The Legends of Some Kid: The Hanbury Road Years

By Donald Lee Sadler

Idyllic tales of a childhood spent in the puerile stages of suburban Great Bridge in Chesapeake, Virginia in the 1970s and 1980s. There are no excuses here, no apologies, no holding back or hiding behind false names. The tales are true, the characters are real, and they are beautiful. While some of the stories may make you laugh, scratch your head, or reflect with a familiar sadness, you will hopefully find a sense of place. Hopefully, you will recall a time when you were almost some kid doing the same insane things described in these stories, and smile with pride how these kids pulled it off. We wish everyone could have grown up and experienced life in the way it is described here, though you would have needed a slightly warped mind to keep up. Think Leave It To Beaver meets Stand By Me meets One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest and there you have it. While growing up, most children attempt something a little over the top, or assume they have come up with some new-fangled idea to get over on adults or other children. They are then usually harshly informed how SOME KID thought of it already, and tried it, and failed miserably. These are the stories of those children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098336714

Book preview

Epilogue

Prologue

Some kid probably lived in your neighborhood. He may have attended your school, or possibly your church. I would bet he at least lived in some not-so-distant cul-de-sac or farm within your immediate vicinity. Close enough for quiet rumor and long-told folklore to reach your ears. Your mother knew his mother, or your friend’s mom had a friend who knew his mother’s friend. No matter the degree of separation between you and some kid, you could not escape his (or her) merits. Being compared to the star athlete, the pretty one, or the smart student in class was torture enough, but having your actions held up against those of some kid was hopeless. You hated some kid, you cursed his unknown name, and you cringed at the mere mention of his deeds. He had ruined it for all of us. Everything you thought of, some kid thought of first. Everything you invented; some kid had invented already. Everything you dared to risk or were dared to do, some kid did, and did horribly wrong. The typical conversations may have gone as such:

Excited Kid: Hey let’s go swimming in that lake!

Wiser Kid: We can’t.

Excited Kid: Why not?

Wiser Kid: Because some kid drowned in that lake.

Dejected, no longer Excited, Kid: oh…

Even on holidays:

Dressed up Kid: Hey let’s go trick or treating at every house on the block!

Wiser Kid: Ok, all but that big house on the corner.

Dressed up Kid: Why not? It is the biggest house around, probably tons of candy!

Wiser Kid: Because some kid got a razor blade in his apple at that house. Also, do not eat the candy through your mask because some kid got his tongue all cut up.

Taking his mask off Kid: oh…

Or the classics:

Teacher: Do not run in the hallways with pencils or scissors in your hands.

Every Kid in Class: Why? Are we not fast and agile?

Teacher: Because some kid tripped and fell and poked his eye out.

Every Kid in Class: oh…

Mother: Don’t make that face or cross your eyes like that!

Funny Kid: Why not? Is it not funny looking?

Mother: Because some kid did that and his face got stuck that way!

Serious Kid: oh…

If the teller of these lurid tales were the inventive sort you might get the expanded version. His body was never found and is somewhere floating still on the bottom of the lake. He bit into it and cut his tongue right off then ate his tongue thinking it was candy before he realized it. His eyeball popped out and rolled down the hallway, the last thing he saw was Billy McGoo’s sneaker bottom. Now he works at the circus as Jo-Bob the cross-eyed kid. That damn kid. You could not have any fun, ever. No kid growing up in any place during any time could risk his neck or gain fame with the ladies for feats of daring without having in the back of his mind the demise or maladies suffered by some kid who had done it first:

I am going to jump my bike over that ditch!

"Be careful, some kid did that and jammed the handle bars up into his stomach and died."

See what I mean?

During the magical holiday season of 1978 everything in my male-dominated kid world revolved around galaxies far, far away. We not only wanted everything Star Wars but were not above admitting the coolness of Battlestar Galactica as well, and when Mattel Toy’s Colonial Viper ship was released, with real rocket-launching features, it was a must own. It took some kid in Georgia exactly one week to destroy all that. On December 31, 1978 some kid in Atlanta promptly fired the missile down his throat…and died. On January 11, Mattel issued a recall order for the Viper and other missile-firing versions of the Battlestar Galactica toy line. It also issued a missile mail-in for those who had already purchased a missile-firing version of the toy. In exchange for the little red missiles, Mattel provided Hot Wheels toys, for the loss in play value. Mattel redesigned the vehicle line to have non-firing missiles.

The death of some kid triggered a national outcry to remove projectiles from all toys. On March 23, 1979, some kid’s parents sued Mattel. The judge presiding over the case singled out Star Wars space toys as the culprit (which upset Lucas very much.) The controversy had an impact on Kenner’s Star Wars’ toy line, as it delayed the shipment of its Boba Fett dolls. The action figure – one of the coolest yet released in the galaxy far, far away - was part of a mail-away offer on the backs of other Star Wars figurines. Although Boba Fett’s original intention and promotion included a rocket-firing backpack, this mechanism was removed from its design. No rocket-firing Boba Fetts ever rolled off the line, and only a handful of the unpainted prototypes exist. For years my friends and I would pine over that allegedly out there somewhere rocket-firing Boba Fett unaware of the power some kid had to force legislation and change upon the rest of us. Star Wars toys would forever be affected by the actions of some kid. The original Han Solo laser pistol, which the kids across the road possessed, was black and realistic looking until some kid held up a 7-11 with one and the future versions and all toy guns thereafter were painted ugly bright orange and officially no longer fun to play with. These examples are used in detail to illustrate the amazing potential and life-changing impacts the actions of some kid can bring about. Some kid can mess things up for everyone.

I am confident that somewhere right now, as I type this, there are children on Hanbury Road in Chesapeake, Virginia who are not allowed to go anywhere or do anything ever. We were there first. We did it all and spoiled it for the rest of you. We were some kids, and these are our legends.

Chapter 1: The Money Jar

Children from the ages of nine to fourteen are more diabolical than their parents can ever comprehend. Susan B. Anthony held the limbo stick above the measure of our morality, whispering to us in an alluring haunting voice:

How low can you go?

The answer was very low indeed.

This tale will take you into our world on Hanbury Road, introducing you to the many ways we endeavored to get over on one another. My childhood friends hold granite-like busts of memory inside my mind’s Hall of Heroes. They are forever immortalized in the kindred spirit of shared summers, backyard glory, tree fort architecture, and hayloft jumping. To this day I have not one unkind word or ill thought toward any of them; truth to tell, I love them all dearly. But back in those social order ladder-climbing days of establishing childhood dominance there was no loyalty amongst the young. The story of the money jar represents my character at the time well enough to illustrate the ability I possessed to pull strings like some mad puppeteer with a mission.

Jennifer and Kathe Booher resided in the Big Yellow House across the street from Old Man Jones. As the kid runs, my cohorts, the brothers Kevin and Eric Frew, and I, could be there one minute after receiving a summons from the girls, complete with the knowledge the Booher household was adult free. Our families were not rich, mostly centered firmly within the stressed middle class economies that so dominated Great Bridge at the time. However, the Booher girls’ Big Yellow House was the largest abode on the road and stood out in a fulsome flush of rainbow yellow which granted its moniker. The residence came complete with an intact antique working phone booth, a spiral staircase, and a proper room of expensive aged furniture we were not allowed to sit upon. By these things we judged the Boohers as slightly above our means. Perhaps this led to the eventual resolution to lighten them of this heavy pecuniary surplus somewhat, but I am getting ahead of myself.

Above the refrigerator in Wanda Booher’s kitchen in the Big Yellow House sat the money jar. Kennedy half-dollars, Eisenhower silver dollars, Mercury-headed coins that filled our head with pirate thoughts, and the aforementioned Susan B. who made her debut on the mint market a mere summer prior, all stared down at us with tempting glee from the transparent amber glass jar atop the mustard-yellow Amana. Due to the instilled threat of parental retribution, the Booher girls were immune to the captivating powers of the money jar. Charlie Booher petrified the Frews and me, and normally when confronted with the phrase: Dad’s due home from work soon, we chose our exits wisely.

But Charlie Booher was at work at that time, and General Dwight D. and his shiny friends were right up there on that appliance top. Now, before I incriminate myself, let me explain something. Being the elder by two years and therefore the most learned of the potential brigands, I too resisted the siren call of Miss Mercury and her cohorts. My partners in impending crime were not so fortunate.

Please know these were children in the summer days of 1980. There were no blood-spewing video games to keep us indoors, though Atari existed, we chose to play at night and indulge our daylight hours fixated on greenery, wood paths, and neighborhood mischief. We also existed in a time when boys and girls could play together and not end up as talk show subjects. We were innocent, albeit as you can probably guess, guilty of stealing money out of that jar. Though again, I get ahead of myself.

On more than a few of those wood path days, the Frews and I explored the Small Woods behind my house, along with Tony Curling. Tony was an older kid two homes down from me who filled the gap of time between my eighth and twelfth years after the Morgans and David Chappell moved away; a debt I will always owe him. Our own legends took place before the Frews moved onto Hanbury and will be chronicled in time. Tony was as skilled a carpenter as one of his age could be, introducing us to many methods of fort construction in the Small Woods which were at the time marvels of pine and pitch architecture. We built communal forts, we built private forts, and we even built forts that served as shops so we could peddle our wares back and forth to each other. Tony was there for the construction process and played along with our merchant like shrewdness, but he missed the boat on the make-believe consumption that took hold and inspired us to seek out any and all ways of achieving financial status amongst the trees. He also had no idea of the world we had created with the Booher girls and the wonderful dream-like places we wandered in and out of on days he would rather spend fixing cars or lawnmowers. Older kids were stupid like that.

One particular day in the jungle, I was upset because the Frews were spending their money in Tony’s shop, buying back some of the same junk they had no doubt sold him days before. I had a growing collection of re-traded comic books and duplicate Matchbox cars I simply had to divest, so in my pubescent quest for consumerism glory I had the first idea to scream out:

SALE!!

It rang throughout the tangle and into the ears of my playmates with an emmeshing pull of promise that forced Tony to declare his workshop closed while he and the Frews came running along the worn out path of pine straw towards my own proprietary place of pretend employment. It was Black Friday in the forest as the three bargain hunters sped through the opening of my woodsy walls with money in hand. As items began to move from seller to buyers I was at first stunned into a calm sort of self-worth as the cool currency chilled my greedy fingers. It was seconds later that I looked down and noticed just what kind of change it was. There in my outstretched palm was Susan B. Anthony, along with General Dwight D. Eisenhower, President Kennedy and Lady Mercury by the pound. Tony grinned and exchanged commerce with the ignorance of the origin of his ill-gotten gains; I knew better.

For a few seconds I was a little miffed. The brothers and I were at this point in our childhood, inseparable. The evidence in my hands suggested they had not only taken it upon themselves to plot and plan a heist without me, but to find time to journey alone to the Booher girls house and successfully distract the daughters long enough to pilfer their parents’ coin collection. I was sure this haul was not a one-event score either. I imagine the brothers approached it carefully, starting with a few coins which no doubt ended up in local pinball machines. Once a feeling of confidence entered into the little thieves, the money jar stood no chance. By now a noticeable dip was almost certainly evident in the contents of the amber coin holder and time would indubitably bring retribution. I had to act fast.

Had I reacted like any normal child I would have immediately shrieked out allegations pointing to the obvious source for the hoard placed in my palms. This would have allowed Tony to realize the coins he just received, and re-spent prior to analyzing, were worth keeping. He would have exploited his bigger-kid right to seize them from us and this account would have ended and faded from memory. Had I informed the Frews later, after Tony left, that I knew the font of their yield, then any future retaliation by the Booher dad would have been re-directed at me, the possessor of the loot. Instead, in the span of a nanosecond my deviant mind worked its wonders and I kept silent, putting on my best ignorant face, letting the two burglars think they had not only successfully rid themselves of their evidence, turning it into new toys and superhero books, but gotten one over on me as well, for in their minds I had zero idea what was happening. I performed my role to Oscar worthy caliber and quietly put the coins in my pocket. Scheming as we exited the woods, all of us felt content with the day, one of us was holding it all in.

After counting and recounting my gain, I took the time to calmly eat dinner, read a comic book or two, and plot out exactly how this was going to go down. Things of this nature simply cannot be rushed; mistakes are too easy to be made. Minute details and possibilities need to be laid out and rehearsed. Of course I knew I could not show my mother the money, she would immediately suspect Kevin and Eric had robbed their own parents secret cave of saved coinage and pick up a phone. This would have led to Marilyn or Bob Frew saying no they didn’t have that kind of money around the house, but they also couldn’t say where their sons had gotten it, so an inquiry would have begun, ultimately leading to me having to give back the money so the boys could return it to its rightful owners. That would not do. For almost the same reason I could not take the money to Tony. Also, it would be too risky to try to spend at the 7-11 as some nosey cash register jockey would have been suspicious. Remember I was twelve and nearly every twelve year old knows anyone working at 7-11 has the number for all nearby parents. No, I would have to spend the money wisely amongst the very people who would never raise an eyebrow, other twelve-year-olds.

Mornings at Great Bridge Junior High School were special. Gathering in the corners of the hallways like an Arabian bazaar we traded and sold our comic books, candy, or various memorabilia with the haggle power of elite vendors. In the chaos of early morning commerce it would have been easy enough to pass the stolen money off, laundering it so to speak, into the Amazing Spider-Man, Loudon’s Cherry Cough Drops, or NFL pencils. Alas, this was summer, and my bartering friends were still a month or more away. It took me some effort then to pawn off my ill-gotten gains onto kids I knew from neighboring streets and a few mule-kicked church boys. Only after performing this magical trick and filling my unknowing friends’ pockets with contraband did I decide to rat out the Frew brothers. It was the safest thing to do, albeit going against all I believed in and held sacred. Diabolically, I set about the scheme. I called Jennifer Booher and nonchalantly talked about this or that. When I felt it safe, I casually made mention that I had overheard the boys talking about the money jar and thought it might be a good idea if Jennifer checked it to see if it looked like anything was missing. Brilliance! Now I could convince myself I did NOT indeed tattle on Kevin and Eric, but merely placed a suggestive thought into the mind of the elder Booher girl, letting HER be the one to deduce a crime had taken place and of course know who to blame, and more importantly on my part, who not to blame. I went to bed that night clueless as to how this would all play out and continued my naivety the next day hoping the matter closed.

On that momentous soon-to-be-extraordinary day, the Frew brothers and I were in Eric’s room in the middle of the house. His window faced their backyard and Bob Frew was working diligently in his prize garden. Next door to the Frews was the empty field belonging to Old Man Jones and next to that the Big Yellow House. This same window which faced the back yard was once broken by us in a baseball game too close to the house. Cleverly locating, and or killing, a bird, we put its newly bloody body into the window with some well-placed feathers between the glass cracks. When Mrs. Frew came home from work we had already perfected our story and the obvious details were there in the bloody broken window. She bought it hook, line, and proverbial sinker causing us to think ourselves invincible in the art of cover-up. That seeming invincibility was about to be put to the test, because I happened to look out the window to notice Charlie Booher meandering across the bent grass in a beeline for Bob Frew and his garden. Mr. Booher was a man of few words and he seldom ever entered our kid world, but this time his stride was purposeful, his eyes narrowing behind his tinted glasses and from beneath his Built Ford Tough hat. I could feel the air go out of the Frew boys’ bodies and immediately I felt that warning sense a kid gets from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were fireworks about to happen though and I was transfixed.

Hey, it’s Charlie Booher coming across the field, I exclaimed with that air of having no idea why in my voice.

What do you think he wants? I continued,

Did you guys do anything to Jennifer or Kathe?

Boy, I was pushing it now but the Frews weren’t talking, just staring out that window. Charlie approached Bob and the two of them quietly spoke, Charlie with his hands in his pockets and head down, obviously embarrassed to be telling the boys’ father they were doomed to a life of failure and crime. Bob listened and took it all in, then slowly turned his head towards the house and inadvertently the window we were all pressed up against. Now it has never been measured that I have heard of, but the ability of a kid to move in the time it takes an adult to turn and look for them puts a humming birds’ wings to shame. So, where three heads had been, Bob saw only an empty open window. This caused him to simply yell out:

Kevin…Eric…get out here NOW!

The authority in his voice begged for promptness. Eric, having said not a word, reluctantly left to meet his fate. Kevin remained motionless next to me. I somehow braved to peek and watch as a shy small head-hanging-down Eric approached the situation. Meekly he inched closer to his father and was pushed towards Mr. Booher. Once more Bob yelled, this time only including Kevin in his call.

You better get out there, I said, but Kevin remained silent.

I was stunned, as I pictured Kevin with missing limbs. I continued watching and Eric was getting it now, Charlie’s mouth was moving, and Eric’s head was slowly nodding. Eric would not look up at Mr. Booher, to which I could not blame him. Kevin continued to ignore his dad’s call. The scene before me was this, Bob Frew standing there with his hands in his pockets, blocking Eric from turning and running off, an embarrassed look on his face as he periodically turned towards the house waiting for his other felonious son. Eric standing between the two adult men, head down, tears welling up, taking it all, spilling his guts. Charlie Booher was probably trying not to laugh while acting stern and reprimanding. And there I was staring out the window praying to the Lord my name did not come up, while keeping one astounded eye on the still unmoving Kevin.

Bob Frew’s patience reached its breaking point and out came the dreaded full name:

Kevin Neil Frew you get out here right now!

What happened next turns a simple story about kids learning from right and wrong, or the machinations of myself over my younger buddies, into a fable of unbelievable proportions which to this day still makes me scratch my head. In the countless billions of examples of children trying to get themselves out of tight spots, or the unfathomable amount of excuses and mutterings that filled the heads of reprimanding parents, it seems believable at some point in this infinite cosmos something would work. This is one time it did. I was there, I heard it, I saw it. I was witness to the Miracle at Frew House. Something awoke in young Kevin Frew, some deep hidden animosity towards authority maybe, or just some pissyness at being caught, but whatever it was, it welled up inside him until it erupted out of his mealy little mouth loudly, boldly, and with obstinate authority through the open window screen. Were I not sitting right there next to him at the time I would never have believed it. Kevin simply screamed out:

MY SHOE!

The way it warbled and emerged from his pursed lips distorted those two simple words,