The Road to Catoctin Mountain: A 20Th Century Journey

By Robert J. Gerard

Robert Gerards life story involves a fascinating journey full of twists, turns, and unexpected events. With no specific career plan in place, things just happened mostly good things! Along the way, over time, people, events, and places seemed to re-emerge in an intriguing way.

Gerard was born in New York City in 1930. He and his mother and father lived on the west side, near Central Park. He didnt know until many years later that his father was an alien who had entered the United States illegally and changed his name. When Robert was just two years old, the FBI came knocking at the apartment off Central Park West. However, they were not looking for illegal aliens. They were looking for the Lindbergh baby!

Later, the family moved to West Orange, New Jersey, a small town where it seemed that nearly everyone was employed by Thomas A. Edison, Inc. Gerards story captures the lean years of the 1930s, prior to World War II, some problems at home, and his escapades as a teen-ager during the war years, including two years of tough discipline at a private boarding school in North Jersey. It was during this period that his father was deported to Belgium from Ellis Island.

After graduating from high school, Gerard joined the ranks of those who worked at one of the Edison factories in West Orange. Two older workers, combat veterans from WWII, became his mentors. During the early phases of the Korean War, they shared fascinating stories about their wartime experiences. Bored by factory work, and inspired by his two local heroes, Gerard enlisted in the army in 1951.

As a result of some very poor training, Gerard and a good friend decided to apply for admission to Officer Candidate School. Ironically, Robert Gerard, the reluctant applicant, was accepted while his buddy was rejected. After his commissioning, his experience in Korea prompted him to remain in the army. While stationed with the 82d Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, he married a high school classmate in 1954. Together, they had eight children.

Gerard describes his assignment as a weapons instructor at Fort Benning, Georgia and then, his experience as a student in the Armys flight school at Fort Rucker, Alabama. An opportunity to complete his undergraduate education took him and his family to Mississippi Southern College in Hattiesburg, Mississippi during the same year that James Meredith became the first black student to be admitted to the University of Mississippi.

Gerards subsequent assignment at the armys Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas (1963-1964) was a year filled with major events, including President Kennedys assassination, the increasing commitment to military support for South Vietnam, and an address by former President Harry Truman. Next, a wonderful assignment in Verona, Italy, where his family lived in a small Italian village, was cut short due to critical needs for army helicopter pilots in Vietnam.

He describes his first tour in Vietnam, including the buildup of U.S. conventional forces and the application of air mobility as a part of tactical operations. Also, he had an opportunity to see his brother whose base camp was just several miles away. After returning to the States, he worked in the Pentagon and described both the serious and hilarious events related to surviving in The Puzzle Palace. In 1970, his second tour in Vietnam placed him much farther north, near the Demilitarized Zone, where enemy forces consist mostly of North Vietnamese regulars. His description of military operations in Vietnam reflects both the early years as well as the beginning of the drawdown of U.S. forces.

After an interesting year of study at Monmouth College, Gerard attended the U.S. Army War College at Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, just a few miles south of Indiantown Gap where he took his basic training. His experien

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 8, 2006
• ISBN: 9781465324047

Robert J. Gerard

COL. Robert J. Gerard, USA (Ret), was born in New York City, grew up in West Orange, New Jersey and spent a full career in the United States Army, including combat tours in Korea and in Vietnam. He completed an undergraduate degree in History from the University of Southern Mississippi, Master’s Degrees in Education from Monmouth University and Shippensburg University, and a Ph.D. from the Pennsylvania State University. He undertook a second career as a Professor of Management at Mount Saint Mary’s University in Emmitsburg, Maryland where he retired as a Professor Emeritus in 2001.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE LEAN YEARS

The noises of busy traffic, horns blowing, and fire engines drifted from the street far below. Perched on a chair in front of the open window, I stared through the vertical bars that served to provide safety in a tall apartment building on the West Side of Manhattan, close to Central Park. This was my first remembrance of early childhood. My only other recollection of this apartment was receiving a gift of assorted toy automobiles. They came in a large box, and each small car rested snugly in a cutout portion of a cardboard parking lot. According to my mom, she used to take me into Central Park regularly to a place where I climbed around on some huge rocks. I must have been just two years old.

When I was much older, my mother told me more about the apartment on the West Side. We moved there after my family returned from a one-year trip to Florida. At that point, the family consisted of my mother, my father, and me. Of course, I was too young to know the significance of the excursion to Florida, but it played an important role in the future of our family. It had to do with my father’s presence in the United States as an illegal alien.

My mother and father met and married while she was living with her parents in the Bronx. My mother’s family had migrated from Quebec to Fall River, Massachusetts, and then to New York City. My father went by the name of Robert Etienne Gerard, and he was referred to as Bobby. However, that was not his real name. His real name was Etienne Lodewijk Gevaert. He claimed that he had come from France, but later I found that he was born in Belgium, near Brussels. Apparently, my father arrived in the United States without a passport or visa. Perhaps he had a visa that expired. Years later, my mother explained that the trip to Florida came about because the immigration service was undertaking an intense investigation in New York City to identify illegal aliens and deport them. We had moved to Florida for a year and then, when it seemed safe, the family returned to New York City.

Shortly after we returned to New York City, two FBI agents were knocking at the door of the apartment. My father would have panicked if he were home at the time. However, the FBI was not looking for illegal aliens. The year was 1932, and there was a nationwide search underway to find the kidnapped

Lindbergh baby. A neighbor, who saw this new family with a small boy move into the apartment, had called the FBI. Ironically, across the Hudson River in Orange, New Jersey, my future brother-in-law, who was about my age, had climbed aboard a bakery truck that was making house-to-house deliveries. When the driver returned to the bakery, he found this little boy in the back of his truck. He was sure he had the Lindbergh baby!

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Central Park was my play ground (1932)

When I was about four years old, we moved to the Bronx for a few months before moving to New Jersey. My recollection of those early days in the Bronx is limited to several events. First, I remember getting my hands on some house paint (yellow and red) and painting the running board on my Uncle Bert’s convertible. He must have been furious, but I don’t remember any repercussions. Also, my grandmother had a statue of the Blessed Virgin in our attic bedroom. I can remember fashioning a slingshot out of a rubber band and firing paper clips at the Holy Mother (Mary, forgive me!). Also, I took my first puff on a cigarette while some of the older kids were smoking and cooking mickies (baked potatoes) in the lot behind our house.

Finally, there was an event that was to stick with me forever. My parents and grandparents spoke French routinely. My father emphasized the importance of speaking French, and he insisted that French be spoken in our house. However, when I played on the sidewalk in front of the house, the other kids would make fun of me because I could not speak English. I remember coming upstairs in tears because I was so embarrassed. In my own small way, I rebelled by avoiding opportunities to speak French and by responding in English. Also, as I learned English, I was embarrassed by my father’s French accent. If we were out in public and he spoke English, I would try to distance myself from him.

Today, I feel some guilt about my childish behavior and I struggle with any attempt to speak French, although I understand it clearly. More than a half century later I would read Richard Rodriguez’ autobiography, Hunger of Memory, in which he describes near identical experiences with his Spanish speaking parents. Rodriguez said, . . . it was unsettling to hear my parents struggle with English (15). On the street, when Richard’s father tried to put his arm around him, Richard . . . evaded his grasp and ran ahead . . . skipping with feigned boyish exuberance (ibid). That’s exactly what I did!

In 1935, when I was five years old, we moved to West Orange, New Jersey, a small town in central New Jersey bordered by Orange, East Orange, South Orange, and Montclair. The terrain sloped upward in the western part of town to form a portion of Orange Mountain. There was a general hierarchy associated with the geography of West Orange. The poorer people lived at the base of the mountain. As one moved up the hill along Eagle Rock Avenue, Northfield Road, or Mount Pleasant Avenue, the houses were more expensive and more attractive. Also, one could have an excellent view of the New York City skyline from many of the houses located on the side of the mountain. Finally, there was a large, private residential area called Llewellyn Park that extended from the base of the mountain to the top.

The Park was home to many affluent families, including Thomas A. Edison and later, his son, Governor Edison. My future wife’s grandfather was Thomas Edison’s carriage driver and, later, his chauffeur. As I grew up in West Orange, the key landmarks for me were George Washington School, Wigwam Brook, Edison Junior High School, Colgate Playground, Our Lady of Lourdes Church, Eagle Rock, Crystal Lake, and the Edison factories.

The families who lived in West Orange were mostly Italian or Irish with a sprinkling of other cultures in between. I grew up with DeCheser, Remaglia, DeGange, Oufiero, Gagliardi, DiMarzo, Ferrara, Cerutti, Sesara, Bonifacio, DiPalma, Lepore, and Barone. Also, there was Reilly, Conroy, Murphy, Mahoney, Henessey, O’Rourke, O’Toole, O’Malley, O’Connor, Fitzpatrick, Kearney, and Hanley.

We moved to West Orange in time for me to be enrolled in George Washington School. We lived in one of twin apartment houses at 47 Watson Avenue. Watson Avenue was located at the base of the mountain. It was here that I met the person who would be my best friend forever. Floyd DeCheser lived on the second floor, and we lived on the third. We were inseparable. Our birthdays were only five days apart.

Floyd and I used to play in the lots behind the apartment houses. Often, when I talk about playing in the lots, people do not know what I am referring to. The lots were unoccupied properties, often wooded and overgrown with foliage. For a small boy, the lots appeared to be much like a forest or a jungle; the perfect place to play cowboys and Indians, hide and seek, or to climb trees and swing through the branches like Tarzan. You could even take a pee in the lots if you were far from your house. Years later, I realized that a lot was a real estate term pertaining to properties with fixed boundaries.

One day Floyd and I found an empty, cardboard mattress box behind the apartments. We were crawling around inside the box when some bigger kids came along and decided to have some fun. They took turns running back and forth across the mattress box while we were trapped inside. When they ran away, we chased them, and I threw a large piece of broken concrete at the intruders. A little boy cannot throw a large piece of concrete very far. My missile didn’t reach the fleeing boys, but landed directly on Floyd’s head. He had to get a bunch of stitches. His parents were pretty upset. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but found out later that Floyd’s mom could not have any more children. Because he was an only child, it was a major concern to them.

I liked to play with matches when I was a little boy. One morning, I started a fire behind the apartment house. The fire engines came and got the fire under control. Mr. Knecht, whose grocery store was across the street from the apartments, saw me looking out the apartment window after the fire. In his thick German accent, he shook his finger at me and shouted, You bat poy! I don’t know how he knew I was the one who started the fire.

Mr. Knecht’s store was the only grocery store within five or six blocks of the apartments. Just about everyone in our neighborhood shopped there. Mr. Knecht presented a tall, but somewhat bent-over figure. He was bald except for a puff of hair over each ear. It was hard to see his eyes behind the thick spectacles that hung over his nose. Mr. Knecht never smiled. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, and he wore a long apron as he shuffled around the store waiting on customers. The store had a strong, but pleasant smell of vegetables, meats, and cheeses. In one corner was a large barrel filled with dill pickles. For several pennies, he would fish one out of the barrel with a huge fork, wrap it in a piece of brown paper, and hand it to you. His milk supplies were delivered by a horse-drawn delivery truck from Alderney Dairies. During deliveries, the horse would munch in the feed bag that hung from his neck. Invariably, he would deposit a mound of steaming manure on the street before moving on to the next customer.

Across the street from Knecht’s was Jimmy’s Butcher Shop. Meat portions were not pre-cut in those days. When my mother wanted to buy a piece of meat, the butcher would make the cut from a larger piece of meat kept in a huge refrigerator. Hamburger was ground while the customer waited. Jimmy was very proud of his two teen-age boys. They were following in their father’s footsteps. They had attended a meat-cutting course and were qualified to make the cuts that were requested.

There were no supermarkets during our first years in West Orange. Instead, there were small grocery stores, like Knecht’s, throughout the town. These stores served customers who lived in a five to six block radius. The closest large grocery store was the A&P at Tory Corner. In the early 1940s, an ACME was constructed near Tory Corner. Baskets with wheels were available for shoppers. However, not every family owned an automobile. It was much too far for those of us who lived 12 blocks away.

Virtually all the delivery vehicles were horse-drawn. Mr. Neglio delivered coal (in the winter) and ice (in the summer). During the hot weather, we would sneak onto the back of the wagon and break off pieces of ice to suck on. As it moved slowly down the street, the wagon left an irregular trail of water from the melting ice. Also, in our neighborhood, an Italian farmer sold fruits and vegetables from a large horse-drawn wagon. A scale mounted on the rear swung back and forth in tune with the clip-clop of the horse’s shoes on the pavement. The farmer announced his arrival on the block with a long, mournful wail followed by a melodious list of items to be sold and their prices. Ay-a-a-a-a-a-a-up! Getta you nice-a tomatas, justa pick, five-a cents-a-poun. Others came through town with their wagons to collect scrap metal or rags. The Rag Man had the loudest voice: R-a-a-a-a-a-gs! R-a-a-a-a-a-gs!

On some Saturday mornings, Mr. Knecht’s grandkids and other youngsters of German descent held a rally of sorts on the sidewalk in front of the store. It was some version of the Hitler Youth organization. They all had uniforms and wore armbands with swastikas on them. These events occurred in 1937 or 1938, before we were at war, and the activity was seen more as a curiosity than anything else.

I recall clearly my first year in kindergarten at the Washington Street School. My father brought the teacher a bouquet. Perhaps it was a European custom, but even as a five-year-old, I thought it was odd. Our classroom consisted of long tables and small straight-back chairs. In the afternoon, we were required to take a nap. In those days, kids didn’t bring mats or rugs or blankets to school. Instead, we had to lie down along the sides of the long tables on several chairs pushed together. From my side of the table, I could look across the under part of the table at one of my classmates who faced me from the other side.

Usually, I found myself staring at Bobo Benson, who always had a cold. As we looked at each other during this period of silence, Bobo’s nose would invariably start to run, and I would watch him sniffle constantly in an attempt to retrieve the long drippings that hung from both nostrils. There was another problem, too. Bobo had a tendency to soil his pants. I guess he was too embarrassed to tell the teacher, so he would just sit there until the teacher responded when students started to groan and look back and forth at each other suspiciously. After a while, we identified the source of the problem.

In the first grade, we learned to read, spell, and write. During that year, I had an attack of appendicitis and was rushed from home to Saint Mary’s Hospital in Orange for an emergency operation. I remember the nurse putting a mask over my nose and telling me to count to ten backwards. I don’t know if ether affected everyone the same way, but when I awoke after the operation I was hallucinating. When I opened my eyes, it appeared to me that my hospital room was filling from floor to ceiling with pudding. My job was to consume all of that pudding before it filled the room and spilled out into the hallway. I cried out to my mother for help. She quickly responded and began consuming the imaginary desert. A nurse heard me yelling, and she joined in and began spooning in the pudding as fast as she could. Anyone looking into my room would have thought we were crazy.

One of the best parts of my hospital experience was receiving letters from my first grade classmates. I kept them for years. In school, we wrote on that kind of paper that provides a line guide for both lower case letters and capitals. The spelling wasn’t the best. One letter closed: Hopping to see you soon. Another was signed: Your fiend, Marvin. At least, the thought was there.

Economically, the 1930s were lean years. Few, if any, kids who attended George Washington School came from affluent families. One boy’s dad was a garbage man making twenty-four dollars a week. Floyd’s father was struggling as an insurance salesman. There were no black students in our school. In fact, there were no black families in West Orange at that time. In West Orange, almost everyone worked for Thomas A. Edison, Inc. The power plant for the several factories included a huge smokestack. The smokestack whistle blew three times each day: at eight in the morning, at noon, and at five in the afternoon. The eight o’clock whistle signaled the beginning of the workday at all the Edison plants and the beginning of the school day in most schools. The noon whistle signaled lunchtime. The five o’clock whistle signaled the end of the workday at the factory. For kids, it was a clear reminder to return home from the playground or other activity in time for the evening meal.

As soon as the five o’clock whistle blows, I want you to be on your way home. No excuses!

No one could ever get away with saying they didn’t hear the whistle.

I was always embarrassed when teachers would start the new academic year by asking students to tell the class what kind of work their parents did. My father was a waiter in a nightclub, and my mother was a hatcheck girl and later, a waitress. Even as a young boy, I was uncomfortable because I perceived that these were not seen as respectable jobs. We had no telephone nor did we have an automobile. Nevertheless, I never considered us to be a poor family. I was never without food or suitable clothing. My breakfast often consisted of a bowl of milk and bread covered with sugar. Sometimes I broke up a couple graham crackers in a bowl and covered them with milk. Once in a while, for a snack, my mother would butter a piece of bread for me and sprinkle some sugar on it. We ate a lot of stew, and we always had soup. I don’t remember having much in the way of bacon and eggs, or steak, but my mother’s meals were healthy and substantial.

My mother had fixed views on what was good for you or not good for you. She said that oatmeal was good because it sticks to your ribs. Liver was good because it contained a lot of iron. Carrots improved your eyesight. Spinach made you strong. Honey and lemon were good for a cold. Coca-cola syrup was good for a cough. Her inventory of remedies included Pertussin, Cod Live Oil, and Black Strap Molasses. You need a tonic each year to clean your system out. You need six glasses of water each day. In later years, she emphasized garlic. Garlic goes to places that medicine can’t get to.

President Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration (WPA) was underway at this time. One group of Italian immigrants worked every day in the area where we lived. They swept the street gutters and cleaned out the sewers. They spoke only in Italian. They didn’t work very hard and spent a lot of time leaning on their shovels. One small worker looked just like Charlie Chaplin in his oversize bib overalls and workman’s cap. He walked like Charlie Chaplin, too. We used to call him Mickey Mouse and run away as fast as we could. Once, he chased me to the door of the apartment house. After that, I stopped teasing him.

Although our families were Catholic and members of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish, Floyd and I attended George Washington School, a public school. At least once a year, Father Fitzsimmons, a priest at Lourdes, would give a homily about the obligation of Catholics to send their children to Catholic school. His emphasis on this issue gave rise to some tension for those of us who had to attend Catechism classes on Sunday mornings. I’m sure that money was an issue for my family. Although the Parish made provisions to provide free tuition for the very poor, we were not in that much difficulty.

The nuns who taught us belonged to an order called the Sisters of Charity. In those days, they were clearly partial to their students who attended Our Lady of Lourdes School. As we sat in the parish classrooms on Sunday morning after Mass, we were given strict instructions not to open the desks or touch any of the personal items belonging to the regular students. We were guests in the classroom. Our text was the Baltimore Catechism, and our task was to memorize the answers to numerous questions about the basic teachings of the Church. Many of these questions and answers are still locked in my brain:

Q. Who made the world?

A. God made the world.

Q. Why did God make you?

A. God made me to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next.

The nun who taught us kept a small cardboard container on her desk. It was designed like a piggy bank and used for donations to aid the missionaries in China. On the outside of the box was the picture of a small Chinese boy holding out his bowl for some food. Sister told us that one or two pennies could buy enough rice to feed a Chinese baby for a full month. Years later, as I stood in a muddy trench in Korea, I wondered how many of the Chinese babies I saved were shooting at me now. Sister also warned us to rely more on the Church’s teachings than the Bible. Further, if we were to read any Bible, it had to be a Roman Catholic version. We were strictly forbidden to take part in any protestant church services. The protestant version of the Our Father, which included forgiving debts and debtors instead of forgiving trespasses and those who trespass against us was taboo. I’m not sure why.

There was one message that our catechism teacher delivered that I would never forget. She repeatedly emphasized the importance of avoiding the occasion for sin. Even as a seven-year-old, I understood. She related this admonition to choosing your friends carefully and to avoiding situations that might lead to trouble. The reason I remembered her advice was because I often regretted not following it. Much later, when I taught a college course for new freshmen, I asked them (mostly Catholic students) if they knew what was meant by the occasion for sin. They had no idea, so I told them. In view of their impending immersion in a new social environment replete with parties, alcohol, and new friends, I was hoping they would think about it.

Our catechism class was designed to prepare us for receiving our First Communion. Most of us were seven years old. In preparation for the church ceremony, we had several rehearsals. Boys and girls, with hands reverently folded, would walk down each side of the center aisle until they reached the first pew. Then, Sister would give the signal to genuflect with a hand-held device that emitted a sharp clack when she squeezed it. At the first clack, all knees were to hit the ground in unison. At the second clack, we would all stand. The third clack was the signal to move into the assigned pews. We clackedour way through the entire ceremony. At the end of the Mass, we recited several prayers for the church in Russia.

Before receiving our First Communion, we had all gone to confession to Father Fitzsimmons or one of the other two priests in the Parish. Father Fitzsimmons was a majestic, but ominous figure. He was very tall, well over six feet. He was a handsome man, but he never smiled. He looked much like the picture of Prince Albert on the tobacco can. When he spoke, his voice was both loud and clear. In those days, we were required to go to confession every Saturday afternoon. When we arrived at church, we never knew which of the two confessionals would be occupied by Father Fitzsimmons. Frankly, we were afraid of him. We wondered what his reaction would be to any serious sin we might have committed.

One Saturday, many of us were standing in line to go to the confessional on the left side of the church. After one of our classmates entered the confessional, we heard Father’s booming voice. YOU DID WHAT? At that point, five or six of us, still in line with some adults and older kids, scurried like rats from our original queue to the other side of the church, where the line led to a more compassionate encounter with one of the other priests.

The Sisters also impressed us with the importance of always being in a state of grace, so that in the event of an untimely death, we would not be barred from Heaven. We might have to spend some time in a place called purgatory, where we had to atone for venial (lesser) sins, before being admitted to Heaven. If we were in a state of mortal sin when we died, we would go straight to Hell. This was a scary thought for my friends and me. My mother seemed more concerned with dressing for the occasion. She insisted that I change my underwear every day. She used to say, If something should happen to you, God forbid, you wouldn’t want to arrive in Heaven with dirty underwear.

On Holy Days of Obligation, when we attended morning Mass, the public school was required to excuse our late arrival. However, I always sensed an air of annoyance in the various teachers when we came in late. Typically, at the beginning of class, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance. In those days, we saluted while reciting the pledge by extending our right arm and hand toward the flag. During World War II, the salute was changed because it resembled too closely the Nazi salute to Hitler. The new salute required putting your right hand over your heart. We also started the school day with a reading from the Bible. I never volunteered to read, because I knew the Bible was not a Catholic version. Nevertheless, I thought the 23rd Psalm was beautiful. I don’t think my Catholicity was ever threatened by that reading or any other used in school.

George Washington School sat astride Tory Corner, a landmark commemorating something from the Revolutionary War. It was a large, brick building. The grounds extended from Washington Street to the Wigwam Brook, a small stream that wound its way from one end of West Orange to the other. The area in front of the school consisted of a blacktop surface where we played tag, dodge ball, and Kick-the-Can (Ring-a-Lario) during recess. On the cement sidewalk, where the surface was smooth, we spun tops. We sharpened the points on the tops and then took turns throwing and trying to split each other’s tops. We also competed for baseball cards by flipping them onto the sidewalk. If your card landed on another player’s card (or cards), you picked them up and they were yours. Meanwhile, the girls used the concrete sidewalk for hopscotch and jump rope.

The ground near the brook was not surfaced. In that area, we played marbles, or mibs as we called them. During the spring and the fall, we carried pouches of marbles to school. There were glassies, and steelies, and cobblers to be traded and won. One person would form a hole in the ground by rotating his heel in the dirt until he had a cup about 3 or 4 inches deep. Then, each of the players would toss a marble toward the cup from the starting line. The object of the game was to knock the marbles of the other players into the cup, using your marble. You won those marbles that you knocked into the cup.

CHAPTER 2

IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT

Since both my parents worked at night, I was left with a teen-age sitter. I must admit that I was terrified of being alone when it was dark. The teen-age sitter would leave me while she met with her boyfriend on the front steps of the apartment building. I’m sure she wasn’t far away, but she was out of sight, and I was afraid to tell her or my parents about my fears. I remember crawling behind the couch while listening to radio programs like The Shadow or Inner Sanctum. This fear of the dark was to plague me for years to come.

When I was a little older, I had a clothes tree in the corner of my bedroom. When I went to bed, my mother would close the door, leaving a narrow slit of light entering the room. It was just enough light for me to make out the various items in the room. Invariably, I would fix my gaze on the clothes tree. Usually, there was a cap on the top of the tree and one or two sweaters or jackets hanging on the hooks below. As I stared at the clothes tree, it took on the appearance of a man with his cap pulled down over his eyes. I thought I saw a slight movement. My imagination raced onward as I anticipated certain death within moments. My eyes shifted to the almost-closed door. It looked like the door was closing even more. Someone or something was pushing the door closed! I wondered if I could make it to the door before the creature in the other corner got me.

I would like to blame my fear of the dark and frequent nightmares on my grandmother. My grandmother was an aspiring author. She wrote several romantic manuscripts, but they were always rejected. Also, she loved going to the movies. When we visited her in the Bronx, she always took me to the movies on Fordham Road. She must have been close to seventy years old at the time. The motion picture industry was born and flourished during her lifetime. My mother told me that grandma once brought a friend to the movies for the first time. The woman was overwhelmed with the grandeur of the theatre. They walked down the aisle and, when they reached a row with some empty seats, my grandmother’s friend, a devout Catholic, genuflected and blessed herself before entering the row.

I only remember three of the movie films that my grandmother took me to see. One was Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde. The second was "The Werewolf of

London, and the third was The Mummy." I can still recall vividly, terrifying parts of those films. Of course, I wasn’t about to admit that I was frightened. Since I had nightmares about these characters, I developed a technique for minimizing their presence while I slept. As I lay in bed, I pictured each character, one by one. Then, in my mind, I exploded each one—blew them into a thousand pieces! It seemed to work.

As I proceeded into the higher grades, the teachers were nice, and the girls were getting prettier. I was an excellent reader and was frequently called on to read to the class. Except for kindergarten, Floyd and I were always in the same class. In fact, in those days, families did not move often. Many of my classmates stayed together until high school graduation. Floyd and I also had a habit of falling in love with the same girl. The first one was Anna. She lived across the street from the apartments on Watson Avenue, and we used to walk back and forth to school together. Incidentally, there were no school busses provided. Most kids walked a half-mile or more to get to school. While this doesn’t match the Abe Lincoln story, it would be considered a long trip for today’s kids.

Anna was an older woman. I think she was nine when we were eight. Along our route to school, we had to pass a nasty little dog on the corner of Chestnut Street and Whittlesey Avenue. I hate little dogs. Whenever we passed that corner, the dog would bark, snarl, start to attack, and then back off. One day, I decided to impress Anna. When the dog started his routine, I dropped on all fours, barked, and lunged toward the dog. Instead of backing off, the dog bit me in the face. It really hurt, but I didn’t want to cry in front of Anna. Floyd was sympathetic, but I detected a slight smirk on his face.

In the fourth grade, Floyd and I were in love with Dolores Clifton, even though she was a few inches taller than we were. The problem was that she didn’t live anywhere near us, so it was impossible to pursue this