Tales from the Tree House

By Gene Thomas

In those heady days after the end of World War II, when America soared on the wings of victory and the new prosperity of the 1950s replaced the grimness of the Depression, Gene Thomas and his brother, Vala.k.a. Gonkispent their childhood days playing in their middle-class neighborhood and having the adventures of their young lives.

Funny, sometimes sad, but always entertaining, Tales from the Tree House is a collection of short stories taken from the real life exploits of the Thomas brothers. Before the television took away the wonder of childhood play and exploration, the Thomas brothers became intimately familiar with their neighborhood, staying out late, embarking on daring adventures, and playing pranks on the unsuspecting.

Thomass lively prose evokes the sounds and sights of a time and place now lost. Whether the brothers were snatching used beer bottles (worth a fortune in candy and soda pop money!) from the construction yard next door, digging for dinosaur bones in their backyard, or building a tree house in their old oak tree, Gene and Gonki never had to tell their mother that they were bored!

Reminisce about the good old days with Tales from the Tree House.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462018659

Gene Thomas

About the Author Gene Thomas has had several major careers. His first career was in air traffic control. Another was a Defense Contractor during the Reagan era. After a career in Education and extensive travels to different countries, Gene now devotes the majority of his time to pursuing his first love, writing. You will find that Gene’s writing style has always been characterized an easy read. His books in print (Amazon, Barnes & Noble) “Tales from the Tree House, 2010”, “Tree House to Palm Trees, 2011” mark the start of a prolific writing career that includes a collection of short stories, poems and novels already posted on sites like http://www.readwave.com/doceft/ . “Rock Hands” – a Depression Era saga reminiscent of John Steinbeck will be coming out later this year. The rights to that book are currently under contract with Quattro Media Publications. Gene has finished six 26 mile marathons and thousands of shorter races and still maintains an active exercise routine that includes walking no less than four miles a day. Gene currently lives in Belize, Central America, but was born in Brooklyn New York.

Book preview

Contents

Preface

Foreword: Gonki

Introduction

Uncle Jake

Granpop and the Pipe

The Construction Yard Dogs

Landie’s Boat

Thanksgiving with

Michelle, 5 & 10

Ralphie

The Dinosaur Bone

Pepper, Punch

and Judy

The Lone Ranger

and Mickey Mouse

Richard Webb

Pea Shooters and Tree Houses

Epilogue

Preface

A lot of people crossed my path when I was growing up. Some of them were more involved in my life than others.

These are memories of people I came upon as a kid when I was barely out of the first grade up to the time I graduated from the eighth grade. No matter who they were, I was observing them through a child’s eyes. Some of their physical characteristics were clearly obvious to me as a child, but some were not, or were dimmed by the passage of time. In any case I will make every effort to remember them for what they were and what I thought they looked like when I was a kid.

In any event, what I remember about the people I illuminate in these stories is that they all created a lasting memory. Aside from my immediate family members, a more concise description of the characters and their connection to me will be presented to you in the stories themselves.

Family

Mom … … … … … . .Vivian J. Thomas

Dad … … … … … . . Eugene Thomas

Genie, Pancho … … … Eugene F. Thomas

Brother Gonki[1] … … …Valentine Taffy Thomas

Brother David … … … .David Anthony Thomas

Uncle Val … . My mom’s brother, Valentine C. Jones, Jr.

Aunt Marie … … . Uncle Val’s wife

Cousin Pumpkin … .Uncle Val’s daughter,Marie Collette Jones

Aunt O’Chee … …My mom’s sister, Evangeline J. Blake

Uncle Charlie … . . Aunt O’Chee’s husband, Charles Anthony Blake, Jr.

Cousin Michelle … .Aunt O’Chee & Uncle Charlie’s daughter

Cousin Buzzy … . . Charles Anthony Blake III

Granpop … … … .My mom’s father, Valentine C. Jones, Sr.

Nana … … … … .My mom’s mother, Jenny Robinson Jones

Uncle Jake … … . .Nana’s older brother, Jacob Robinson

Angie … … … . .Nana’s sister, Angelina R. Robinson

Friends I Played With

Ralphie … … … … … … . Ralph Elliot

Darlene … … … … … … . Darlene Elliot

Boxie … … … … … … …Boxie Phillips

Landie … … … … … … . .Orlando Heinz

José … … … … … … … José Heinz

Raphael … … … … … … .Raphael Heinz

Janelle … … … … … … . .Janelle Heinz

Appold … … … … … … . .Robert Appold

Richard … … … … … … . Richard Webb

Maybelle … … … … … … .Maybelle Webb

Nathaniel … … … … … … Nathaniel Moore

T.T… … … … … … … ….Tyrone Haynes

Diane … … … … … … ….Diane Rooks

York … … … … … … … .York Hardwick

Peggy … … … … … … . Peggy Hardwick

Adults I Knew

Mrs. Webb Richard Webb’s mother, Blanche Webb

Mrs. Burrell … .Ralphie Elliot’s grandmother

Mr. Frank … …A neighbor

Mrs. Butler … . .My sixth grade teacher

Foreword: Gonki

As adults, we’re seldom able to recall all the things we did when we were children or whom we did them with. Some of us are lucky enough to have shared our childhood with someone who can journey back in time to specific moments that were pivotal to each of us. In the journey back we recall things and people that made those moments unforgettable, even if they were bad. I never had the luxury of sharing those moments throughout my life with my brother Val, even though he had a major role in creating them.

missing image file

When our family moved to California, Val chose to enter the priesthood and was away at the seminary during the years most important to the both of us – the years where we could share and cement earlier memories for life. Not long after entering his fifth year in the seminary, Val was raped by a priest. When he told our parents, they were upset but remained silent. Their silence robbed my brother of a sane and healing future with them and his siblings – particularly me.

Val’s tumble into emotional darkness was never fully addressed, and to this day he remains a shell of the man he could have become. He lives with his son in Las Vegas, barely aware of the life he could have had and the memories of our childhood he could have been sharing with me and the rest of his family. But I remember.

Gonki and I experienced a childhood that kids today hardly ever see much less imagine. We actually played outside. Gonki and I fought tooth and nail with each other every other day, not because we hated each other but because we were around each other every day of our young lives. The only separation we had was at school. So, it was no surprise that we got on each other’s very last nerve so often.

I miss my brother and what we had very much. I miss the days we played outside; the evenings we had to take a bath together; the nights we would talk ourselves to sleep in our bunk beds, dreaming of buried treasure in our own backyard; the silly things we got caught doing – and Gonki blaming me for them.

But most of all I miss the man he never became. Each time I read these stories and recount our adventures with my children and other siblings, I feel somehow cheated, not so much for myself anymore, but for him.

Introduction

In the summer of 1955 my mom and dad bought a house in Jamaica, Queens. Our family always remembered what had occurred in our lives by where we lived. At the end of World War II, my mom and dad, Uncle Val and Aunt Marie, Aunt O’Chee and Uncle Charlie all lived with my grandparents in a four-story brownstone in the middle of Brooklyn. The house number was 715. So we all – those of us who can still remember – call it 715 Halsey Street.

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Me on the gate, with Aunt O’Chee

at 715 Halsey Street.

As each of our families could afford it, we all moved out to Long Island into what were then brand new Levitt-town homes. That is everyone except my mom and dad. They were lucky to find a house on a dead-end street located next to a swamp and a construction yard. The house was a few years old and had been owned by a family who had maintained it from top to bottom in the style of most New England families – surrounded by trees, with a large porch, a grape arbor and lots of places to walk in woods secluded from traffic and any strangers.

The house was 140-05 159th Street, just north of the Belt Parkway; about four miles from what later would be known as John F. Kennedy International Airport.

140-05 was a magical place for two young boys full of mischief. But our mischief wasn’t confined to the inside of our house.

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140-05 159th Street.

The stories I’m about to share were of those times that, when I look back on them, I wonder how I’m not crippled or paralyzed or that one of us wasn’t killed. In any case, growing up in Jamaica Queens in the mid ’50s and early ’60s was both a challenge and a gift. I do not propose to share them in any chronological order, but some stories had to be told first in order to gain some context before moving on to the next, shall we say, situation.

Angelina Robinson was my grand aunt and one of the most influential people in my young life, though I had not a clue about just how much she had influenced my life until after she died.

Angie was the maiden aunt it seemed everyone had back in those days. While she never married or had a family of her own, she was deeply involved in the lives of the children of her sister, my grandmother. Angie took it upon herself to walk all the children to and from school. And when those children had children, she walked them to school too. Angie never had a place of her own. She was quite content to live in an extra room my grandma and grandpa had in that same brownstone our families shared in Brooklyn.

Angie was a fiercely religious woman who made sure all her family members had a seat in church every Sunday. We were all committed to marching in the church parades, and we all had some role in church festivities throughout the year. I wasn’t particularly happy with being forced to walk down the street in the annual Easter and Christmas or Thanksgiving parades the church held. But at the tender age of five or six, I had little choice.

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Me and Angelina Robinson, circa 1955.

As one of her self-imposed duties to our families, Angie walked my brother and me to school every day until I was midway through the fifth grade. The other kids would laugh at us and really give us the business when we got inside the playground and engaged with them before the morning line-up bell rang. It was so embarrassing at the time that we would beg Angie to leave us at the traffic light about block from the school so it would look like we actually walked to school by ourselves, like