bobby cast his eyes downward. Seeing no other option but to fess up, he squeaked, We took it from Mr. Johnson’s house. He had too many.

But boys, Glenna admonished, It’s not yours! The bunny belongs to Mr. Johnson. You have to take it back.       After dinner, the sister, Bobby and I retraced the path back to Mr. Johnson’s house.

Glenna knocked.

Yes? replied the face at the door. How can I help you?

Mr. Johnson, we live on the other side of the woods. This is Bobby and Arthur, my brothers. They have something to say to you.

Glenna focused her eyes on Bobby.

Bobby handed the rabbit to its owner. We took a bunny. You had so many. We’re sorry we took it.

We’re really, really sorry, I added.

Thank you. Mr. Johnson’s face, initially flushed with anger, softened as he surveyed us. He reached into Bobby’s arms, and hooked his hand around the little furry body.

Let me tell you, boys, responded Mr. Johnson, it’s a good thing you brought her back. Come on in and I’ll tell you a little about rabbits. We went inside and the man plopped down in his big easy chair. There is a life here, in this bunny, boys. That’s why it’s so important to take care of it.

He looked at me, then continued. Rabbits are nervous and don’t take well to children. They like quiet. Sometimes kids don’t know when bunnies have had enough playtime, when they need a place to go and hide. Rabbits are fragile; that means delicate, boys – like your mama’s dishes – so they need to be handled with care.  When a rabbit struggles in the arms of a child, it can hurt itself. They also chew a lot, because it keeps their teeth in good condition. That’s why they chew through electric cords, and even your mama’s slippers.

Bobby’s attention drifted.

Finally, rabbits need a fresh, well-rounded diet and clean water for every feeding. Now, your sister could help you with that, but it’s a lot of responsibility.

Gee, I said, we didn’t know all that.

Glenna smiled. I didn’t realize taking care of rabbits was so complicated. Thanks for spending the time explaining everything to the boys.

You’re welcome. I was a boy once myself, you know, Mr. Johnson smiled. Bring them over anytime. I’d be glad to spend some time with them.

Thanks again.

Bobby grabbed her by the hand and led her back home. I just wanted something cuddly to hold, he mumbled.

Upon returning home, Glenna, concerned about Bobby’s attraction for trouble, reflected somberly on recent events. Last year, at 19, she had assumed responsibility as our chief caregiver when our mother, Helena, contracted tuberculosis.

When’s mama coming home? I asked.

A tear found its way from her eye, down her cheek and dropped silently to the floor. I want to talk to you boys about that. You know your mama’s been sick in the sanitarium. And you know I see her on breaks from my nurse’s job.

Glenna worked at Kaiser Permanente Hospital, where she had helped since before the war. She had support from many of her co-workers, most of whom had been employed there since the facility opened in 1938.

Glenna needed to confront her father about the boy’s future well being.

What are we going to do, Pop? Mama can’t take care of the boys, and, right now, I can’t take care of them, either. Fred isn’t old enough to care for them. Besides, he’s got his own set of problems.

I’m not sure. Pop replied. I’ve been told by my boss that I have to work out of town. I’ve been looking for someone to take care of them.

How about the Frumps? I understand they take care of two other boys, she added. How are we going to raise these boys? Bobby is always looking for trouble, and Arthur will follow him anywhere.

The Frumps, who used to live next to us in Vancouver, had recently moved about sixty miles north to Longview, Washington.

Glenna looked at Bobby. Maybe they can take you boys in.

What’s THAT mean, take us in? asked Bobby.

It means you’ll stay with them, and we’ll see you on weekends.

Only on weekends?

When we’re not working, we can come up to see you too.

Promise? I asked.

I promise, Glenna replied.

Then it’s agreed. I’ll talk to them about it, Pop said.

Bobby frowned, concerned about the Frumps.

A week later, Glenna and Pop brought us to the Frumps and got us settled.

Chapter 2 – The Cracker

"I want all you boys in the kitchen, right now," Mrs. Frump yelled from the kitchen. Her flowered and ruffled apron framed her chubby body. Turning to the cupboard, she pulled out a box of saltine crackers and set them on the table.

Mr. Frump called his small, diminutive wife the Dowager because he’d once read about an oriental potentate who reminded him of his spouse. He stood by silently and, as usual, stayed out of the conflict.

Standing at the top of the stairs, because of Mrs. Frump’s anger, I hesitated. Though I was tall for my age, I tended to be mild-mannered. People also told me I was cuted referred to me as her cute little guy.

I found my courage and ambled down the weathered staircase. Half-way down, Bobby caught up with me and together we slowly entered the kitchen.

Clearly upset, Mrs. Frump shouted, Someone took the milk money from the cookie jar and I want to know who!

The woman centered her gaze on Bobby. His peers recognized his leadership abilities, because when he chose an activity, without question that’s what we were going to do, be it play hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, or tree-climbing. Bobby had darker hair than I, but we both had our mother’s hazel eyes. Bobby was two years older, just a little taller, wore a permanent frown and had a serious disposition.

Bobby! accused the Dowager. Where’s the milk money?

Gee, Mrs. Frump, Bobby shrugged, I have no idea.

Hearing movement behind her, Mrs. Frump turned to face Willy and Tommy, who waited at the kitchen door. Entering the kitchen together, the brothers had stood anxiously.

Willy peeped out from under a head of unkempt and overgrown red hair. Considerably shorter and rounder than his older brother, Willy was quicker and more agile, and had a reputation for mischievous behavior.

Their parents worked in Seattle, helping the war effort by building Liberty Ships. Their father, like Pop, worked as a longshoreman on the docks in Vancouver, and their mother, Rosalind, worked in the machine shop.

Tommy, who was seven, wore his favorite brown cloth coat, which kept him toasty warm in the cold. His pants, although patched, still had a large hole in the seat, and it made him uncomfortable to play outside with a bare behind.

Mrs. Frump looked intensely at Willy – who had the reputation to be trouble waiting to happen.

Feeling trapped, Willie stood against the green kitchen wall next to the icebox under the single bare light bulb. I didn’t take it! he cried.

Mrs. Frump whirled and pointed to the shy and timid child standing in the kitchen doorway. It must have been you, Tommy, she exclaimed.

With tears in his eyes and chin trembling, Tommy repeatedly shook his head. Tall for his age, and skinny as a dogwood tree —as Ms. Frump never failed to remind him — he dropped his eyes and stared at the floor. He had just come in from outside. The Dowager frowned and turned her piercing glare to me.

Arthur, did you take it?

Nope, I responded simply.

Lowering her voice, Mrs. Frump decided she’d had enough. I know how to stop this nonsense. She reached into the box of saltine crackers on the table, pulled out four crackers and gave one to each boy.

"NOW, she announced, when I say GO, I want you boys to put your cracker in your mouth, chew it up and swallow it."

But why? asked Bobby.

Mrs. Frump glared at Bobby. "Because the last one to finish his cracker is guilty, because your troubled conscience will make your mouth dry, because it will slow your ability to chew and swallow. Now GO!"

We each put the saltines in our mouth. Bobby chewed furiously and had his downed first, followed in close order by Tommy and Willy. Though I tried as hard as I could, the crumbs just stuck in my throat.

Mrs. Frump glared at me, accusingly. My eyes welled and in a trembling voice, I cried, I didn’t take it. I didn’t take the money. Honest, I didn’t take it!

It’s bad enough you took the milk money, but for lying, you can go to bed without supper!

Tears flowed down my cheeks. The family glared at me- were they thinking GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY? I trudged up the staircase. Surely, I thought, they felt I had betrayed them, because, with the milk money gone, there would be no milk in the morning. I trudged upstairs to bed, sobbing, I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it! until emotionally exhausted, I drifted asleep.

For some time I slept soundly. Then, as in a dream, I heard a familiar voice, Wake up, Arthur. Honey, wake up. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and slowly awoke. As my vision cleared, I saw my big sister. My mother had always called her Tootie but I preferred Glenna.

Come on, honey. Wake up.

Glenna turned to Bobby and gently admonished, You get up too, Bobby.

She lifted me in her arms and said softly, Arthur, honey, we’re going home.

My heart filled with contentment and peace languished in my soul. No tragedy would befall me this day, nor any other if my big sister had anything to say or do with it.

I looked out the window and saw only darkness. Is it morning already?

Honey, you slept the whole day around, but now it’s time to go home. She smiled, gathered our belongings and put us in the back seat of Pop’s ‘39 Dodge sedan. As we drove down the driveway, Mr. Frump pulled a Havana cigar from his jacket and waved goodbye. He lit it, took a drag, and grinned.

Years later, Bobby and I concluded that the missing milk money had financed the acquisition of Mr. Frump’s cigars.

The next morning we were back home —in McLaughlin Heights.

Chapter 3 - Fred

It was on a Friday in September 1946, the year after the war ended. Bob and I had returned home from McLaughlin Heights Grammar School. I had just entered first grade and Bobby the third.

Fred, our older brother, stood in the kitchen making hot chocolate. I thought it odd to see our nineteen-year-old brother standing there; we’d not seen him for a long time. At five foot four, he was slight but muscular. The girls thought him good looking.

Hi, boys, Fred said.

Bobby ran up and gave him a hug, Hi Fred.

I withdrew. After a moment’s hesitation, I tenuously embraced him. He recalled wistfully the last time we’d seen each other. It had been a troubling time in his life.

Three years earlier, in 1943, the Second World War had raged for over two years when Fred and his two buddies, Joe Davidson and Sam McDonald, discussed their options for joining the Army. Joe, the smartest of the three, provided the brains for the trio. He stood tall and lean, had short-cropped brown hair that looked like it had been caught in a lawnmower. Sam provided the muscle. In contrast to Joe, Sam was short, with stringy black hair and a pug nose. Fred was the wheelman. He could drive anything bigger than a wheelbarrow. This particular talent had gotten him in trouble in Queens.

Fred eyed Joe. What‘ja get from the Enlistment Office, Joe? he asked, his New York accent still lingering.

Not much. We can’t enlist in Vancouver, but they said the Army’s not so picky in San Francisco. Maybe we could join there.

What did you find out about your visit to the enlistment office, Fred? asked Sam.

A big 4F.

Why?

Oh. When I was five, I had scarlet fever. They gave me the once-over – said I have heart damage, but look at me, I’m fine. Fred looked at Sam. How’re we gonna get to San Francisco, Sam?

Well, since we don’t have money for bus fare, we’ll have to borrow a car. We’ll leave a note on it with an explanation. No one will find it after we’re already in the Army. What’re they gonna do? We’ll be in the South Pacific, or who knows where.

How about Mr. Peterson’s ’38 Ford? asked Fred.

He’s gone East to see his folks, and won’t return for a week. We can replace the license plate with the one on Pop’s old Ford.

The next morning, the boys met at Fred’s house, broke into Mr. Peterson’s Ford, and headed south. After driving for five hours, they crossed the California / Oregon state line, and stopped for lunch.

What are we doing? asked Fred.

Dunno, replied Sam. He munched on his sandwich. Lunch, I guess.

No, I mean with this stolen car and all? 

Seemed like a damn good idea at the time, said Joe.

Maybe we should go back, said Fred.

They discussed the reasons for their decision to head South in the first place. Each boy looked at the other two. All three, in unison, voiced their decision, saying, Nooooo.

Continuing South, they drove through Mount Shasta, Red Bluff, and Corning, and were approaching Orland, some 200 miles north of Sacramento. About thirty minutes past dusk, on the right hand side of the highway sat a stubby Black and white police car—facing opposing traffic—with its single red spotlight pointed directly towards them.

Oh oh. What do you think we should do, Joe? Fred asked. Maybe I was going too fast.

We better stop. Maybe we can bluff our way out of this.

Fred pulled over, stopped, and waited for the police officer to approach his window. Suddenly, a voice from a bullhorn boomed. "This is Officer Martini. You two in the front seat, get out on the driver’s side with your hands up! NOW!"

As ordered, Fred exited, followed by Sam. Fred had never seen Sam move so fast.

Get to the rear of the car and put your hands on the trunk, demanded the policeman. You in the back, get out on the driver’s side!

Joe instantly complied.

What’s the problem, officer? asked Fred.

Someone held up a liquor store in Chico, and your car fits the description, smart ass.

What kind of car?

Dunno. Dark sedan, I think.

Sir, we’re driving a medium brown sedan, said Fred.

And I think Chico is east, not north, Officer Santorini, joined in Sam.

It’s Martini, smart ass. Santorini is an island in Greece. But I don’t expect you’d know that.

Sorry, Officer, Joe replied.

By this point in the conversation, Fred had turned around. Four other police cars had pulled up. One of the officers strolled over to Fred.

You the driver?

Fred turned in panic, first to his right, then to his left, to make sure the officer was addressing him. He grunted, Umm, hmm.

My name’s Officer Graziano. I’m with the Corning Police Department. He addressed the boys, Been chasing you guys since you sailed through Corning. If my car didn’t need a tune up, I’d a caught you guys ten miles back. 

Why didn’t ‘cha turn on your siren? I’d a stopped. Fred asked.

Listen. If I’d a got that close, I’d a started shootin’!

My God! mumbled Fred to Sam, What kind of bums do they hire in this county?

After Officer Graziano realized that Fred, Sam, and Joe were not dangerous, he peered at Fred. We’re looking at your vehicle. You boys need to talk to the Officer in Charge about it when you arrive at the station.

At the police station, the boys were booked, then met the man in charge. I spoke to the Police Department up in Vancouver, boys. No one’s filed a stolen vehicle report, yet – and we’re not done with our investigation—but I’d bet you my morning coffee and donuts you fellows sure as hell didn’t have no permission to drive that there car. You’ll have to see the Judge.

After two days in the slammer, the boys went before the Judge. Glaring over his bifocals, he scowled at Fred. His black gown barely covered his black cowboy boots and his cowboy shirt poked out from the top of his robe. He appeared distracted.

He