Freddy and Mike

By Dick Wells

What we remember most about our youth are the friends we grew up with. What we treasure most are the friends we still have from that special time and place. And when we are challenged with the conventional wisdom that friendship is too commonplace, too mundane to make a good story, we respond, Oh, but you dont know my friends!

Freddy and Mike is the story of two friends growing up in the 1950s. An unlikely pair at first meeting, they become inseparable, surviving trials of fire by tapping unknown reservoirs of strength, and enjoying a secret which few discover.

Freddy and Mike begins when the two ten-year-old boys meet in the small Midwestern town they call home. They come from different backgrounds. One belongs to the traditional family of that era where dad works and mom stays home to run the household. The other lives with his mother, his fathers whereabouts unknown. Mother and son suffer the double stigma of being poor and of having a working mother as the single provider. As the story progresses, each boy, in turn, learns that he can achieve what he thought was impossible if he depends on the other and accepts help that is offered without conditions. Laughter, pain and sorrow all play integral parts in forming and sustaining Freddy and Mike. And when the last page is read, the reaction will be a genuine smile.

In todays world of sound-bite news, intimate conversations via cell phone, and 24/7 lives everywhere; friendships and relationships are hard to come by and even harder to maintain. Come live in Freddy and Mikes world for awhile. Then go see those who were so special to you, and can be again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 15, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469109282

Dick Wells

DICK WELLS and his wife live in Michigan. He is also the author of Freddy and Mike and Willem Jansen. Wells is currently working on his fourth book, a trilogy for young adults. He and his wife enjoy sharing their lives with their grandchildren.

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Freddy and Mike

Dick Wells

Copyright © 2004 by Dick Wells.

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Contents

PART I

MOVING IN, AUGUST 1952

BENNINGTON

MEETING THE KIDS

PLAYING CATCH

SPYING ON THE WINKLES

STARTING SCHOOL

AFTER SCHOOL

THE FIGHT

THE FIX

THE FREDDY SHUFFLE

SOME THINGS OLD, SOME THINGS NEW

PART II

JUNIOR HIGH

AND TO ALL, A GOOD NIGHT

STEALING THE SHOW

FOUR LINES BY A LAZY POET

PART III

THE BOY WHO NEVER CRIED

THE MESSAGE

VISITING HOURS

FACING THE MUSIC

THE LONG WINTER

BACK IN THE WATER

RUNNING THE COURSE

THE TEST

TRYOUTS

BLAZE OF GLORY

COLLEGE DAYS AND WAR

PART IV

PASSING THROUGH

THANKS FOR THE SKATES

For Wayne

Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes.

—Anonymous

Not always.

—Freddy and Mike

Freddy, Mike is here.

Freddy was in the bathroom, staring at the mirror, when he heard his mother call from the foot of the stairs.

I’ll be down in a minute! he yelled back.

He had recently read on the back of a comic book about secret codes and was intrigued. The advertisement said that if letters were written upside down and backward, they could be read by holding them up to a mirror and looking at the reflection. Someone who knew the trick, like a fellow spy, could use a mirror to read cryptic messages written in this special code.

Today, Freddy was almost there. For some reason, he was still having problems writing a Q and a G upside down and backward. He frowned as he looked in the mirror at his unsuccessful attempt. But he knew he would eventually get it right. It was a challenge, and Fredrick Allen Ryan liked challenges. He had always been that way.

He took apart his favorite toy when he was two and then cried when he couldn’t put it back together. As he got older, if he overheard his parents discussing an adult problem, he often announced his own solution, much to his parents’ amazement.

Resolving to have his alphabet perfect before he went to bed that night, he jerked open the door, tossed the piece of paper in the general direction of the bed in his room, and bounded down the stairs, two at a time. He was twelve years old, it was summer vacation, and he had no time to waste.

As he was about to burst through the screen door onto the front porch, his mother intercepted him to say, Mike’s on the porch.

I know, Mom, that’s always where he waits.

Are you going anywhere?

Probably ride our bikes over to Allen Park. These last words were said over his shoulder as he hurried through the door.

Hi, Mike.

Freddy’s mother watched through the screen door as her son and his best friend trotted down the porch steps and into the bright June sunlight. Mike’s old bike was lying on the gravel driveway where he had left it a few minutes ago. Freddy’s newer bike was lying on its side on the front lawn where he had left it last night, in spite of his father’s regular reminders to put the bike in the garage.

In a single motion, both boys mounted their bikes and gathered speed as they disappeared down Brown Street, headed for the park, four blocks away.

As she walked back toward the kitchen, Phyllis Ryan began thinking about the first day in their house in Bennington. It was two years ago in August. Freddy and Mike’s friendship seemed improbable then.

PART I

MOVING IN, AUGUST 1952

Hello?

The female voice coming from outside the back door caused Phyllis Ryan to straighten up from the large cardboard moving box she had been emptying. She was wearing a blue bandana to keep her hair out of her eyes. Vases and glassware still wrapped in newspaper lined the dining room table. The warm August breeze, stealing in from the open windows and back screen door off the kitchen, partially dried the perspiration on her face as she moved through the maze of unarranged furniture and stacks of boxes toward the figure silhouetted in the door frame.

Hi. Come on in. Please excuse the mess but the moving van just left. My name is Phyllis Ryan, she said as she extended her hand toward her visitor.

I’m Edna, Edna Kell, said the woman as she eased inside the screen door and took Phyllis’s hand. Your next-door neighbor, she continued as she waved toward her own house. I thought I’d welcome you to the neighborhood.

That’s very kind of you. Let me call my husband and son to meet you too. Tom! Freddy! Come to the kitchen, please, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.

The unmistakable thumps of a ten-year-old boy coming down the front stairs were joined by the footsteps made by Tom Ryan as he came up the basement steps. They all met in the kitchen where Phyllis made the introductions.

Turning to Freddy, Edna Kell said, You look to be about my son John’s age. Freddy, are you eleven?

Ten, Mrs. Kell.

Well, there are plenty of nice children for you to play with on our street, so I’m sure you won’t be lonely for very long.

Gee, that’s great, Mrs. Kell.

But Edna Kell hadn’t stopped talking. She had merely paused for breath.

Yes, my husband and I have John, Ruth, who is 14, and Ellen, who just turned 16. They both baby-sit, Phyllis. Your other next-door neighbor is June Castle, who is a spinster. Next door to her are Wendell and Ann Lidgard. They have two daughters, Sally and Midge. Sally is first grade, I think, and Midge isn’t in school yet. Then Ken and Tracy Gilkowski, their kids are all teenagers: Luke, John, Esther, and Mary. And on the corner, Garrett Wright, he’s a widower and retired, sold his grocery store to Bob Smith. You know where Smith’s Grocery Store is? Without waiting for a reply, she continued, her face reddening slightly from the lack of inhaling.

Next door to us are Gunther and Helen Schmidt. They don’t have any children. Next to them are Bill and Margie Smith, no relation to Smith’s Grocery, and their little boy, Eldon. They just moved in a few months ago. He works at Ford’s. Across the street from them are the Winkles. Next door to them are Dick and Roseanne Merchant, with Dale, Peter, and Butch. I think Dale is your age, Freddy. Then across from us lives Mary Earlywine. She’s a widow. Then, across from you live Del and Virginia Cochran. He’s a milkman and gets up at some ungodly hour, but you never hear him, at least I don’t, and they have a boy Jack, who’s in our John’s class at school. Then Dennis and Carole O’Dell. They have an Irish setter named Timmy and a boy, Billy, who’s younger. Sometimes I don’t know who makes more noise. Then there’s Irene Love and her mother, Sarah. Irene teaches sixth grade at Munson. That’s where Freddy will go, right?

Phyllis Ryan could hardly nod before Edna Kell went on.

Irene has a nice cat named Whiskers. Then there’s Art and Alma Kern. Their children are grown. He works at Bennington Buick. And then, next to Kerns’ and across from Garrett are Claire Hammond and her son Mike.

Edna closed her mouth. Silence cautiously entered the room.

None of the Ryans realized for a moment that she had stopped talking. They had all been mesmerized by her recitation. Tom Ryan finally broke the silence. Thanks for the rundown, Mrs. Kell. We all appreciate it very much. Sounds like there are plenty of kids for Freddy to meet, he said, looking at Freddy. Freddy was startled out of his daze when his dad continued, Don’t you think so, Freddy?

What about that last kid, Mrs. Kell? Did you say his name was Mike? Freddy knew he should have shown more appreciation for Edna Kell’s travelogue, but the only thing he could remember was the name Mike.

Oh, I don’t think you’ll want to have much to do with Mike Hammond, Freddy. He’s wild and ill-mannered and the other children try to avoid him. He’s seen his share of fights, too. It’s hard for a boy to grow up without a father. Lord knows Claire tries but she has to work all day. Edna Kell looked toward Phyllis and Tom, signaling her desire to change the subject.

But Freddy’s curiosity hadn’t been satisfied. What happened to Mike’s father?

No one knows. I certainly don’t, answered Edna Kell.

And if anyone did, you certainly would, thought Tom Ryan. But what Tom actually said was: Have you and Mr. Kell lived here long, Mrs. Kell?

Please call me Edna, Tom, and yes, Al and I have been here in our house since right after the war. Al works at the post office and I substitute teach elementary school. Maybe I’ll teach your class someday, Freddy.

Great, said Freddy, although he had his doubts about just how great that would really be.

I wish I could offer you something cold to drink, Edna, said Phyllis Ryan, but the ice box hasn’t had time yet to . . .

Don’t worry about that, Phyllis, Edna Kell interrupted, I just stopped over to say hello and to welcome you to Brown Street.

Well, that was very kind of you, Edna. When I get organized, I’ll have you over for coffee and a piece of pie.

That would be very enjoyable. I shouldn’t have the pie, but maybe a small piece.

Then, Edna Kell made her goodbyes and went back out the back door and down the porch steps.

She seemed very nice, said Phyllis, as she filled a glass with water from the kitchen faucet.

Mom, she never stopped talking!

Yes, agreed Freddy’s dad, as he smiled, but think of all the time she saved us in learning about the neighborhood.

Yeah, but Dad, she talked so fast that the only name I remember is Mike, protested Freddy.

So start by meeting him, said his mother.

Even though he’s wild and gets into fights?

Always make up your own mind about people, Freddy, said his dad. Never let others do that for you.

While his father’s advice hung in the air, Freddy left the kitchen to go back upstairs to his room.

* * *

Mike Hammond was sitting quietly in his secret place. He had discovered it one day last year, in the early summer. He’d ridden alone on his bicycle to the west side of Bennington and turned south and rode on the left edge of County K Road. Mike had never been this far from home before and knew that his mother wouldn’t approve of his riding on a county highway, so he watched carefully for oncoming traffic, prepared to ride off onto the dirt shoulder. But the highway remained empty.

Mike hadn’t traveled far when he noticed a creek running along his side of the road. He dismounted and walked his bike down the incline to the creek’s edge. He let the bike fall to the ground as he watched the water flow lazily by. He saw a rock in the creek about halfway between where he was standing and the other bank. He hopped on the rock with his right foot, holding his arms out for balance, and then landed on the other bank on his left foot. Then he began to walk along the path next to the water, occasionally having to duck under a tree limb, or step over an exposed root.

He could see small fish in a shadowy, quiet pool, saw what looked like two crayfish skittering along the sandy bottom, and surprised a turtle that quickly disappeared into the water from its sunning place on a half-submerged log. Eventually, Mike returned to where he had crossed the creek. That was when he saw the opening.

There were two trees, each about a foot in diameter, that were leaning against each other. Mike imagined that the wind or a storm had caused this unnatural pairing. The two trees were about five feet apart at their bases, and the opening between them angled to a close about four feet above the ground. It looked to Mike like the mouth of a cave, only shaped like a triangle. He stepped up the bank and crawled inside.

Once past the tree trunks, he found himself in a small, circular area, about five feet in diameter. His hands and knees were on matted-down grass. He didn’t know who or what had flattened it. Around the edge of this space, green grass grew tall, perhaps three or four feet. Across from him was a smaller tree. Mike crawled the few feet over to it, turned around, and sat on the ground with his back to the tree. From that position, he could see the creek through the opening, see the road, and see the tall pussy willows and cattails that lined the ditch on the other side of the road. He was excited about his discovery, but he also felt something else. In his grass-walled, open-air cave, he felt safe.

Mike sat there for several minutes. The tree bark felt rough through his shirt, and the grass was prickly against his palms. But there was no discomfort.

He listened to the grass slide softly in the breeze and to the faint gurgling of the creek as it flowed by. He could smell some kind of flower or weed. It wasn’t like an old woman’s perfume though: it was sweet and fresh. A grasshopper suddenly appeared and decided to explore Mike’s leg. After finding nothing of interest, it hopped away. A red-winged black bird made his raspy call while perched on the top of a cattail across the road. Mike wondered how it could hold on to such a fragile perch. Twice he heard cars approaching on County K. After they passed by, he listened until they disappeared from his hearing.

The afternoon sun shone through the tree leaves above him, warming his head and one arm. But he didn’t move, didn’t want to move. It was as if he was invisible. No one could see him. No one knew he was there. No one could tease him. No one could hurt him with their name-calling. He thought he just might stay there forever.

Eventually, he did go home. But he came back often, whenever he felt the need. The seasons didn’t matter. He told no one about his secret place. And each time he approached the two trees, he became anxious, afraid that someone else had discovered his grass and tree cave. He always made sure that no one was watching before he dismounted, hid his bike from view, crossed the creek, and crawled inside. Then he relaxed.

That’s where he was when Edna Kell appeared at the Ryans’ back door. He had heard that a new family was moving in and that they had a boy about his age. He wondered what the new boy would be like. The same as the others in the neighborhood and at school or, maybe, he hoped, different.

BENNINGTON

The Ryan house on Brown Street faced north and was

shaded in front by a large maple tree. An oak separated their house from the Kells’, to the east. The two-story home sat on a gray stone foundation, which contained the basement windows. Above it, the siding was white, the windows trimmed in dark green, and the roof shingles black. The prominent feature was a large front porch. Two tapered four-sided pillars held the slanted roof over the porch. The pillars, in turn, were supported by brick columns that reached the ground. A solid railing, wide enough to sit on, separated the columns, and connected the house to the column on the east side. The west side of the porch was open. Five steps, painted gray to match the porch floor, led down to a narrow walk that ran from the street to the side door.

Next to that narrow sidewalk was a fine-stone gravel driveway leading to the Ryans’ one-car garage. There was also a back porch, with steps down to the driveway, and a door directly into the kitchen.

The first time Freddy went in the front door, he saw the stairway leading up to the second floor. Which room is mine? he called as he took the stairs two at a time.

The one on the right.

Freddy glanced at the bathroom at the top of the stairs before he turned right into his new room. He liked what he saw. The room was large with double windows looking out over the driveway and the house next door. He could also see the street and several houses on the other side of the street. But what caught his attention was a large walk-in closet that disappeared under the back eaves of the roof. It was big enough to play in.

He went back downstairs, turned right, and walked through the living room and dining room to find his parents in the kitchen.

Did your room meet with your satisfaction? asked his mother.

Yeah! It’s great.

And the wall color is OK too?

Um . . . I didn’t notice.

His parents laughed.

I guess that means I don’t have to paint, said his dad. You would have told me if I did.

* * *

Brown Street was populated with several houses that looked just like the Ryans’. But there were other shapes, sizes, and colors as well. Shade trees, mostly oaks, maples, and elms, were front-yard fixtures. Sidewalks ran on either side of the street. The street itself was not paved, but the dirt was covered with a hard, black tar coating that was renewed each summer to the dismay of mothers with small children who didn’t know the meaning of Don’t walk in the fresh tar.

Many of the neighbors had vegetable gardens in their back yards behind their garages. Cats roamed freely and dogs complained of their captivity from pens or fenced-in back yards. Automobile traffic was minimal, allowing the neighborhood children to safely play in the street. The mail was delivered to the mailboxes next to the front doors. The newspaper arrived on the porches, with a thump, early each morning or late each afternoon.

When Tom was transferred to Detroit, he and Phyllis wanted a small town in which to live. Bennington, located approximately twenty miles west of Detroit, had a population of about 7,500 and was surrounded by farm land intermixed with small- and medium-sized manufacturing plants. Bennington’s two largest employers were Bennington Shoes, which had been the town’s biggest company for over fifty years, and Bennington Spring, which made springs primarily for the auto industry.

Bennington, founded in 1872, took its name from its sister city in Vermont. Accordingly, it looked like a New England town with hand-lettered storefront signs and bricked pavement in the main part of town. The high school nickname was the Patriots, and while this Bennington didn’t have a town square with a revolutionary war cannon, it did have a city park called Allen Park, which included a statue of its namesake, Ethan Allen, and a civil war cannon. No one had been able to find a revolutionary war cannon to import, but the citizens didn’t mind. To them a cannon was a cannon, and it was a nice park.

Main Street, which ran parallel to Brown Street, and was one block north, was home to most of the businesses in Bennington. There were two grocery stores: Smith’s and Hartfield’s Foods; two drug stores: Town Drugs and Parson’s; men’s and women’s clothing stores; a bowling alley; a hardware store; the city hall; police station and fire station; Woolworth’s several places to eat: one tavern, Barney’s Tap Room; the town newspaper; the Bennington Bugle; assorted gas stations; two jewelers; The Main, a movie theater with Saturday matinees during the school year; and a bank.

Walch Funeral Home, whose parking lot backed up to Claire Hammond’s lot, was also on Main Street while VanDam’s Dairy, which was said to serve the best ice cream in the world, was just north of Main Street on Mill Street.

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