The Moon and the Stars and the Duke of Earl: Based on True Events

By Emma Sybilla Phillippi and Karen Emma Gerhardt

The Moon and the Stars and the Duke of Earl is a true account of the unusual and often "Dark" life of Jon Craig Johnston, combined with the brighter life of Karen Emma Gerhardt. It tells of growing up in suburban South Jersey during the 1950s and 1960s and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marshill Ink LLC
• Release date: Jun 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957387512

Book preview

THE MOON AND

THE STARS AND

THE DUKE OF EARL

BASED ON TRUE EVENTS

THE MOON AND

THE STARS AND

THE DUKE OF EARL

BASED ON TRUE EVENTS

BY

EMMA SYBILLA PHILLIPPI

AND KAREN EMMA GERHARDT

THE MOON AND THE STA RS AND THE DUKE OF EARL BASED ON TRUE EVENTS

Copyright © 2022 Emma Sybilla Phillippi and Karen Emma Gerhardt

________________________________________________

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

________________________________________________

Printed in the United States of America

Mars Hill Ink

16 Madison Square West,

New York NY 10010

ISBN: 978-1-957387-52-9 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-957387-51-2 (eBook)

CHAPTER I

Clayton Johnston was a big man, even bigger when he was mad— crazy-mad. Born in 1915 of proud Scottish ancestry, he had always tried to behave in a strong, diligent manner. It wasn’t that long ago that he rode horseback as a policeman, protecting the fine citizens of Philadelphia. But Clayton Johnston possessed the ‘sudden thunder’—moments of uncontrollable rage. As dreadful as this trait was, it was by no means akin to methodical evil.

He stormed into the bedroom of his five-year-old son, Jon Craig. It being bedtime, the young lad should have been asleep rather than awake and engrossed in his cowboy book. Enraged Clayton busted the ceiling light with his fist. His son scrambled in the darkness and found safety in his yellow, wooden toy chest with the happy duck painted on the front. Over and over his father slammed the toy chest with his foot until it was completely destroyed. It was 1956, a time when some folks thought nothing of knocking their kids around as punishment.

Stop! Stop—you’re gonna kill’im—you’re hurting your son! Jon Craig’s mother Doris shouted as she entered the boy’s bedroom. Craigie, are you okay?

He ain’t no son of mine! Clayton declared with utter disgust as the hallway light shone in on the scared boy and the mess that was made.

Seeee—I told ya! Craig’s thirteen-year-old sister Sharlotte grinned with delight. She loved getting him into trouble. Daddy, I told ya he was being bad!

He was put back in his bed and the sweet lad cried himself to sleep. Craig’s holster, guns and cowboy hat hung on his bedpost. He dreamed of cowgirls and campfires.

A few days passed. Again, Craig misbehaved by looking at his cowboy book with a flashlight underneath the blanket. Sharlotte fetched father Clayton and the ruckus began. Clayton picked the bed up high and dropped it to the floor. Jon Craig fell down between the bed and the wall and played dead. His mother came to his rescue and put the boy back to bed. Like before, the little chap dreamed of the Wild West.

The Johnston family, Clayton, Doris, Sharlotte and Jon ‘Craig,’ lived in the town of Pennsauken, New Jersey. It was a pleasant suburb next-door to Camden, New Jersey, which was next-door to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Pennsauken got its name from English Quaker William Penn, founder of Pennsylvania. The land was Penn’s ‘hawking’ ground.

Two blocks away lived Doris’ mother, Grandma Mary Mahoney and her two unmarried daughters, Moss and Lizzy. It was Jon Craig’s home away from home and a fine place indeed. Mary’s parlor was headquarters for the East Camden Flying Saucer Club. It had been established during WWII by our friendly trio—Mary, Gertrude Cooper and me—Emma Davis in East Camden, the Cramer Hill area.

Since 1896 at five years of age, we three ladies had been dear friends. As we came of age and independence, we were not the first sky watchers in East Camden to establish a Flying Saucer Club. Back in 1901 town ladies and my kin Abigail and Sybilla Ewen and Rachael Glover had started the same kind of club. Church elders of the Dudley Episcopal Methodist Church thought the organization to be ungodly–devil’s work. The ladies along with two young followers, John Wesley Davis and Clayton Johnston’s father, Clarence Fish Johnston were ostracized. In due time, the boys were forgiven for having the bad, reckless thoughts of saucers. The ladies had been deemed feeble-minded.

This is NBC News—October 26, 1956—President Eisenhower warned Russia….

Lizz turned down the volume on the television set before answering the telephone. It was her sister Doris calling from down the street. Clayton and Doris had plans to dine out with some friends and they were about to send Craig down to spend the night—or longer.

Doris, are you sure that the dinner plans are for tonight? We all know how Sharlotte ‘forgets’ to give you telephone messages! Lizz was sarcastic about her niece. Craig is already on his way? Okay— tawk to ya later.

That goddamn ‘demon seed’ better not be comin’ here! Moss smoked hard on her filterless cigarette and drank her whiskey. She’s nothin’ but a kitten killer! She spoke about her niece. Seven years earlier at the age of six, Sharlotte had drowned six kittens. Over and over, the sound of the toilet flushing had alerted Lizzy. But it was too late; the kittens were gone. Lizz locked the imp in the closet.

Around the dining room table sat the saucer club, Moss, Lizzy, ‘Grandma’ Mary, Gertrude Cooper and I. We had been discussing flying saucer sightings and fastening such news articles in our scrapbook.

Gram—they put me out ‘cause I got a big ‘majnation’—it’s bad to have, five-year-old Craig confessed as he entered the house. He stroked the cat.

Your ‘imagination’ is a dandy one! Mary kissed the top of her grandson’s head. He had imagined the exhilaration of a ride down a giant sliding board attached to the top of the nearby Merchantville water tower. The wee lad had so many splendid ideas.

We’ve been waiting for you—the youngest member of our club! You belong right here with us. His Aunt Lizz pulled out his honorary chair. It was the one with the Camden County telephone directories stacked upon it, bringing him up to their level at the table. But the boy really didn’t know where he belonged. Back and forth, from the Johnston house to Grandma Mahoney’s he had been passed. It was dreadful how he was led to believe that he was the bad child.

Soooo—Craig, has your sister Sharlotte had any nasty temper tantrums lately? I bet she’s ‘spinning’ around on the floor like a lunatic right now! his Aunt Moss asked as she looked over the news clippings.

Craig laughed with great amusement and felt the loving comradery that surrounded him. Moss was a legal assistant and known to get right down to the truth. Mary, on the other hand, had a tendency to sugarcoat the truth. She had chalked up Sharlotte’s kitten killing to immaturity. But years later at age eleven, the imp-girl gouged out the eye of her very own little dog because it had taken a liking to the mailman. Her trusty Girl Scout knife was returned to her bedroom vanity drawer, the dog was put down and Sharlotte went unpunished. Hello, Miss Cooper—hello, Mrs. Davis! Craig said cheerfully as

he sat down at the table.

A pleasure to see you, Craig. This evening, I’ll be doing some ‘writing’ so—I’m using my writing name—my ‘pen name’ Miss Phillippi, I explained to him.

Ahhh—I can write, too—if you please help me! The young boy’s interest was vibrant. Hmmmm—I need a ‘special’ name. He thought very carefully. I ‘got’ it—‘Singin’ Hinnie’—and I can draw pictures!

That name is ‘perfect’ as a pen name. Gertrude Cooper gave to the lad some lined paper from her tablet. Like the rest of the members in the club, she chose to use her everyday name in writing. As for me, my married name, ‘Davis,’ was just so darn common. My writing was to be distinguished from others.

The club had given to Jon Craig the nickname ‘Singin’ Hinnie,’ which was the name of the little sweet cakes with currants. The delicious treat had been enjoyed for many a generation in Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales. Like the meaning of Hinnie, Jon Craig was our little darling.

Our recent UFO Newsletter #6 dated October 20, 1956, from the larger North Jersey UFO Group had requested writings from its readers. We were excited to oblige, therefor, each of us around our table wrote a news article that somehow pertained to the universe. Mary wrote about Heaven and angels. Moss and Lizz wrote about Area 51 in New Mexico and a U.S. government conspiracy. Craig drew a detailed picture of a colorful planet with a monkey sitting on top of it. I wrote about a spacecraft that my son Rip had seen while in the Air Force during the war. Gertrude wrote about the 1940 saucer sighting over the Delaware River. Most of the folks in our hamlet of Cramer Hill had witnessed it including my ten-year-old daughter Ruth, her good friend Arion Johnston and Arion’s sister Jane. Older brother Clayton had scoffed at the notion of flying saucers.

Your Aunt Arion wasn’t much older than you n’ so frightened that she hid behind the milk truck! Gertrude explained to Craig as she helped him with the spelling of his pen name on his artwork.

Thank you for helping me, Miss Cooper. The boy was pleased with his work. Gram—are they ready yet? Craig asked about her homemade deep-fried doughnuts that were cooling. Before him she placed one large, delicious doughnut.

Hours passed and when it was the ‘right’ time, he fixed the sofa for sleep. After one visit to church weeks earlier, Craig had profoundly declared that the place was not for him; therefore, his Gram would go alone on Sunday. He thought all the pews were a terrible waste of good wood.

As usual, Mary fell asleep in her big, comfy chair in the parlor. Her grandson sat on her lap as she slept; her mouth hung open as she snored. And as usual, Craig removed her false teeth so that she wouldn’t choke. He then went to the bathroom sink to wash his hands.

Do ya wanna smell the soap, Mrs. Davis? he asked me and I declined. I trusted the lad to do what was right. All of my dear friends knew me to be a person with a deep awareness of germs—ever since the dreadful influenza of 1918. In just the month of October of that year, 11,000 people had died in our neighboring city of Philadelphia. It was the deadliest month in U.S. history—including war. Before the pandemic, a meteorite had crashed in Kansas. It was believed to be the cause of the horrible sickness. World War I servicemen had passed through Kansas in route to their home states and spread the influenza throughout the nation.

During 1957 and 1958 our scrapbook was chock-full of flying saucer news articles. Our club was ever so enthusiastic. But our group also discussed our lives on earth.

New Jersey’s population was booming. It had enough industry to provide its people with jobs and still hold the title the ‘Garden State..’ Farmland soil was lush and produced the finest of fruits and vegetables. Truly, there was no tomato as delicious as a Jersey tomato. Back in the day, Joseph Campbell had chosen Camden, New Jersey as the ideal place in which to set up his soup shop. The Jersey shore was exquisite with its soft sand beneath one’s feet.

The cold war between Russia and America continued. Across the United States progress forged ahead. Schools were built to teach the vast number of children the importance of patriotism and the love for God and country. School days began with the children reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to the American flag followed by the folding of hands and bowing of heads as they prayed aloud the Lord’s Prayer. Routinely, air raid drills were practiced due to the threat of war.

Craig, you are quite the fair-minded young man—I’d like your opinion on something, I told the seven-year-old at one of our UFO meetings. My granddaughter, Karen Emma, has just started kindergarten at the Baldwin School—a little ways from the Campbell Soup warehouse. Well, the teacher, Miss Rudolph, asked each student to individually stand up and tell the class what he or she had for breakfast that morning. Miss Rudolph used herself as an example—‘I had a cup of coffee and a piece of toast..’ When it was Karen’s turn, she stood up and said, ‘I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast..’ With tricky words Miss Rudolph asked Karen, ‘Had you no milk with your cereal?’ Karen became confused with not only the way the question was asked—but why? Unless there’s no milk in the house, nearly all kids pour milk on their cereal. Well, my granddaughter had no reply. With no hesitation, Miss Rudolph boldly announced to the class, ‘Class, we have a ‘goat’ here with us today—Karen eats like a goat!’ Miss Rudolph laughed heartily as Karen Emma remained standing, feeling stupid and foolish. Again, the teacher called out, ‘She’s our classroom goat—what other things do goats like to eat?’ Miss Rudolph laughed loudly as she encouraged all the kids to laugh. Now Karen is afraid to speak in school.

The teacher should be taught a lesson! said Jon Craig, feeling much sorrow for Karen. A wee bit shy of his seventh birthday, Craig was truly a grand young man. Miss ‘Poop-awf’ should clean the poop awf the school grounds—with her bare hands and put the dawgie poop in her pockets n’ everybody should tell her that she stinks nnnn—she should put some in her lunchbox and a great, big pile in her pocketbook. The lad’s face shown determination in making the situation right. And I hope they ‘all’ laugh at her n’ can’t stop laughing!

So, this Miss Rudolph—had she no milk or sugar in her coffee? Had she no butter or jam on her toast? Moss peered over the top of her newspaper as she spoke, her eyebrows arched with some accusation. My guess—she ‘herself’ needs a course in articulation.

If you want my opinion, some people think WWII is still going on—‘Rudolph’! Gertrude Cooper said adamantly. She is of the Jewish faith—congregates with all the Jewish doctors down at Cooper Hospital. As a hospital trustee, Gertrude was an encyclopedia of information, some divulged and some kept secret. I met Miss Rudolph during distribution of vaccine to the schools. Gertie shuffled the deck of cards, tapping them against the table for neatness and emphasis on her opinion. Yes-sir-ee! Miss Rudolph needs a lesson in Social Studies!

Dutch Gerhardt, my son-in-law and Karen’s father, was a WWII veteran who had fought at Anzio. He was first generation born in America; his parents were from Germany. The kind, altruistic and patriotic man undoubtedly had killed some of his kin from the Fatherland. During the war, he was an interpreter for the German prisoners, often sharing cigarettes and respect under the horrific circumstances.

Craig eagerly, yet carefully held out his hands and cupped them together like a bird’s nest. Gently I placed my marble darning egg in his hands and pulled from my bag another sock to mend. As he admired the egg, I admired him. He was a resilient lad. His wavy, light brown hair shined under the parlor light and when he smiled, his dimples were vivid as was the adventure in his green eyes.

It’s sorta the colors of a sunset—pink—orange, Craig described the egg. When the ranch hands are done with their chores, they get cleaned up n’ ride into town n’ the sun is setting n’ they can’t wait to get there to have fun.

Ya like those pretty dancin’ ladies in the saloon—all gussied up in feathers n’ perfume! his Aunt Lizzy remarked and laughed. The boy nodded and smiled.

Miss Cooper, will you tell me about the old days again? Craig asked. He was content for he knew that she would tell him.

Ohhh, good heavens—America was so pristine—so bountiful. She sat tall in her seat, her posture disciplined just like her nature. The hunting and the fishing was ‘grandeur’ for the huntsman! Gertrude told Craig how the Cooper Family had owned land from Camden on the Delaware all the way to Atlantic City by the ocean. Through the years, they gave much to humanity and good cause and without boast. The men rode horseback and camped and fished for weeks on end. Uncle Peter had a white horse and cousin Satch’s horse was black—hence, ‘Black Horse Pike and White Horse Pike..’ Me n’ Burton n’ Andy are gawna camp at Cooper River someday—soon—my mom’s gawna let me know when it’s okay—when I’m old enough! The young lad was excited as he spoke about his best friends.

Burton, Andy and ‘I’ are going camping, Grandma Mary corrected his grammar but Craig was amused just the same at the idea of his grandmother camping with his friends. You better get washed up for the night—our show will be coming on soon. She reminded him of the television program Gunsmoke.’ He did what he was told.

Back and forth, from Grandma Mahoney’s house to the Johnston house the boy had traipsed. He lived ‘off the cuff.’ Father Clayton’s sudden thunder and sister Sharlotte’s malevolence determined all, the keys to where young Craig would bed down. And there was another key—a skeleton key. Mother Doris was no saint. Her wanderlust provoked the ‘thunder’ but she was never struck.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the boy was home at the Johnstons’, but that was not unusual. The school day was done at Roosevelt Elementary and Craig hung around the playground alone. All of the other kids had gone home to eat supper with their families. From his pocket he retrieved the schoolwork that the teacher had decorated with gold stars. He looked at the papers and nodded with affirmation. After shoving them back into his pocket, Craig boisterously kicked the can and ran with the wonderful feeling of self-worth. He was brighter than his sister Sharlotte when she was his age.

His mother was expecting him as he meandered down Springfield Avenue toward home. It was Indian summer and aromas of good cooking still seeped through neighbors’ open windows on the block. Homemaker Doris was not a good cook and never tried to be one. Craig looked up into the sky. Day or night he looked for other life. As he approached the Johnston residence, he stopped in awe. His father’s brand-new automobile, a shiny, black 1958 Chevrolet Impala was parked in the driveway. Clayton was a successful paper salesman, an honest one too for he had a license to sell the rag bond on which money was printed. Inside the automobile were boxes of paper yet to be delivered. Despite being mistreated by his father, the young lad had love and pride for the man.

There’s the birthday boy! Doris exclaimed as she scurried toward the front doorway and hugged Craig. I made ya some brownies! Mother and son walked to the kitchen to see the goodies. Sharlotte, the chicken is ‘raw’—I swear! Her daughter continued to devour the bloody chicken. The girl was unaffected by tainted or raw meat of any kind. What did make her violently ill was an innocent little packet of Spatini instant spaghetti sauce.

Hastily, the boy washed the day’s grime and mischief from his hands, namely some tar. Upon the dining room table he proudly placed his schoolwork for his parents to observe and possibly give praise. As she puffed her blonde bubble hairdo, Doris saw all the gold stars atop the papers and smiled at her son. Craig nibbled on the delicious crusted corner that his mother cut from the brownie pan. She thought nothing would ruin the boy’s appetite for supper.

Did you throw those pumpkins through Blankenbush’s Drug Store window? his father Clayton blasted. Craig shook his head ‘no’ but his father sternly looked at him in disbelief and disgust. Clayton resumed reading his newspaper at the table.

Miss Cooper n’ Mrs. Davis told me about how Grandpa Johnston, Mr. Davis and some other men fished awf the pilings in the Delaware River when the Ben Franklin Bridge was being built. They went fishin’ mostly on Sundays wearin’ three-piece suits and smokin’ cigars! The lad spoke cheerfully to his father about his Grandfather Clarence and my husband. Mrs. Davis said that the river was so clean back then—crystal clear like gin n’ they caught sturgeon!

That ole bag Cooper is a ‘lezzie.’ She does ‘sick’ things to other women, teenage Sharlotte stated as she ate her bloody chicken. My dear friend Gertrude was rather the lover of men for she had adored some fine fellows in her younger days.

Welllll—you’re a ‘murderer’! Craig barked at his sister in defense of his friend lady Cooper. And your breath stinks like a sewer—like you’re ‘dead’!

Dad—Mom, I bet he ‘did’ throw those pumpkins through the drug store window. Little ‘Craigie’ should be sent away to a reform school. She spoke in her usual monotone voice. Sharlotte possessed the dark skill of dreadfully influencing the thoughts and actions of unsuspecting people. He’s bound to hurt himself or others-it would be smart to have a life insurance policy on him.

Ohhh—I wish you kids would ‘just’ get along—that’s all I ask! Mother Doris pleaded loudly as she looked up at the ceiling for divine guidance.

The boy retreated to his bedroom, out of the line of fire. He read the latest issue of his Guns and Ammunition magazine, a secondhand gift from his Aunt Moss’ boyfriend, Ed.

Month after month, Craig read each and every issue of the magazine with the utmost of enthusiasm. If he had a question about a weapon, he asked Ed. If Ed didn’t know the answer, the lad rode his bicycle to the Maple Shade Gun Shop to gain knowledge. When it snowed or the boy was without wheels, he walked the seven miles to and from the shop. It was well worth the hike for the shop owner allowed young Jon Craig to handle the guns.

Clayton Johnston pounded like a mad man on the bathroom door. Shut that ‘goddamn’ wooder awf—you’re running up the wooder bill! he shouted at his son who was washing up for a long trip. Clayton continued to pound like the boxer that he was back in the

U.S. Navy. And you didn’t put the lawn mower away after you were done with it! Ya want another foot up your ass? Craig stopped trying to get the soap out of his ears and shut off the water spigot. He marched to his room and fetched his suitcase. It was July 1960. Father and son said their farewells to Doris and Sharlotte and headed to Grand Central Station in Philadelphia.

Clayton’s sister Arion and her daughter Linda met them at the station. The four of them got on the train. So pleased they were to see one another and as the train moved on down the southern track, the kin caught up on family news. Their destination was the Johnston Family Reunion in Savannah, Georgia. Doris and Sharlotte had no desire to attend such a gathering. It was the first train ride for nine- year-old Craig as well as the first large meeting of kin.

Soooo, Clayt—you n’ the family won’t be going to Florida this year—you’re taking ‘this’ trip instead? Arion asked. Her brother confirmed her assumption and went on sightseeing through the window. Craig—I heard that you like to fish in Florida.

Yep! I’ll be back down there again fishin’ with my friends. They get awf pretty early in the day—‘bout 3:00—it’s a good time. His friends were the colored sanitation workers. Sometimes we fish at night n’ they use just bamboo poles and any kind of line. He bragged of his friends’ fishing expertise. And sometimes I fish with my dad. Craig told his Aunt Arion of the huge schools of bluefish in the Florida waters.

Cousins Jon Craig and Linda were close in age and chitchat came with ease. As the train pushed south, they enthralled over nature’s creations outside their window. My son does ‘extremely’ well in school, busy-minded, sightseeing Craig managed to overhear his father say to Aunt Arion. It was a moment of astonishment for the lad.

After leaving Scotland and arriving in America back in 1726 or thereabouts, the Johnston Clan had originally settled in Virginia. Through the years, some traveled and staked their claim in other southern states. Some Johnstons went to Texas while other nonconformists headed north to New Jersey.

The Savannah house was three stories and pristine white. Large pillars supported the inviting wraparound porch. Inside the estate was elegant comfort, except for Old Man Clarence Johnston who usually stood in anger. The place was crowded with deep southern blood, but not that of children. Jon Craig and Linda were the only youngsters present. Siblings Clayton and Arion mingled with kin whom they hadn’t seen in years. Linda eagerly sampled the frosted teacakes and comfy chairs.

More than well behaved and rather stiffly, Craig slowly moved about as he admired all the woodwork in the grand house. He wiped his brow for he was sweating in his wool suit, the only suit he owned. His observation led him to the study. He cautioned himself not to touch anything despite his keen interest. The wall to the right of the bookcase was covered with generations of family photographs. Craig recognized some of the people from similar photographs that his father had back home in New Jersey. There was one of some church ladies, secret members of the original East Camden Flying Saucer Club. The lad stared closely into the photo of two young girls sitting shoulder to shoulder on a porch. They were his Aunt Arion and my daughter Ruth sitting on my porch on Cramer Street. Feeling eyes upon him, Craig quickly turned around and looked out into the large parlor from whence he came. He continued his observation on the wall. The picture of a Scotsman dressed in a kilt caused him to grin with pride. And then he saw them, two Civil War pistols behind the glass doors of the bookcase. He dared not touch them; seeing them was prize enough.

Excuse me, young Mista Jon Craig—please follow me. The gray- bearded Negro servant spoke in a deep voice. He had been with the family for many years. Craig followed him to the kitchen.

Tell that lady in the yellow dress that I didn’t touch anything— she was peekin’ at me through the palm plants! Craig boldly defended himself.

Am Sam-u-ell Washin’ton. Now, gimme yo coat—it’d be ‘too’ hot to be wearin’ suj-a-thang. Craig gave the wool suit jacket to him and took the glass of water that Mr. Washington offered. Dat is ye Aunt Jane in da yella drezz—she da one dat says you be hot! The servant clarified the circumstances. He gave to Craig a ‘you should be grateful’ look.

Through the swinging kitchen doors Jon Craig went, and into the crowd of kin he sought some conversation. He introduced himself as Clayton Johnston’s son followed by a casual remark about the July heat and held out his dried-off hand to shake. Depending upon the person’s mood, the lad had a couple questions about storm cellars and catfish. Any parent would be abundantly proud to have a son like Craig.

That’s a fine—‘fiiine’ company that Paper Merchants in Philadelphia! Founded in 1833 it was! Old Man Clarence Fish Johnston said to his son Clayton. Good to hear that you are still with them. His son nodded with grand achievement. The men stood outside alone on the big porch. Clayton smoked his cigar as they stared out on to the finely trimmed lawn. And there was silence.

Spanish moss looks ‘neat’! Craig said as he stepped outside and joined the men. Before speaking, he had noticed that they were silent. It looks good—‘creepy’—but good. There’s a pretty lot of it in Florida. His father nodded as he stared at the lawn.

Grandpa Clarence never had anything to say to his grandson, not a word. Even at Christmas time in New Jersey the self-righteous coot ignored him, stepped right over the baby boy as he played on the floor.

Been a long time since I’ve seen Sharlotte. She must be a ‘fine’ young lady by now—sweet—pretty. She’s gonna have ‘alotta’ suitors come callin’! Clarence spoke of his granddaughter. He wiped his brow and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.

Craig returned to the kitchen. "Ahhh know’d you be comin’ rat back

—ibbe da wome-ist place udda house." The cook referred to warmth from the heart and she spoke for all twenty servants. She told the boy to wash his hands and placed a plate of club sandwiches on the table for him.

He was grateful. He gazed out the screened door as he ate. Toying with the little, triangle-shaped sandwiches, Craig put a piece of pimento from his olive on to the three corners of the sandwich. Seen any ‘UFO’s’ round here lately? he asked anyone who cared to confess.

Ahh seen one wit Mizz Jane—yo aunt. We be standin’ on da poach but she say it be da holy no’ stah foe da wazz min, Samuel Washington said with no hesitation. Ibbe uh flah’n so-sah! Craig proceeded to tell Mr. Washington about our Flying Saucer Club in Camden County, New Jersey. He spoke of saucer-shaped, bell-shaped, tubular-shaped and triangle-shaped alien spacecraft. These ‘visitors’ aren’t always friendly! he cautioned.

Uhhh—Samuel, there’s a dead buzzard in the driveway. This heat is a real ‘killer’ or it was the rock that I found nearby, Craig’s Aunt Jane informed as she entered the kitchen. The boy silently mused at the idea that she might have been speaking about her father Clarence, his mean, cranky grandfather. She stared at young Jon Craig as she filled his empty glass with more lemonade.

‘If she thinks that I killed the bird, she’s mistaken,’ the lad thought. ‘If so, why is she rewarding me with lemonade? Maybe she wanted the bird dead.’ Craig’s mind wandered as he swilled the lemonade. He remembered how his sister Sharlotte had told family friends and kin that he was the animal killer. ‘That’s why Aunt Jane has nothing to say to me—she thinks I’m bad.’

He helped Mr. Washington bury the buzzard. Fly to heaven— mmmm—‘Zabby’! Respectfully, the bird needed a name. I named him after a man that I know back home in Match Town, New Jersey. Zabby’s a peddler always in the street sellin’ stuff n’ since it was layin’ in the middle of the gravel driveway—ya know? the boy explained to the servant. Craig patted down the grave mound and stuck a pretty dandelion in the center. "I’m pretty good at finding four- leaf clovers. My mother said that someday my ship is gawna come in

—whatever that means!"

By evening, most of the folks had left the reunion. A few sauced stragglers hung on as they rehashed ancient memories and tried to make sense of their youth. Father Clayton and son Craig went to their motel room nearby, as did Arion and daughter Linda.

The lad was tuckered out. He fell fast asleep despite his father snoring in the bed a few feet away. Clayton was frugal even with cold air already figured in the motel bill. The air conditioning unit was shut off. Through the screened window crept the scent of lilac and the steady hum of the vending machine.

Get up! Get up! Clayton kicked his son’s bed as hard as he could. The boy instantly got out of bed. It was half-past eight in the morning. Craig was used to this kind of wake-up call. It was routine back home in New Jersey most mornings at 5:00. The lad washed the bit of chickie-widdle from his eyes and brushed his teeth. As he sniffed his socks the telephone rang.

Hello—yep—‘yeppers’! Craig replied to the caller and hung up the telephone. That was Aunt Arion. They’re meetin’ us for breakfast in an hour up the street—at the Blessed Redeemer Diner. Clayton had been expecting the confirmation call.

Clayton, his sister Arion and niece Linda each enjoyed quite a large breakfast that included eggs, bacon, toast, fried potatoes, pancakes, juice and coffee. A slice of cherry pie and a glass of chocolate milk was more than enough for Jon Craig as he was not a breakfast eater. I’ve got you under my skin—I’ve got you deep in the heart of me, Frank Sinatra sang inside the jukebox. So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me—I’ve got you under my skin. With the singer’s sultry voice, Craig nodded to the rhythm as the last morsel of pie melted in his mouth.

Linda, you must be ‘darn good’ with that violin by now! Clayton complimented his niece. She showed to him a toothy grin over the violin that he had given to her a couple of years earlier—after he had yanked it from his son’s hands. The violin had originally belonged to Grandpa Mahoney. Grandma Mahoney gave it to grandson Craig after her husband’s passing. Giving away the prized instrument was pure spitework on Clayton Johnston’s part—angry over the son that he didn’t want.

On the social agenda for the day was a talent show of various sorts. Clayton paid the breakfast bill and left a very generous tip for the waitress. Typically, the man had always eaten just a bowl of cereal for breakfast and judging by the slight bounce in the big man’s step, clearly, he was in a pretty good mood. To any naive observers, his unkind, mean treatment to his son was simply much deserved strong discipline.

Youngsters between the ages of seven and seventeen from Savannah and the outskirts met at the Healing Waters Baptist Church to perform their talents. Among the performers on stage were jugglers, magicians, singers and musicians. The audience was packed tightly. The Savannah Sweeties, a group of teenage ballerinas, were a favorite within the religious community. It didn’t matter that the plump, burly girls performed the same clumsy number as they had done for Easter and Christmas.

They call themselves ‘ballerinas’—more like ‘barrel-inas’! Craig said to his cousin Linda sitting next to him. She giggled. Clayton overheard and couldn’t help but laugh.

After the show, the four of them moseyed about town to take in more of the Deep South. The sun was scorching. In and out of shops folks went for relief. Items in the secondhand store looked brand- new, understandably so for there was much money in the town of Savannah. Clayton purchased an alligator skin keychain while Arion, Linda and Jon Craig browsed slowly with more interest than he.

Ohhh, Linda—look at these handkerchiefs! her mother Arion exclaimed with utter delight. They’re just like the lovely ones that my best friends, Ruth Davis, Chickie Evans and I had when we were your age—yea, ‘bout nine to ten years old. Ruth’s mother had made them n’ we took them to church. She handed to her daughter the package of handkerchiefs marked ‘Handmade in USA of new materials.’ They were indeed like mine that I had embroidered so tediously. Ruth, Chickie and I peddled them up and down Westfield Avenue and Federal Street and sold them to the barber shop, beauty salon and clothing stores.

Did you n’ your friends need the handkerchiefs because you cried in church—you didn’t want to be there and all of you were sad? Craig asked his aunt.

Well, ummmm—they were tears of joy. We loved to go to church, his Aunt Arion fibbed. She dared not tell him the true reason for having the handkerchiefs in church. The young girls had used them to hide their cheat slips, little pieces of paper with scripture written on them for Bible contests. The prize was usually a food basket—quite a temptation to cheat during those hard times. Many hungry children had sneaked to win, especially those bored with the Bible.

I know a Mrs. Davis—she’s in our Flying Saucer Club! Craig examined the fine needlework on the handkerchiefs. She darns socks too! But Miss Cooper, another member of our club, can’t be bothered with that stuff. His Aunt Arion listened to him with much concern. She stared at her nephew in dumbfounded silence.

Isn’t that ‘funny’—I think ‘everyone’ in America knows a ‘Davis’! She forced a chuckle and nervously fumbled with other articles in the handmade bin. This Mrs. Davis of ‘yours’—and the other lady—do you folks talk about anything else besides flying saucers? Arion pretended not to know me and Gertie Cooper. Craig told her that we members in the Flying Saucer Club talk about many topics. Ladies like to ‘spin yarns’—say things that aren’t true so don’t believe everything you hear! his Aunt Arion advised.

Even ‘you,’ Aunt Arion? I shouldn’t believe you—when you said that you ‘loved’ church, that you cried tears of joy? the lad asked. He was not being a smart-aleck for he spoke purely. She shuddered and went to look at hats.

The youngsters continued to forage. Linda looked at frilly items while Craig was in search of a pocketknife of considerable quality. The lad was careful in spending his well-earned modest allowance. He purchased two handmade fishing lures as Savannah souvenirs for his friends Itchy Andy and Burton back home in New Jersey.

Clayton, Arion, Linda and Craig went on touring the quaint, wealthy town. Displayed in windows, on porches and atop embellished wrought iron gates were signs of the Southern Confederacy. Euuu— Craig, you used the ‘rusty’ water fountain! Cousin Linda said with a twisted face. The lad had drank from the fountain marked ‘Colored Only’ located in the alley by the courthouse.

A precocious sort, the nine-year-old boy had been known to be. Stiffly, Craig turned his head from side to side. He bulged his eyes and blinked hard. As he spoke, he flapped his jaws like a wooden puppet. Linda—I must be a ‘Howdy Doody’! He spoke of the puppet that they had watched on the television set during their early years.

After a supper of hamburgers and soda pop, they returned to their motel rooms. Longing to talk to his wife Doris, Clayton telephoned home to New Jersey.

Hi, Dad—no, ya can’t talk to mom right now—she’s sleeping ‘cause she had a headache, teenage Sharlotte told her father over the telephone. It was 6:00 P.M. Doris had gone to bed early. She wasn’t at home and she wasn’t alone. Sharlotte was covering for her mother’s romantic rendezvous. Doris’ affairs were no secret. Husband Clayton knew, son Jon Craig knew—the nosy neighbors knew.

At 9:00 P.M. and then again at 1:30 A.M. Clayton called Doris and demanded that Sharlotte put her on the telephone. Sharlotte kept refusing and hung up the telephone while he was in mid speech. The man was beyond frustration. His face was red with outrage.

Instinctively, young Craig crawled out of his motel bed, sneaked out the door and wandered the motel grounds in his pajamas and bare feet. Eventually, he lay down on top of the picnic table near the shuffleboard court. He was accustomed to escaping his father’s misplaced anger that was