Square Squire and the Journey to Dreamstate: Squared Version 2.0 for Teens and Young Adults

By Duane Filer

Square Squire and the Journey to DreamState, my 394-page, 96,729-word novel, is a semiautobiographical story of growing up geeky in the last innocent time when all the basketball players had hopes and none of the gangs had guns.

Squire Brooks is a precocious nerd whose only awareness of the transitions in his neighborhood of Compton, California, in the 60s is the opportunity to chuck stones at the increasing number of For Sale signs in the yards of his white neighbors. His fathers deepening involvement in civil rights creates increasing chaos in his home, where Squire writes his short stories and daydreams. Adolescence brings peer-driven lessons about girls, puberty, girls, bullies, and girls as he navigates the temptations during his elementary, junior high, and high school years.

Squires daydreaming has developed into an imaginative mechanism that frees his mind from all the chaos and allows him to escape to a dream state whenever he writes. After graduating from high school and on a road trip with his dog, Julius, Squire meets Octavia Steves, who teaches him that his dream state is actually a form of meditation that could help him become the writer of his dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503560154

Duane Filer

My name is Duane Lance Filer. I grew up in Compton, California and had one of the greatest, richest childhoods one could have growing up in an “inner” city. My dad was involved in the west coast civil rights movement, and during the 60’s and 70’s I got to witness and was involved in some wild and crazy events such as the integration of Compton (while picketing Woolworth’s on my dad’s shoulder’s;) the Watts Riot (my dad was in Watts when it broke out;) and other incidents during this important time in American history. Since birth, I’ve possessed an extraordinary memory; an insatiable imagination; and a fascination with writing. I started writing in high school, through college, and during my work years. Now 59 years-old, with my kids having graduated college and their adult lives headed in successful directions, it is once again my time to revisit my writing aspirations and pursue my passion for the written word! Following are the completed, polished works I have edited and hope to publish soon:•Novel – “ Square Squire and the Journey to Dreamstate”Square Squire and the Journey to Dreamstate is a semi-autobiographical story of growing up geeky in the last innocent time when all the basketball players had hopes and none of the gangs had guns.Squire Brooks is a precocious nerd whose only awareness of the transitions in his neighborhood of Compton, California in the 60’s is the opportunity to chuck stones at the increasing number of For Sale signs in the yards of his white neighbors. His father’s deepening involvement in Civil Rights creates increasing chaos in his home where Squire writes his short stories and daydreams. Adolescence brings peer driven lessons about girls, puberty, girls, bullies, and girls as he navigates the temptations during his elementary, junior high and high school years. Squire’s daydreaming has developed into an imaginative mechanism that frees his mind from all the chaos and allows him to escape to a dream state whenever he writes. After graduating high school, and on a road trip with his dog, Julius, Squire meets Octavia Steves who teaches him that his dream state is actually a form of meditation that could help him become the writer of his dreams.•Young Adult/Adult Short Story Collection – “Word Food for Doods”If women can have a chic lit genre, what about a “Dood Food” happy hour? “Word Food for Doods” is a guy’s night-out buffet comprised of 3 short stories; 2 funky one-act plays; and 2 essays that sprout about important men banes. The stories total 22,173 words and 86 pages. Here’s a quick look at what the stories are about:Short Stories1.) “Kemal’s Last Laugh” – Three white, experienced mountain climbers receive a lesson in humility from some unexpected sources as they attempt to conquer deepest, darkest Mt. Kenya in Africa.2.) “Streople” –One day on the streets of downtown Los Angles and one can meet the strangest people....street people...... “Streople.”3.) “A Week in the Life of a Closet Miserable” – I wanna be a writer, but one week leads to the next, and every time I start to write...well...kids...the wife....sports...they all get in the way!One-Act Plays4.) “The Tattle-Tale Grin of Kid Spade – Tells the exploits of a black cowboy, Kid Spade the Blade, in the very wild, unfriendly west of Y’all City.5.) “jazz junkies” - Recounts an important point in the life of band leader Hemp Leeks. Does he follow fame and certain riches or stay loyal to his original band mates?Essays6.) “t.s. etiquette (a.k.a. the toilet seat chronicles) - An essay for men on how to avoid that age-old argument with your woman on whether the toilet seat be left up or down?7.) “the hellcatcher – Caught it all – a sucker soul magnet..... but never caught anything till I caught the hell from being married. My wife is gonna kill me if this is published!•Children’s Short Story Collection - “LongTALES for shortTAILs”I have a children’s short-story collection of 7 stories ready to blow your mind! I call it “LongTALES for shortTAILs.” It’s about real and imagined stories that kids from 2 – 13 years will enjoy. The stories total 14,324 words and 59 pages. Here’s a quick look at what the stories are about:•"Fastjack Robinson" – (ages 2-10 years) – Like a young Jackie Robinson, Fastjack is the fastest rabbit in the world and somebody in Bunny Junction has to stop the Grabbit Rabbit.•"In The Morning" – (ages 2-10 years) - Youngest squirt of 7 kids- “small fry” getting ready in the morning to go with his class to a big city museum. But first, he has to navigate home life with 6 other older siblings (and only one bathroom) while getting ready for school in the morning.•"small fry"– (ages 2-10 years) – Further adventures of young squirt, a.k.a. “small fry” – as he visits the museum in Los Angeles.•Bishop’s First Dog - (ages 2-10 years) – Bishop’s first dog. Do you remember what it was like when you got your first dog?•"Lancie’s Lessons by Letter" – (ages 2-13) – Listen/read as 7 year old Lance offers 5 early lessons on various subjects to his pre-school peers. Oprah – eat your heart out!•"The Night of the Roaring Rain" – (ages 5-13) - First camping trip – and it rains! C’mon......the Boy Scouts...it was great fun for the Scouts, a nightmare for the Scoutmaster – true story!•"Duncan and the Chocolate Bar" – (ages 5-13) – This is it. Story of the futuristic Duncan as he wins a contest and is one of the youngest/hippest to travel to outer-space.I am working on a third novel; write online music reviews for SoulPatrol; I’m a huge Laker fan; the best musicians of all time are Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis, and Sly and the Family Stone; and I happen to play a funky bass guitar!Personal InformationI am the proud son of Maxcy and Blondell Filer. My dad Maxcy passed away on January 10, 2011 and was quite well known in Southern California as a civil rights leader – and had the distinction of taking the California bar twice a year for 24 years from 1967 to 1991 before finally passing it on his 48th attempt in 1991. My mom Blondell still lives in Compton, and I got my artistic genes from her. Love you mom! I have been married to my beautiful wife Janice for 34 years. My son Lance and daughter Arinn are both bright, ambitious young adults who have made their parents very proud. I have 6 brothers and sisters (Maxine, Kelvin, Anthony, Stephanie, Dennis and Tracy); a goo gaggle of cousins, in-laws and friends. I hope to retire soon and start the writing phase of my life. Life has been a blast so far!

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Duane Filer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/10/2015

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Notes on the Book/Acknowledgements

1. The Birth

2. Elementary Elements

3. What’s Watts?

4. Junior High

5. Square Squire

6. Square Squire Ain’t So Square (Ninth Grade Prom)

7. High School

8. The Room

9. Senior Year

10. Brief Elixir from a Wayward Writer (and Squire Makes a New Friend)

11. The Panic and the Reprieve

12. Lessons to Please—Octavia Steves

13. DREAM STATE (The Rebirth)

This book is dedicated to all kids; not only to my two wonderful kids Arinn and Lance(now adults) – but also to kids all over the world who may not have come into this world under the best circumstances, i.e., the best parents, the best neighborhood, the best school system, etc. Yet these same kids can continue to dream of a better life and—with hard work and support along the way—can achieve their dreams. Dream on, my young brothers and sisters, my friends, lads and ladies—and never let your dreams die!

Dream on!

Notes on the Book/Acknowledgements

This book is part fact/part fiction – I’ll just call it faction. The first part of the book is pretty much fact, with Squire reliving the author’s (mine) recollections of growing up in the great city of Compton, California. The book then weaves in and out of fact and fiction as Squire’s imagination begins to take over.

Although the main character in the book is an only child (writer’s prerogative to enhance the idea that Squire was a loner and thus the reason for his day-dreaming), I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my real parents and my six siblings, who I love dearly, and contributed to the author’s sense of wild imagination that led him to write this book.

My dad was Maxcy Filer, a civil rights activist and an early black leader in the city of Compton as it changed from white to black. My mom, Blondell, still lives in the same house we were raised in in Compton. Thank you Maxcy for your teachings of perseverance and fight, and thank you Blondell for instilling in me that it was OK to be creative and be your own person. God bless both of you!

Thank you to my sisters Maxine, Stephanie, and Tracy; and to my brothers Kelvin, Anthony, and Dennis. We had a ball growing up in Compton!

I must also acknowledge others who helped with the completion of this book.

Ernie Ernesto Hamilton – Ernie was my roommate in college at Cal Lutheran College from 1970-1974. Although a tragic accident after college left him a quadriplegic, Ernie was my compadre-in-arms who had more courage than any person I’ve ever met. Ernie died a couple of years ago, but he always encouraged me to the end to get off my butt and follow my dreams- and I know he is smiling down from heaven as I write this!

Initial Editor – Big props to Pamela Sheppard. Pam was Square Squire’s first editor and helped me through the initial process/trials of editing my book. Pam can be reached at [e-mail]

Book Cover – Paul Branton – Paul is my cousin from Chicago, Illinois; a very talented artist whose work appears on the book cover. Thanks cousin Paul! Paul’s art can be viewed at http://www.aplombchicago.com/

Poem – Squires’ poem "A Walk" in Chapter 13 was written by my little brother Kelvin Filer. Bro Kelvin - thanks for letting Squire use your poem!

Other Books from Duane- I have published two other books: 1.) Square Squire and the Journey to DREAMSTATE version 1 – Adult Version – in 2012; and 2.) The Baby Boomers First-Hand, First-Year Guide to Retirement – 365 Days of Bliss (???!!!) or Diss (not???!!!) in 2014.

I will soon publish 3 children books from my children short story collection LongTALES for shortTAILS. Other works to follow include Word Food for Doods and the crazy story of the legend known as Diddley Squatt.

Contact: Please visit me at my website at http://duanelancefiler.wix.com/duanelancefiler or contact me directly at [e-mail] or follow me on Facebook and LinkedIn. I look forward to hearing from you and keep funkin!

Special thanks: To my kids, Arinn and Lance, thanks for being the light of my life. I am so fortunate to have such bright, outstanding kids who continue to give back and help others in their community … great kids!

"Push a little harder

Think a little deeper

Don’t let the plastic bring you down

You can make it if you try!"

You Can Make It if You Try

- Sly & the Family Stone

CHAPTER 1

The Birth

Dare say, what if one could

remember the events of his birth.

Imagine …

If my life were a script, it would begin something like this.

CHAPTER 2

Elementary Elements

Elkhart, Indiana

I must have heard the story of my birth a thousand times. A special twinkle comes to my mother’s eyes every time she’s about to tell the story. A very, very special twinkle comes to my father’s eyes whenever he mentions my birth, because it was rare for a father to be allowed in the delivery room during those days—but Daddy was a strong-willed man who did some research and found there wasn’t a law against it; so he was allowed into the delivery room.

It’s like my parents can transport themselves back in time and relive the moments like it was yesterday, even though it happened in 1952. My old man is particularly bad; he’ll throw his head back and brag about how brave he was to be one of the few dads present, right in the delivery room, when their first child was born. Yeah, I’ve heard the story a million times, but it’s worth it just to see that glow come to their faces.

It seems strange, but I can remember those first few months of life myself. I know it may be hard to believe, but even then I had a strong capacity to remember things. I can remember lying in that crib on the first day Mommy and Daddy brought me home from the hospital. Lying on my back, I could see the ceiling was way, way up there! It was warm in all those clothes my mom used to keep me wrapped in.

I’d lie in that bed—supposed to be sleeping. But I lay in that bed in a dreamy kind of state, trying to remember everything that happened that day, filing it into my memory. Why? I dunno, but I could do it, so I did it. Strange?

And then the faces started coming … way, way up there! Strange black faces would pop over the side of the crib; only the black faces wouldn’t actually be black at all. Some were light brown, some dark brown, some wrinkled, and some smooth and creamy. And the faces were big! They’d hang over that long piece of wood and put their big face right in the way, smiling big grins and showing all those white things caught in the upper and lower part of their smiles. Wide eyes! Some eyeballs brown and some eyeballs black, some with clear white around the outside, and some with red streaks going to the sides—eyes and mouths examining me!

I remember Uncle Percy best because he used to have a gold tooth on the side of his mouth. He’d smile that wide open smile, and the reflection would block out the rest of his fat wrinkled face, like looking directly up into the sun. He used to have this dirty brown rolled-up piece of paper hanging out the other side of his mouth. Now I could tell if Uncle Percy was in the room without even looking up because for some reason that stub hanging out of his mouth had this one red tip—with a trail of mist flowing out of it—and smelled worse than all the times my daddy would say, Oh, oh, Roxanne, here you go. Little Squire needs his diaper changed. Diaper changing was a definite smell, but if you ask me, that hot thing hanging from Uncle Percy’s lip smelled worse than five diaper changings.

Daddy never seemed to be the one to take care of my diaper or to fumble with those shiny things that Mama was always sticking herself with and going OH FIDDLESTICKS. I remember thinking fiddlesticks must be a terrible thing. Then one day she stuck me with one of those shiny things, and I almost said my very first words: OH FIDDLESTICKS.

Time flew by those first early years. Learning how to walk, then learning how to run, learning how to throw a ball, learning how to ride a bike, learning how to skate, finding out how it felt to skin a knee. It was a blur. I do remember church though.

Church in Elkhart, Indiana

Momma always went to church, and most of the time I was right alongside her, usually me and sometimes Daddy. See, Mommy’s daddy was a preacher in Elkhart, and he and Big Momma (Grandma) had eleven children. They made everybody go to church every Sunday; service started at 8:00 a.m., and you got out around 3:00 p.m. Then, of course, there was choir rehearsal at 4:00 p.m. and night church later on that evening. Sunday was church, and church was Sunday.

I remember Grandpa at the front pulpit, hair slicked back, and all my aunts and uncles (his kids) behind him in the choir—Mommy at the piano. I sat in the first row on one of those long seats they called a pew (no dozing off in the front row). Church jumped! The long black choir robes swayed as the voices sang, members tilting their heads back and opening wide their mouths. The service worked itself up and up with a song here, a prayer and an amen there. I’d always get sleepy around sermon time, but then Preacher Burson, my momma’s daddy, would get that feeling and start sweating, and I swear something took over his body, and he would twitch, smile, laugh, cry, and bring the word to the members. He’d throw out all those names—Jesus’s friends with the common names Paul and Peter and John and Mark. HE’D SHOUT OUT AND SAY, CAN YOU SAY AMEN. Soon he would start rhyming and shift to Paul and Saul, and God bless all.

Rock of Ages, turn the pages.

He would jump up high, come down, and pound the pulpit; and I would SNAP MY NODDING HEAD. I couldn’t ever go to sleep in church in Elkhart, Indiana.

Other memories had to be about 1957 when I was about five years old. Momma told me I used to love to watch this box they called the tee vee—and my favorite shows were Saturday morning cartoons and this show called Flash Gordon. I wouldn’t miss Flash Gordon. It was about this space traveler who had a rocket ship, and it was his job to explore outta space. Flash had this lady that travelled with him, called Dale, and also this doctor guy who was real smart. It was something about their clothes and travelling through the sky that really stuck to me. Whenever I would go outside, I’d look up in the sky and think about Flash and the others flying around way up there. I hoped one day I could fly up there.

Time flew by those early years. I remember when I was around seven years old, playing catch with my father in the backyard. I played pee-wee league. We were tossing a hard ball back and forth. Daddy wanted me to be a pitcher (Another Newk, he’d say), so I would stand back and let it fly. My father would crouch in a catcher’s stance, over a piece of cardboard we used for a plate.

Come on, Squire, show me something … man, you call that pitching? he would pound his glove and ready himself for the next pitch. I was lanky for my age, and the backyard wasn’t long. He was up very close. Nate Hollyfield, one of the older kids at the park, had shown me how to grip and throw a curveball. So I wound up and put everything that was in me into that curve ball.

SWOOOOOOOOOSH!

Oh fiddlesticks! my daddy yelled in pain and dropped his glove. There was that fiddlestick word again. I already knew that fiddlesticks could be substituted for a lot of words. Daddy was bent over, holding the area I only knew as the balls.

Oh rontnonitt!! … fiddlesticks, Daddy groaned as he rolled on the grass a couple of times. Now rontnonitt was a new one for me. I thought to myself, Can I throw the ball that hard? Then I realized I had heard the word fiddlesticks and knew something was wrong.

I perched over my Daddy and watched him roll from side to side in pain.

Daddy, I’m sorry. Did I knock the wind out of you? It was the worst injury I knew at seven. I knew the feeling of having the air suddenly rush from your stomach.

OOOOOOoooh, Squire. You’ll learn one day, son, he said through the corner of his mouth. You’ll definitely learn one day. He continued to hold his balls, choking out a laugh with a groan.

My father first worked at an RV factory in Elkhart, Indiana. He said Elkhart was the RV capital of the world, and that the only work you could find in Elkhart was with an RV company. He said it was a shame that while he would make RV’s all day, he would never be able to buy an RV on what he made working for the company. One day I finally asked him what an RV was, and he said it was a recreational vehicle—or just a big car that you could actually live in and drive—and that only white people could afford to own an RV. Since he wouldn’t ever be able to own something that he was making, he quit that job and started working at one of the steel mills in nearby Gary, Indiana. Well, I guess he didn’t like that job either, because one day he announced he was moving West. An opportunity, he said.

Well, Roxanne, we’re moving to California. I’ll send for you as soon as I get settled. That was it, all he said, and it was settled. We were moving West.

The next day, he hopped in the blue Beetle and headed to Los Angeles, California. In a few months, we followed on a bus. At first we lived in an apartment. An apartment was a bunch of small rooms put together, squeezed by other apartments and families on all sides.

Then we moved to a two-bedroom home in Los Angeles, which my father rented out from this white man. It was a nice house, and I remember that there were palm trees at the end of the block. I remember the white man coming over to collect money from my daddy, and my daddy talking about moving into something of his own.

Daddy was moving all the time and was barely home because of all the stuff he was doing. He worked two jobs; he was delivering milk in the early, early, early morning and parked cars during the day. Plus, sometimes at night, he was going to night school, said he was working toward something called a BA. Momma worked too when we first got to LA. She was working in a hospital and wanted to become a nurse.

Just like when he decided to move to California and the people there said he wouldn’t make it, my dad believed in taking chances. He always took a chance on what he thought was right.

One day, Daddy and Mommy were driving down this street. I was in the backseat. The street, called Arbutus Street, had pretty homes; and the streets were clean and had these big trees on each side—the tree’s branches up high hung over the street like the ceiling over a house. My father saw this huge house on the corner with a For Sale sign in the front yard and said, Baby, that’s our next home.

Mommy put up a mild fight. Honey, I don’t know if there are any black families who live around here.

But, baby, this is why we have been working all these jobs and saving all our money, just so we could move into a house like this, my daddy said.

I don’t know. Carney, said Momma.

Once inside though, she fell in love with the house. On moving day, we pulled up in the rented truck. Uncle Herman, whom I had recently met—I thought all of my relatives lived in Elkhart—and some other people were along to help us. I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at this huge gray monster brick chimney, which I later learned was fake. I looked down the street at the row of neat houses. My father had bought the tallest house on the block in this city called Compton.

It was coming up on the 1960s. Compton. My earliest memories of Compton once again began with church.

Church in Compton, California

Mommy and church mellowed in California. Maybe it was Mommy being away from her family, the new climate, or something. But we were still going to find a church. Oh yes, Mommy was real about church, and I remember her words: Squire, it doesn’t matter what church, what faith, what denomination. Church is church, and it’s all the house of the Lord. It’s OK if you go to the closest church near you one day and the farthest church the next, it’s still church and the house of the Lord.

So it was strange one Sunday when Daddy was the one who woke us up and said we were going to church in Compton. Remember, we were one of the few black families in Compton. He drove us to this big green church on Compton Boulevard. The sign out front said:

FIRST METHODIST CHURCH OF COMPTON—

All Welcome.

Inside, the church was all red carpeted with real wood everywhere and stain glass in the windows. There were pictures of Jesus all around—all looking down at you. We took a seat on one of these long, skinny wooden benches that ran the width of the church. This church had mostly white people, but oh yeah, I saw some black families scattered around. The Reverend Isabell was the reverend (white folks don’t use the word preacher—they use reverend), and he was very nice. He shook our hands on the way out and said he hoped to see us again. He had a soft hand, and he never ever raised his voice during the sermon. And you know what? I heard those same common names during his sermon: Paul, Peter, Mark.

The church in Elkhart and the church in Compton had some differences though. One big difference in the Compton church was called Sunday school. Sunday school was like regular school, but only for one day and on Sunday; and it was mostly for the kids! You’d come early, attend Sunday school, and then later you could go to regular church with the grown-ups. Sunday school was for the kids to learn lessons from the Bible; the teachers were just regular parents who would trade off coming in early on Sundays. We would learn about Jesus, from the baby Jesus to the grown Jesus, and all the good stuff he did, how he got his disciples.

The best thing about Sunday school was you could ask questions. You couldn’t raise your hand and ask a question in big church. I was always asking questions in Sunday school. I would raise my hand:

Yes, Squire … do you have a question? said the teacher for the day.

Yeah … was Noah really swallowed by a whale? How did he get swallowed up and not get hurt or die? I would ask.

Yes, Squire … the Bible teaches us about faith. If the Bible says it is so … then we must have faith that it happened.

But how did he breathe in the whale’s belly? I would continue.

Oooopss … time’s up. The teacher would always find a way to get me to stop asking my questions.

Church wasn’t bad, Sunday school either. It was all good and positive learning about God and Jesus.

I remember playing with the white kids on Arbutus Street. They may have been white—but that never bothered me—we were all kids. Ah, life. I never thought about people being different. Some people were light; other people were dark. The Browns across the street were also black but were older and didn’t have any kids. Then one day another black family, the Polians, moved in down the street. David Polian, who was a year older than me, and his older brother, Billy Polian, and I became good friends. David and I became best friends, and whenever the kids on the street played war, it was automatically David and me against the white kids. Then John Moore (the Moore’s) and Eli Roussell (the Roussells from New Orleans) moved into the neighborhood. They were also black. I began to notice more and more that as more black families moved into the neighborhood—the white kids weren’t around as much to play with. It seemed like for every black friend I gained, I lost a white friend.

Right around this time, I noticed the signs began to appear. Yard signs. They had For Sale on them. Every day, as David and I walked to school, we made a game out of guessing where the next For Sale sign would pop up.

Watch, old Larry McClary’s house is next, I told David. I heard Larry’s mother yelling and screaming at his father … whenever that happens, it means a For Sale sign.

OK, bet … two grape kisses and a chum-gum, David said. In two weeks, there was a For Sale sign in front of the McClary’s.

Pay up, I said.

Around the year 1963, for some reason, white people really started moving out of the neighborhood and not just from our neighborhood, but white people from all over Compton were moving out of the city. David, myself, John, and Eli would have target practice on the For Sale signs while running down the street. Hit a sign and run like the wind. Hit one sign on one side of the street, turn around, and pop another one on the other side. We used dirt clods, preferably from the flower bed of Mr. Balardo. He had the nicest lawn on the block and kept the dirt neatly turned into clods that would fit perfectly into a hand primed for throwing.

I had a good arm. I used to stick ’em and go. POP and go! All the way down to the end of the block.

Very few white families stayed. Mrs. May stayed until her dying day, bless her heart. That’s what she used to say all the time, Bless his heart. Mr. Pamilton was trimming the hedges in the front yard of his house one day, had a seizure, and was choking to death and had the misfortune of Mrs. May to be the first one there. By the time my daddy and I got there, she had blessed his heart so many times he looked like he was saying, Let me die peacefully. Please get that woman out of here. Old Mr. Pamilton died.

Mrs. May hung on though. She got old; we figured she had to be at least a hundred. Near the end, my mommy said she was senile. Don’t know what senile means, but I know Mrs. May kept a gun holster around her waist, just like the cowboys on Saturday morning TV. She was like the Arbutus Street Sheriff. I never saw a real gun in that holster, but I bet she had one someplace. Senile musta meant you were bad! Mrs. May had, oh, about one hundred long antennas on her roof so she could pick up police reports from as far away as New Mexico. She wasn’t taking any chances. It was sad that last year of her life. She would wear a teeny bikini and sunglasses outside and stand on