Dumb Luck

By Eugene Goode

Once upon a time, there lived in the neighborhood Marilyn, or Mick, a lovely, stunning, young, beautiful, and robust teenager. Like a blooming flower she attracted bees to her budsshe had the males ogling and droning. But alas, as this tale goes, the queen bee, Momma Emma, aware of the appetites and ambitions of the areas ripening and playful young males, had taught Marilyn to say just one two-letter word: no. Marilyn, being a bright and alert student, learned very quickly. She had no real problems saying the one word no, even to Eugene.

Eugene, or Gene, is this tales impetuous nice guy who, at sixteen, began dating the blossoming Marilyn. He told her of his dreams of becoming a doctor. She told him he wasnt allowed to start his practice without a license.

But as this fairytale unfolds, against all odds and in spite of all the female safeguards, Genes love eventually did find the only means to Marilyns penetralia: marriage!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514484098

Eugene Goode

N/A

Book preview

Prologue

Once upon a time there lived in the neighborhood Marilyn, or Mick, a lovely stunning, young, beautiful and robust teenager. Like a blooming flower she attracted bees to her buds; she had the males ogling and droning. But alas, as this tale goes, the Queen bee, momma Emma, aware of the appetites and ambitions of the areas ripening and playful young males, had taught Marilyn to say just one two letter word NO. Marilyn, being a bright and alert student learned very quickly. She had no real problems saying the one word ‘NO’, even to Eugene.

Eugene, or Gene, is this tale’s impetuous nice guy who at 16 began dating the blossoming Marilyn. He told her of his dreams of becoming a doctor. She told him he wasn’t allowed to start his practice without a license.

But, as this fairytale unfolds, against all odds and in spite of all the female safeguards, Gene’s love eventually did find the only means to Marilyn’s penetralia; Marriage!

Following the extraordinary breathtaking honeymoon he and his beautiful bride and early on ‘patient wife’ began their shared impetuous life’s titillating marriage. This union had mostly tranquil moments; mainly when Gene was golfing. However, much of the trek has been filled with phenomenal or more appropriately labeled exciting and lucky ‘Amusing Episodes’. Like now suddenly recalling a day long ago when it had rained. The golf course was closed, Mick was canning and to keep me from being underfoot in the kitchen she took time out to show me a simple game I could play using Her computer. The instrument had all the markings of what appeared to be a modified typewriter.

Since I had not learned to type I began my training using two fingers. In minutes she had me playing ‘Solitaire’ and ‘Free Cell’. Almost immediately I discovered I could also play Bridge and even Chess. I loved it and I began spending more and more time playing computer games on her computer.

The way the episode unfolded was she came into the room to use her equipment and there I was innocently engaged in, and about to win, a Free Cell game.

Testy and almost hissing I heard, Are you listening? You’re spending too damn much time on ‘my’ computer and you’re interfering with me using it! Momentarily turning toward the sounds I found I was considering the reddening of her face as a possible sign of hostility and that the epithets striking my eardrums were truly strident.

It was brilliant when I tenderly called out, Yes dear. I think I’ll’ go to town and buy a computer! What say you?

Then, like the ringing of a clarion bell on my ears was, Thank God! It will save our marriage.

Two hours later I was home with ‘My’ computer. The Dell laptop looked new and the sales person had assured me it worked perfectly. He showed me some of the things it had the capacity to do. Acting like I understood I told him that I could hardly wait and was anxious to put it to use and in getting it started I soon learned it had a mind of its own! Occurring spontaneously and sporadically were uninvited page formats, font size changes and other mysterious functions and interruptions!

I guessed the previous owner had installed some unique program functions but did not totally remove all of them. Thus, I was requiring help from every available source I knew but none could keep up with all the troubles I was inadvertently creating. I even wished I had never heard of a computer! My results from much labor produced minimal results. I believe I could have written the same information faster!

Irrespective of the circumstances the real inducement occurred while attending a festive cocktail party and with the telling of a tale that was meant to bring fun and laughter. On this auspicious occasion a rapt and gracious guest hesitantly interjected, Gene, you surely don’t expect anyone to believe ‘that’! Too there were others who had pleasantly suggested, That’s a story to write down for your children; yup, even they’d get a big kick out of that one.

Even I was surprised when stating, Hell, I’ve got dozens; I’ll produce a book.

In reality, most of the stories to be told are unusual and relate to 3 marriages, the rare wife, 4 children and the good fortune to have had wonderful friends. Too, there are adventures of the WWII Infantryman who went into combat and never received a full course of Basic Training! Finally there are my many, many sacrifices made during the 70plus married years and here I am still alive having given up smoking, golf, bridge and more recently almost all other exciting passé-temps. But where will I begin?

Chapter 1

The Beginning

I couldn’t play golf, it was one of those rainy weekends and for breakfast my wife Mick and I were having coffee while watching on TV the news being reported. The segment being shown related to the current war in the mid-east and it was showing soldiers traveling in a convoy through a town. The trucks stopped and the American soldiers were generously offering the begging waifs of war a part of their packaged rations. Subliminally reflecting and musing I pictured a similar WWII experience and now it was making me chuckle.

Our outfit had been in a rest area for 10days and we were returning to the front to again join in the fighting of the German Army holding the mountains north of Florence. We had been on the road for the better part of two hours when the convoy slowed and turned northeast toward a snowcapped mountain. L Company would soon be coping with the snow and facing that seasoned entrenched enemy. Here in the valley except for the sounds from the truck engines all was silent. Although it was a warm sunny day no one was in the mood to talk. It was almost noon when we stopped; mainly to ease our bladders. Of all the places, our section of the convoy was smack in the middle of town.

In need of relief, everyone rushed to get off the truck. The more experienced men had learned not to pay attention to the inhabitants and stood, opened, exposed and let rip; some wanting to appear nonchalant whistled a merry tune. Too, a few tried to appear unconcerned and did glance upward to seemingly take an interest in the moving clouds. Finally there was the newer men, who still being shy, pressed close to the truck wheels and frequently glanced over one of their shoulders, to assure themselves no one was peeking. Truck tires were the usual targets. Too, there were the sharp shooters who took aim and doused their still burning cigarette butts. Unfortunately there were some who were brazen and believed it funny to hose the siding of a house or business establishment.

The natives had become used to such antics and paid little attention to the GIs and their equipment. However the town’s youngsters, being very careful not to be sprayed, ran among the men to accept the chocolate bars the men offered and that came with in the GI ration package. Yes, war does have some very weird moments!

When I caught myself chuckling aloud I called out, Mick, watching this news item has stimulated me and I think I might start writing some of my war stories. What do you think?

Her rather surprising response, Thank God; go for it; you’ve been talking about it long enough!

Boy that sure was quick. Perhaps you have suggestions of how I should start!

Yes, just a minute-. She rose and left the room. Suddenly she reappeared holding a large brown envelope. Here, I went into the bottom draw of your dresser draw and got this box and envelope. They contain your records. Look through it and see if there is anything there that might inspire a beginning. Please, just do something and quit bothering me and getting on my nerves!"

Over these many years I had accumulated many small odds and ends that I stored in that old cigar box. Opening the lid I saw and then fingered a 1923 $2 bill, tie clips, cuff links and WWII memorabilia, including Campaign ribbons and Medals. Most of these were items I would never wear, well, maybe at my funeral! I set the box aside and turned to the envelope. Opening the big envelope, I eased the enclosed papers out. I had no idea that in opening that envelope I would be opening Pandora’s Box.

There, resting on top was my Honorable Discharge Certificate and just below it was the ENLISTED RECORD and REPORT of SEPARATION (ERRS), Army’s Form53-55. Supposedly it summarized my 3year WWII Army career. Beneath those items was correspondence dating back to 1984 that related to my being issued a Bronze Star and, my Birth Certificate. From the envelope I removed the ERRS Form and commenced scanning its many 57 numbered Entries. Supposedly each entry reported a true, correct and significant fact related to my period of service in the Army. I was surprised when discovering 4Entry errors. All four appeared inane, yet I wondered how I missed them! For-instance #15 depicting HEIGTH as 5'6 should read 5'8. A typo; would anyone really care!

Now, thinking back to that last day in Service I visualized my assigned typist’s limber fingers stroking the typewriter keys; once completing a line this typist’s left hand would slap back the carriage. I smiled as I imagined I heard a few of the typists cuss words; probably because he struck a wrong key. Odds were he and many of these GIs had never used a typewriter until drafted and converted to Army clerks.

The errors I found are minor and can be easily corrected. Certainly there would be no problem correcting the entry that shows my being born in Maybeury Virginia when my Birth Certificate reveals I was born in Maybeury, West Virginia. In the event I write a book it would be wise to correct the entry-errors and avoid problems of credibility; possibly legal entanglements.

I had received a pamphlet from South Carolina’s Congressman Barrett advising that he would be in McCormick on March 22, 2005 at 3 PM. It advised that a constituent could make a10-minute appointment to discuss any concern related to government. Wouldn’t this be an opportunity to discuss methods and means to correct my ‘Enlistment Record and Report of Separation’ (ERRS)?" I called and made an appointment.

Instead of 10 minutes the Congressman was gracious and allowed me over 30-minutes. At the meeting I mentioned that because I was writing a biography, and since my Army Record had some minor errors, I believed it necessary to correct them. I added I was not seeking any money, nor would I be requesting what I would consider an embellishment to my Record. Then, hoping the Congressman was interested I handed him a self-authored military history which, once read, I believed would help me gain his support for the corrections.

Also, he was interested in a statement I made regarding the book. I mentioned that I intended revealing some humorous war and career stories that would be quite different from the reoccurring combat tale telling menu.

I was surprised when he injected, Humorous war stories! Like what?

Instantly one of my unusual war-time experiences popped into my head. Then aloud, Sir this may take a few minutes to tell!

That’s Ok. Take your time.

And so I began:

Sir, I am going to describe an incident that occurred while our Army was attacking Bologna, a city in northern Italy. We were entering the southern outskirts of the city and expected to be engaged in street to street combat, but most of the enemy ground troops had withdrawn from the city! Suddenly from out of the northern sky a plane was nose-diving. The rising hi-whine of the engine was unmistakable in identifying this was an attack. Then came the burst of machinegun fire as the daring Nazi pilot, with guns firing but a few hundred feet above us, loosed a bomb. Bullets were ricocheting off the cobblestone street when the bomb exploded on a side street and shattered what appeared to be a shop.

Meanwhile tracers from our ack-ack guns followed the plane as it straightened and then veered. Apparently not hit it disappeared into the northern sky.

Because we had heard the plane as it started to dive we were able to take shelter in doorways and/or climb or jump through what were windows of the vacated shops. With the plane gone, the men were quick to reassemble. Once the squad leaders checked their men and each reported no one injured, we were again on the go.

I hadn’t moved 10feet when running from a one story home a girl, maybe 13 years old, came running and she was yelling Ductor, Ductor. I guess seeing my red-cross arm and headbands she took me to be a doctor. When I started toward her and she turned and waved for me to follow. I was headed to a house with an open door. I called to Tony, a buck sergeant, telling him to follow me. Tony was fluent in Italian and I believed I might need an interpreter.

Inside we stopped at a door near the end of the living room and the girl motioned for me to enter. I stepped into a semi lit bedroom with an occupied double sized bed and I expected to see someone injured. Instead, I was gazing at a very fat smiling toothless elderly woman lying flat on her back and covered by a huge quilt. One end of it was held tucked up under her chin."

Congressman, before I could speak the girl was at my side handing me a vial of clear liquid and a syringe. Filling the syringe I raised my hand and to indicate I was ready squirted liquid from the syringe. Standing there next to the woman I wondered, Is this to be given intravenously or into muscle tissue? The answer literally exploded in my face. In one quick moment the patient" threw aside the quilt, miraculously turned over, flipped her full length night gown up over her back and neck and positioned herself on her elbows, belly and knees. Need I add more?

Agog I was able to contain myself knowing I could not miss this most unexpected target. Then, I did what any red-blooded American medic would have done; I sponged an area with a cotton swab and then stuck it to her. She never winced and in a split second my skilled services ended.

As the heavy quilt curtain fell I heard ‘Gratsia’ and she was on her back with the quilt in place; one end tucked under her chin. Lastly, a right arm extended from under the quilt and while it was waving and I heard her, ‘Ciao’."

The Congressman and his aides were chuckling; probably in disbelief; I was very quick to avow that every word of the story was true.

Mr. Goode, I’m not sure we all would agree regarding your word ‘humorous’, but ‘unusual’ certainly is appropriate. He continued, Arrange to see Ms. McCord and she will give you an ‘APPLICATION FOR THE CORRECTION OF MILITARY RECORD’.

The following day at the Congressman’s office I obtained an Application. It was a single page fill in the blanks form. The instructions requested that for any change request that there be data submitted to support the change. Near the bottom of the Application I read the small print in box #14. It advised the applicant that submitting false information was considered a crime and was subject to both a fine and/or imprisonment. In my case, I had no need to fear! I believed my information ready for submission was flawless and surely the requested changes would be supported.

Alas, when reading a grossly inaccurate ‘Report of Proceedings’ (RoP) from the Department of the Army’s Board for the Correction of a Military Record (ABCMR) dated 22 February 2007. I was astounded; shocked. Needless to say, every future related RoP was also largely amazingly tainted. Adding to the phenomena was the numerically developed government methods that have me identified me as 30 cases when I am but one. Would you bet their opening and closing reports make use of the deception by falsely reporting their #Case Opened as 30 and #Cases Closed as 30; such an increase in cases undoubtedly may be justification for more staff!

With this first Report the specific and detailed facts and findings of errors were called to the attention of the former Secretary of the Army Pete Geren. Any investigation into the alleged false findings would have proven beyond any doubt that the reporting Director, Carl W. S. Chun and his Board members, Andrew C. Jacobs, Mark Manning, John Meixell and Qawly Sabree, and 4Board members were stupid, incompetent and corrupt or maybe on drugs or drunk; maybe all. Would ‘nonfeasance in office" describe his failure to investigate my written complaints? When Secretary John McHugh replaced Secretary Geren the new Secretary was as responsive. I imagine the Board’s practices continue and with the staff probably receiving bonuses!

U.S. Senator Graham was alerted regarding the very corrupt and conspicuous reporting problems by the ABCMR. Surprisingly, it was not me who informed him of the wrong doings. Thus, I was elated upon receiving his letter offering to help. Being told the Senator was an official in the Army Reserves I believed that if he was made aware or the level of incompetence and corruption in the ABCMR and also the Army Review Board Agency (ARBA) he would investigate; take some corrective action. Ha! I sent him numerous precise details of the corruption and he sent me a list of lawyers’ names. Stymied, I decided to use this book to expose both the acts and actors. But, the story begins in Maybeury, West Virginia.

Chapter 2

Maybeury

In one of the southern valleys in West Virginia is a small town, Maybeury, divided by a State highway and it is where I was born in 1923. Back then and probably now there existed the main highway with small one story homes on small flat lots and each lot shared a huge mountain. Paralleling the highway on one side is a creek and the railway tracks. Except for the road, I believe the Company owns everything, including the General Store which is located near an overhead railroad trestle located at one end of town. At the store It is customary to use the Companies script rather than U.S. currency.

Maybeury’s housing was for coal miners. Grandfather Daddy Goode was a miner and he and Granny Goode occupied one of the houses. Their place had a huge backyard; it happened to be the mountainside. Too, 30 or so feet uphill from the house’s side door was the wooden privy and just beyond, 50’ up that slope was a small cave. In the cave Daddy-Goode raised mushrooms.

The house water supply was a pitcher-pump located in the pantry adjoining the kitchen and side porch. Since there was no bathroom to bathe you stayed in the kitchen, heated water on the kitchen’s coal stove and poured the heated water into the partially filled galvanized washtub which had been hanging from the nail hanger in the pantry. Drawing the curtains just before undressing, one then squatted in the tub and proceeded to carefully wash to avoid splashing water on the wooden floor. There is no truth to those stories that the hillbilly family bathed in the same tub of water.

Daddy Goode not only dug and loaded coal for the ‘Coal Company’ but with Granny Goode successfully raised 5children. Once grown each of the five went out into the more complex world and succeeded. My dad was one of the five. In my dad’s case during World War I while serving in the U.S. Navy’s submarine service he became an electrician. During that war he met and married Helen McMahon. When the war ended they moved to Maybeury and dad went to work for the Company as an electrician. Mom and dad lived in one of the Maybeury company houses.

As luck would have it on 17 March 1923, Saint Patrick’s Day mom was visiting Granny Goode when I arrived. It was only a couple of years later when mom had a similar experience. My brother Claude showed up! Mom, being a city girl did not adjust well to the simple life style. I was about six when Dad packed the family into his Chevy and moved us to the Borough of Queens in a section named South Ozone Park, NYC. He had applied for and gotten a job with Con-Edison. Mostly I grew up in a housing section whose population was 100% white and remained at that percentage, for the next 11years. Segregation was rampant north of the Mason Dixon Line.

Our one-room-wide 2story, 2bedroom house, with basement was on a narrow lot and was one of about 50 on the block. At the rear of our lot was a one-car garage. Back then there were very few private automobiles. The indoor plumbing connected to the backyard cesspool. It would be a couple of years before the city sewers were installed; the streets had yet to be paved.

Venders, foreigners with strange accents and driving horse drawn wagons came into the area daily selling fresh produce, ice for the iceboxes and other wares. Also, there were prized freebe deposits left by the horses. Some of the housewives rushed to retrieve these still hot droppings. The winners seemed to always have the prettiest yard flowers.

Two blocks away was the main road, Sutphin Boulevard with its saloon, stores and offices; where the bus line operated. Mainly it carried the fares to and from a stop for the elevated trains stopping at Jamaica’s Station. Also, to the dismay of the bus drivers and police for cross-town transportation we lads found it exciting to hitch on the busses rear bumpers. Thus, we rode free.

Most of the young families that had moved to our street had children and among them 9 were boys close to my age. There were girls, but since girls were considered pests and to be avoided I neglected to count them. Remarkably all the boys learned to play all ‘street sports’ reasonably well and some became ‘good’ to ‘excellent’ athletes. A few youngsters, those who did not play well, were snubbed. It was cruel, but what do the kids care! Too, along with playing sports, on occasion there would be some fist fighting. Most fights were with kids from adjoining blocks; mainly when they entered our territory. For what minor problems I created the punishment was a spanking or lecture; no one in our neighborhood was ever arrested; there were no guns or drugs.

Our neighborhood grade school, open for 10months of the year, was Public School #123. This elementary school was six blocks distant from home. Getting to and from school the boys played; girls just talked. Because the streets and blocks were parallel there were several choices of routes to go to school. Kids from adjacent blocks had this same option. Early on, when the block gangs opted for the same route, it frequently incited fistfights between individuals or the groups. The stronger gang gained the rite of passage and the loser could travel any of the less preferred and longer routes to school.

Our ‘no nonsense school’ had wonderful caring and some beautiful young teachers. Ah, I remember the most beautiful was Ms. Shea. She taught English. Wanting to please her we boys worked hard and would receive her tender soft pat on the head, on occasion even a cooed kind word. Too, some teachers were older and plain. There was the stern Ms. Lapata who taught arithmetic. At the outset 0f class she announced, You will learn arithmetic and if there are any discipline problems I will use hands on punishment and arrange a visit with your parents. Discipline shall be maintained and you will learn.

I was among those few to learn she meant what she said. A group of us were at the chalkboard doing problems in arithmetic. Ms. Lapata caught me whispering to Norman Bass who was standing next to me working. Believing I was cheating, she sneaked up behind me, took me by the hair and rapidly banged my head numerous times against the blackboard. It hurt but I didn’t dare complain. I knew if I did, a note would be sent to my mother. Of course, mother believed that both the Pope and the teacher were infallible and mom’s method of punishment for sins or misbehavior was a spanking.

Too, mom frowned upon street fighting. When I was nine and coming home from school I got into a fight with Billy Forkel, a neighborhood kid. Mom happened to be out sweeping the front porch and sidewalk and she heard the ruckus. Billy and I were really throwing punches and mom yelled as she approached. I’ve warned you about fighting! Billy ran, probably believing she was going to hit him with the broom. However, I knew mom was after me and knowing she’d swat me I ran. She became red faced chasing me and was gasping when hollering, Don’t you dare run from your mother! Then louder, I’ll kill you for running from your mother. As the gap between us widened mom’s ‘Irish’ temper rose, as did her voice. We were never classified as abused children and instead of a parent being threatened about going to jail for ‘abusing’ a child it was we kids that received the justice due. At times it really was tough love.

On this occasion, being a lot faster than mom, I ran in a wide circle, well beyond the reach of the broom, and dashed for home. Before mom came in I had time to hide under my single bed; it was on casters. Huffing and puffing she entered the room and grabbed the bed’s frame at its foot. It was sturdily designed to support the spring and mattress and even moms frenzied pulling and pushing. Now the bed, on its casters, was violently being shoved from side to side across the wood floors. The racket the casters made rolling on the hard wood floor was almost as loud as mom’s loud threats. To keep my back from dragging I had my feet jammed up in the bed’s framework and was holding on with both hands for dear life. Remaining out of sight, I rode freely above the floor. I don’t know why I became amused, but I began to giggle. Mom heard and in an instant she was on her belly and flat on the floor. I’ll teach you to run and laugh, She partly slid under the bed, just far enough to grab me by the hair, and with her left hand she pulled. In pain I fell from the bed frame and was dragged into the open. Mom was quick to get to her feet. The belt she had put on the bed was now in her right hand and she lashed. I grabbed a pillow and parried the blows. With each blow I hollered and screamed like I was being killed. She never laid a stroke on me.

Like always, when mom tired she hugged me and then crying pulled me close. Her closing sobs always were, You boys drive me crazy and one of these days I might hurt one of you. Once calm, she ended with, Now run along and go out and play. Remember, no fighting and when your father gets home come in for supper. I felt the warm kiss on the top of my head and she was gone. I loved mom.

Dad had two and one half blocks to walk from where he got off the bus. Irrespective of the game we kids were playing, I always stopped playing and ran to greet him. He’d throw his arm around my shoulder and pull me close. Then he waved to the gang before telling me to finish my game before coming in for supper. Dad sure was neat!

It was but a few years later when the gang walked about 0.5mile to the closer Junior High, Shimer. Then, when finally going to John Adams High School I and a few other classmates, walked the 4miles to and from school rather than spend $0.25/week for student bus fare. No student had a car and our school had no student parking. If there were any public school buses, I do not remember seeing one, nor was I ever aware of any special arrangements for kids with physical problems!

I pocketed the bus fare. Many of those coins ultimately went to friend Marilyn who regularly played hooky. She would spend it for a movie or to buy ice cream from the bell ringing ice-cream truck-driver whose vehicle passed through the neighborhood daily.

It was my third year of grade-school-summer-vacation when the family temporarily moved to a place called Tappan, N.Y. Grandma McMahon had built a new home and moved to that new location. Mom, now about to have another baby, decided to be with her mother. So to be with her mother we stayed temporarily with grandma. For me a new experience was about to unfold and it wasn’t the coming of the baby!

While at grandma’s mom met grandma’s neighbor Mrs. Brown and they good became friends. Mrs. Brown had a 9year old daughter Betsy and we became pals. Every day, weather permitting, Betsy, a tomboy, came out to play with my brother Claude, and me. Being, bigger older and bolder she became our fearless leader.

There was a large wooded area next to grandma’s house and ape-like we three enjoyed climbing and swinging in the larger trees. It was proving to be a marvelous and exciting summer especially when dad took mom to the hospital to have the baby. Claude and the friendly Mrs. Brown also went with dad. Grandma stayed at home with Betsy and me.

That sunny day, soon after dad left, when Betsy and I asked to go outside to play Grandma’s response was, Yes, you two can go out and play but do not fight.

Betsy was ahead of me and led us into the woods. She would prove to be an imaginative curious leader and an hour or so later, without a scratch, we returned and were greeted by Grandma. Did you two have a good time? When we nodded grandma added, For being good, let me give each of you a glass of milk and a homemade cookie.

That evening dad came in and announced, It’s a boy and we named him Lawrence Victor.

A day later momma came home with baby Vic. Shortly, following her arrival she had a surprisingly unfriendly boisterous visitor. Mrs. Brown came into the house without knocking! I could not make out what was being said but the harshness of Brown’s voice could only mean trouble. She hadn’t been with mom but a few minutes before I was called into mom’s room. On entering I witnessed mom in bed holding the baby while a red faced Mrs. Brown pointed directly at me and yelled, That one took Betsy’s panties off to show her were babies come from!

What! It was Mom erupting and her strident voice reached its peak when saying, Gene, you come over here now; right now. Did you hear what Mrs. Brown just said? Did you take Betsy’s panties off?

I wanted to say, Mom, everyone within a mile heard Mrs. Brown. but I knew better. Instead my response was, No momma, - honest momma, Betsy took them off herself. She wanted to show me where babies come from. She said, I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours. I hesitated then added, And, when she wanted to see mine, I showed her mine. Then she put her pants back on we came back to grandma’s house and had milk and cookies!"

Young man, get up to your room; I’ll attend to you later! As I was leaving mom put the baby aside, got up and turned to Mrs. Brown, Dora, I assure you, he’ll be punished. I reached my room before Mrs. Brown got out the door. Alas, things were never again the same between mom and. Alas, I knew things would never again be the same between mom and Dora. Now, it would only be minutes before mom would to my room to lecture while swinging. Needless to say, Betsy was never again permitted to visit and play with Claude or me. Claude didn’t understand! When it came time to explain to Claude, well, he never did understand the part about her thing being missing.

Yup Claude, she has two hinnies!

We were a little late returning for the Fall School Term and had no trouble being readmitted to P.S. 123.

Chapter 3

Marilyn

It was probably 1937 and a mild wintry Saturday evening when friends, Herb Moeller, Johnny Ostapuk and I were sledding. Out of the corner streetlight appeared the three Mousketeers, Dorothy, Marion and Marilyn. These neighborhood girls were very young and the oldest Dot was probably approaching 14. She asked, Would you mind if we watch?

Dorothy was plump, endowed, and had blonde hair; Marion, addressed as Vicki, had dark hair and was tall and thin. The third, Marilyn, had dark wavy hair, was skinny and she responded to Mick.

Thus, when John turned to Dot and blurted out, Yes, you can watch, but wouldn’t you girls rather join us in a sleigh riding game? Herb and I were shocked. John’s attention was about to get us involved with girls. What was wrong with him? But then, we weren’t aware that a few nights before John had taken the blonde to a school musical. We both sensed he was being attracted in some unusual way. Startled, we waited while wondering what kind of game John had in mind. While watching our faces he was prompt to arrange the game and rules.

Dot, you can be my partner and I’ll run from back yonder, dive on the sled and as I’m sliding past you, you run and dive onto my back and we’ll see how far down the slope we can coast. Turning to Herb and me, Each of you can do the same with Vick and Mick and we’ll see who travels the farthest. The pair going the farthest wins."

Herb agreeing turned and said to Vickie, Will you jump on my back? I bet we can beat them!

She smiled, nodded and said, Yes.

My attention drifted to the remaining figure. I thought, "Even in all her winter wraps she’s skinny. If she plays at least she’ll be a light load. Now aloud I addressed her, I’m Gene; would you care to play and be my partner?"

I’m Mick and yes, I’ll be your partner.

Our turn came and I sledded fast and close to her. I was grinning knowing she’d be too slow, miss the sled, and fall flat. But, to my surprise she was fast, ran parallel for a few seconds and agilely leaped aboard. I barely felt her landing on my back. When we stopped we had outdistanced both our opponents. Quickly she pushed herself up and off my back, stood upright and whispered, We won!

I was shocked when she grabbed me, looked into my eyes and kissed my cheek. I knew I was blushing, I could