Grasshoppers and Baseball

One of my best friends was the little girl that lived in the room next to mine. Her name was Julie. Most boys I knew would be abhorred to call their younger sister one of their best friends, but that’s how it was for me. Actually, I really liked having her around. She could yell louder, run faster, and throw rocks further than most of the boys my age. She even tried the “peeing for distance” routine one time, but she just didn't have the tools for that activity. But she could spit a long ways, especially if the wind was at her back.

Friendship when you’re a kid is more about availability and convenience. You play with those who are nearby and who share common interests. Fortunately, Julie liked doing the things I liked, and visa-versa. We played in the tree house, made forts, rode bikes, and played games–mostly Monopoly. She didn't mind when I (the banker) handed out free loans for hotels and motels when there was no personal wealth left. Actually we were just following the basic tenets of some of the political parties of the day!

The family had an old blue bike. I am not sure what family member owned it. We rode that thing everywhere because it had a wide granny seat and a cargo rack on the back. The wheels were huge and the handle bars were positioned so that it was easy for a kid to ride and steer without having to lean over like on a 10-speed. Some days, Julie was brave enough to sit on my shoulders as we rode down the dirt road in front of our house. We wore no helmets, pads, gloves or any other safety equipment of any kind. Bikers in those days did not consider riding to be particularly dangerous, even with a younger sister sitting on your shoulders.

Life in those days was marked by summer free-time and school prison. The start of school always meant that winter and cold weather were just around the corner. It was like the seasons knew exactly when to make the big change–just a few weeks after school started. As a general reprieve, the seasons were also marked by sports.

One summer day, dad came home and informed Mike and me that we were signed up to play baseball. Pee Wee league was going strong and apparently, they needed players. The idea of sports and competition was lost on me, but it didn't seem like I had a choice–I was signed up! It wasn't so bad; I got a cool uniform and a mitt. My team was the Honda Boys.

I soon learned that I just didn't have any savvy for baseball. It seemed pointless to whack a ball with a bat and then run really fast from one base to another all while the other team tried to "get you out." It seemed the most important aspect of this game was to avoid being whacked with that rock-hard baseball being thrown all around. When it wasn't our team’s turn to bat, I found that playing defense was equally pointless. Also, in the back of my mind, I hated to think of ever being hit by the ball.

That thought dictated and controlled every dimension of my game. Plus, I couldn't find any merit in the coach wanting me to say “hey batter, batter, hey batter, batter–swing!” when I was out in my position in right field. That “chatter” as he called it was the fruitiest part of the game and I didn't like it.

Hard as I tried, I couldn't hit the ball when it was my turn to bat. There just didn't seem to be any hand-eye coordination when it came to that. Plus, that ball was coming fast and I knew if it hit any part of me, I would feel a lot of pain.

“Why was I doing this?” was a question that floated through my young mind every time I suited up for practice or for games.

“Because dad said so, was always the answer…” As he exclaimed numerous times, he wanted his boys to have more "opportunities" than he had as a small boy. Well, his second son didn't like baseball.

One day as I occupied my spot in right field, I was enthralled and intrigued with the grasshoppers and ants nearby. Large locusts were flying all around and I ran in circles trying to catch one in my huge mitt. Suddenly, I heard my name being screamed from the dugout. It was coach and he was yelling for me to “look-up! in addition to screaming a few descriptive curse words. I obeyed and looked up. A ball was flying right towards me. My first instinct was to try to catch it, but I knew how difficult that would be and how much it would hurt if it hit me.

As I stepped back to adjust for the glaring sunlight, I saw the ball hit the ground then bounce up. One never knows for sure how hard, flying objects seem to find their mark, but that bouncing baseball flew up and whacked me right on the bridge of my nose. The lights went out for a second and tears flooded into my eyes.

When the fog cleared, I looked around for the ball and saw it lying on the ground nearby. Fortunately, my face stopped its forward progress. I picked it up and blindly heaved it toward home plate. It was at that moment that I was convinced that baseball just wasn't my thing. That thought was reinforced by my glaring team mates and my cursing, swearing coach.

Earning a Place at the Family Table

I am not a violent person. In fact I abhor violence. It makes me feel ill. Given that, I regard acts of violence against other people as a bad thing. Other than acts of self-defense, pounding someone else for the shear pleasure of overpowering them or teaching them a lesson is anti-social. As a kid, those values often become obscured and marred by the need  to be accepted.

In retrospect, I would classify my youth as a time of peace and solitude marked by numerous moments of hostility and even violence. Much of this hostility and violence was aimed at me. Living around my older brother often required that I resort to basic skills of self-preservation. A young kid having to learn those skills at such an early age was not conducive to overall happiness but it was my reality.

At around two years old, Mike jumped on my back and drove my head into a wooden block that I was innocently playing with. That incident required stitches in my head. I still bear the scar.

Through our childhood, I was Mike’s playmate much of the time. That means I was Mike’s punch-dummy when things went bad or he lost his temper. I was schooled by the law of hard-knocks–literally. If I dared to argue or go contrary to Mike’s assertions or ideas in any way, about virtually anything, I paid the price. Kicks and punches were my rewards.

I am sure I had numerous concussions and even other head injuries as a result of that violence. Dad and mom got-after my brother for those beatings he gave me, but I don’t recall them ever exercising any solid efforts to make him stop. Lectures about “being nice to your little brother” were about the extent of his punishment for taking his aggression out on me. From two years old until I reached about 14, that’s the way it was. At the time, I hated him for it.

Located in the middle inserts of comic books that I read when I was a small boy were a couple of popular ads that always caught my attention. One was of a picture of Charles Atlas who lifted weights and became incredibly strong. The ad promised that if I lifted weights, exercised and became strong like Charles, I wouldn't have to “let people kick sand in my face anymore.” The other ad was of a wimpy guy who learned karate. Once he discovered the secrets of this Oriental art of self-protection, he could kick anyone’s butt! For $.25, I could get the detailed plans to learn those measures. I was sold! Whatever it would take to be able to pound the daylights out of Mike, I was willing to try.

Like most of my yearly overt intentions of self-improvement, they fell by the wayside as my money was used for immediate rewards like candy, gum, and cool stuff that came on sale in the Kings Dime Store toy section. But I must say, those comic book ads brought a lot of solace and hope to a small, timid boy who was the sole object of daily terror and hostility. I suppose like other “younger brothers” who could identify with what I was experiencing, I discovered the means of self-preservation to guarantee my survival. Mine was simple. I could run faster than Mike.

My brother knew that I could outrun him. So he developed his own personal means of equalization. He became an accurate thrower of rocks, sticks, or other prehistoric weapons. It would go something like this. I would recall the recent beating I took and figure it was time to get even with Mike.

“Mikey, Mikey two-by-four, couldn't get through the bathroom door, so he did it on the floor. Mikey’s a fat-so!” I yelled as I ran like the wind.

At that point, Mike would grab the nearest prehistoric weapon and lob it in my direction. I don’t know how, but so many times, those sticks and stones rained down in direct hits on my cranium as I ran away. I could never figure out how he was so accurate and could throw so far. But the drive to stay even in the score of hostility was worth it in spite of the inevitable pain I would suffer.

Also in retrospect, I am sure that if dad would not have encouraged Mike so often, my brother’s resort to violence at every turn would not have lasted long. But that was not to be. Every time my brother came home from school with the report of him beating-up another kid, dad praised him and reminded him that was the true “Hicks” way of dealing with conflict. “Pound them into submission and teach them a lesson.”

There were times when I was profoundly cognizant of the fact that I might be adopted. I did not handle myself like the other Hicks folks as dad described. I mused that beating and pounding on someone else with my fists was a stupid way to conduct myself. Why would I want to pummel some kid because I disagreed with him? It didn't make sense. But, according to my understanding of dad’s inferences, that’s what I must do in order to follow the family tradition.

One day in seventh grade, I would get my chance to prove my family connection. Sitting in Mrs. Pike’s English class, my desk was situated between Chris’ and Randy’s. Those two boys were mutual friends of mine, but I didn't consider either one of them especially close friends although later in high school, I spent time with Chris in sports and came to like him a lot.

Suddenly, Randy turned around and flicked his fountain-tipped pen in Chris’ direction. Ink blotches sprayed all over my favorite brown shirt. This particular shirt was custom-made by mom when she cut the sleeves off a long-sleeved dress shirt. I looked down and saw ink everywhere. Something clicked in my brain and I instantly became furious at Randy.

Pike told me to go down to the bathroom and see if I could wash the ink off my brown shirt. The black ink just smeared even more as I rubbed and dabbed the blotches with a wet paper towel. This incident occurred just before lunch.

As I returned to my classroom and sat down, I informed Randy that after class, he was going to be a dead man. This worried him and he apologized profusely for getting ink on my shirt. After class, he grabbed his books and ran downstairs to the entrance to dad’s classroom. Dad was just leaving to grab some lunch in the teachers’ lounge. Randy pleaded for dad to save him because, “Jeff is mad and going to beat me up.” Dad didn't know what he was talking about.

I walked up and invited Randy outside. The school exit was located by dad’s classroom. Randy declined, so I grabbed his hair and kneed him in the stomach. Then I pummeled him with a flurry of uppercuts and hooks to his face. I was so mad and wanted him to feel pain. Within a moment, dad pulled me off the poor kid and sent me outside. The fight was over and Randy had “learned his lesson” as dad would so profoundly say.

I suppose that fisticuffs with Randy gave me rights to a place in the Hicks family album of fights and beatings targeting others who had lessons to learn. Within a short time of “teaching Randy a lesson” I was not happy about my anger and about the subsequent thrashing I gave the kid. However, at his expense and “lessons learned,” I earned a place at the family table.

Blanket Forts and Treehouses

Making forts was a big deal. Mike and I had a total of two tree houses and we built make-shift pillbox forts to supplement the times the tree houses would not suffice. Richard visited almost every summer and the tree houses were not big enough to hold three growing boys and all their sleeping gear along with store-bought goodies.

Around that same year, the new and bigger Saveways Market opened in Salmon. They sold donuts in their new bakery for $.10 apiece. Those glazed morsels were delectable and we could not eat enough of them. The first week the store was open, they were giving those donuts away for free. I remember eating them until I couldn't bear stuffing another in my mouth. Finally the lady behind the counter told us to get lost and stop eating all the free donuts.

Richard, Mike and I bought milk and those fun sized sugary cereal packages for food rations in our fort. Mom was totally against sugared cereal, so when we ate that, it was like the forbidden fruit. Graham Crackers were also a favorite. We stored them out of sight so the girls wouldn't notice our cache and steal them. Sleeping in our fort was exciting and we got in our share of trouble those nights as we spent time knocking on neighbor’s doors in the middle of the night and then running back to the shelter of our fort. It never occurred to us that we were being jerks for pissing off our neighbors like that. It was just great fun.

Another exciting activity was when we prank-called folks on the phone. This was long before technology included caller ID's. We randomly called a number in the phone book. When someone answered, we made-up a wisecrack statement.

“Is your refrigerator running?”

“Yes.”

“Go catch it before it gets completely away!”

Sometimes we couldn't resist calling Mary Bills at Saveways Market. She always worked right next to the courtesy phone and we could count on her answering the phone every time we called.

“Hello, do you have Prince Albert (tobacco) in the can?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Let him out, he’s suffocating!”

We laughed and laughed after making a prank call. It was part of our repertoire of comedy and we thought we were hilarious. This was also the time that a full-time operator worked for the Bell Phone Company. One could just dial “0” and get the operator at any time of the day or night. Maryanne worked as an operator. One of my junior high friends had a crush on her, so we would occasionally go to the phone center and visit her on school lunch break. Anyway, it was great to call the operator when there was nothing else to do. She would give you the correct time or answer random questions of any kind.

The summer when I was eight years-old, Mike and I constantly badgered dad to build us a tree house high up in the tree next to our house. So he did. It took some serious climbing ability and a lot of bravery to reach our newest tree fort. After dad was finished, I climbed up to play. Dad was already there and instructed me on how to climb up without falling and dying.

Just before reaching the floor of the structure, you had to reach way out in a near prone position and make a little hop to propel yourself onto the floor. Try that when the wind was blowing and the tree was swaying in all directions and it was, indeed, like riding a kite blowing in the wind. Death was just around the corner every time Mike and I played in our new tree house. It’s possible that dad was trying to activate our life insurance policies. I’m not sure. We managed to stay alive, however.

During the heat of summer when the tree was fully covered in leaves, I could hide in the tree house and observe all the activities of everyone on our street. Being able to remain incognito throughout much of the day was thrilling. The downside was, mom knew where the tree house was located and if I could not be found to do chores, that is where she would look first. However, if I laid completely flat on the floor of the tree house, there's no way she could see me.

Chili and Cornbread

We all have a keen sense of smell.  I suppose we can all stipulate that various luscious, smelly foods seem to take dominance when it comes to nostalgic remembrances.  Whenever I smell simmering chili in the pot and fresh cornbread in the oven, I am overpowered with some memories and specific occurrences from my youth and I can’t help but reflect.

We were fairly poor back in those days – at least relative to 21^st Century standards.  With dad being an Idaho school teacher and mom being a housewife, together they had six hungry kids to feed and clothe.  One need have no other information to deduce our standard of living.  Everyone was expected to pitch in, work, and do his part.

One chilly, fall evening dad, Mike and I went to the sawmill and picked up a dump truck load of 2x4 ends and pieces.  We used this wood to burn in our big pot bellied stove and keep the house warm.  It was our only source of heat throughout those cold Idaho winters.  The wood was dumped in our yard and dad took the truck back to Voyd's house up the street where he had borrowed it.  Now it was up to Mike and me to rick this wood or stack it so it would dry out and burn better.  That meant we had to load the wood in our arms, haul it back near the shed, and stack it in neat, uniform piles.

We hated ricking the wood.  It was hard labor and we felt abused and picked on for having to do it.  To add to our misery, the rest of the family was in the nice, warm house resting and watching TV – at least that’s what we imagined.

As we begrudgingly went through the motions of wood stacking, our minds were busy figuring out how to get out of doing this terrible chore and even better, how to get even with dad and mom for forcing such hard labor onto their sons.  We decided that this night would be our last in this family.  We would run away and live like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer down by the river.  There was an old abandoned cabin down there and we would live in that.  Of course, that meant that we wouldn't have to go to school anymore, either.  The idea seemed brilliant!

After much discussion it was decided I was to go in the house, sneak into the food room, take some canned goods off the shelf and pack them into my backpack.  Mike would be busy grabbing our sleeping bags and a few extra blankets.  Of course, we would also throw in our knives and guns – I had a Buck knife and a .22 and Mike had his shotgun.  One never knows when he will be set upon by wild animals like bears or wolves.  Plus, we would need to kill a deer once in awhile to stay alive.  Our packs would then be topped off with some warm winter clothes and we would then be ready for a life of happiness living on our own with no more damn chores to do.  We went over every detail and had it planned very carefully.

I imagined mom weeping over the loss of her sons and dad feeling terrible for making his sons do hard labor.  I had a feeling of smugness as I thought about how these people were going to regret their parenting mistakes.  I figured they would just have to learn their lessons the hard way.

Suddenly, dad opened the door and said, “You boys finish that load you have and then come in for dinner.  Mom has everything on the table ready to eat.”

As he closed the door, the smell of chili and cornbread wafted out of the house and right into my nostrils.  Man that smelled good!  My mouth started to water as I imagined that good chili being washed down with cold milk and topped off with cornbread, butter and honey.  But no!  We had a plan – we were running away and there was no forgetting that plan.
I neatly stacked the wood that I had and Mike did the same.  As we walked back toward the house, he said, “What do you think?  Maybe we ought to eat dinner before we run away.  At least we will have one last decent meal before we’re gone for good.”
I agreed.  We would sit with the family for one last meal together before we set out.  But after that, there was no looking back.  So we walked in the house and washed up for dinner.  Running the warm water over our cold hands hurt, but it was refreshing to be warm again.

We sat at the table in our usual spots and loaded up.  Our bowls were filled with scrumptious thick chili with giant chunks of hamburger.  Large portions of cornbread were placed on our plates.  The steam rose off the bread as it was cut in half and the butter was spread.  The heat from the bread caused the honey to melt and become runny as it soaked in and ran down the side.  A huge pitcher of cold milk was on the table for refilling our glasses as we chugged it down.  Everything was perfect – too perfect, in fact, for running away.  How can one turn his back on something as heavenly as great food?  That and the question of intense warmth and comfort crept into my mind.  I looked at Mike out of the corner of my eye and he wasn't looking back.

A half hour later, we had finished eating.  I followed Mike into our bedroom.

“Are we still going through with our plan?” I asked, a little apprehensive about his answer.

“Well, let’s wait until this weekend, he said.  That will give us more time for packing and getting everything ready.”

Deep inside, I knew we would never follow our plan to fruition.  Why?  Great food and a warm house will always trump kids’ spur-of-the-moment plans to run away.  I suppose that has been the case for centuries and will most likely be the case for years to come.  No question about it,  parents have that one ‘ace up their sleeve’ when it comes to keeping their kids living at home until it is the proper time for them to jump from the nest and venture out to live on their own.

Throughout the years, every time I am privileged to smell chili and cornbread I am immediately taken back to that Idaho homestead where I, as a young boy and my brother learned the essence of life – that hard labor is OK  but only when good food, warmth of home, and family are the rewards.

"Will You Go With Me?"

I just really liked girls. From Kindergarten on I had a girlfriend. At least I had a girl I really liked. Whether the feeling was reciprocated could be argued. I don’t know why I really liked girls and fell in love with them so easily. Most boys my age stayed away from girls. I suppose it would take Sigmund Freud to figure it all out. I didn't care. I knew I was an anomaly, even though I didn't know what that word meant at the time.

Janna was my first real girlfriend. We were a hot item in Mrs. Whiting’s Kindergarten class. As we sat around the little table during class, I couldn't help but notice how pretty she was and how good she could color. During our recess time, I confirmed my manly prowess during our games of tag and hide-n-seek. I parked my candy-apple red and yellow racing bicycle out front on the sidewalk. Nobody messed with it and I made sure of that!
In first grade, Danny and I talked on the playground on the first day of school. It was my first experience with recess–one of the beloved parts of elementary school I actually enjoyed. He wondered who my girlfriend was. I hadn't seen Janna that morning and wasn't sure if he knew her anyway. So I pointed out a pretty brown-haired girl climbing up the slide.

“There she is!” I said.

“Oh, you like Stacey?” he said in disbelief. “She’s cool!”

Actually, I didn't even know who Stacey was up till that time. She wasn't in my class. I just figured it was important to point out a girl - any pretty girl - if your best friend asked who your girlfriend was!
In second grade, I fell head-over-heels for a beautiful girl named Diana. She was the most gorgeous woman I knew. Our families got together for dinner occasionally. Even though I was a shy, timid little kid, I did not let that get in the way of wooing Diana. One evening her family planned to have dinner with mine. I picked her up on my bike for our dinner-date. Having her ride behind me as I took her to my house was an incredible experience. I knew I had the coolest bike in town and the prettiest girlfriend!

One weekend, I talked Julie into inviting Diana over for a sleepover. I invited Barry so things wouldn't look so obvious. All weekend, I played with Diana and Julie hung out with Barry. It was a bold move to plan and implement such an intricate strategy to bolster my love life. But it worked.
I cried when Diana’s family moved away the next year. I missed her every day for the next couple years and wished somehow there was a way to see her or write to her. It wasn't until I was a senior in high school that I would run into her again. My heart nearly stopped when those old fond memories instantly flooded back.

For the next few years, I was in and out of love with Tammy, Wendy, Shannon, and Kryss. In fifth and sixth grade, Wendy’s house was located on the bluff that overlooked the practice field where my football team worked out. I imagined she was always up there watching how incredibly tough and awesome my playing was. I needed an audience and just imagining she was there made my game and playing ability that much better.

In eighth grade, I got a love note from Kryss. She was the most popular girl in school and one that I really liked. She was not only very pretty, but very smart as well. She was also a cheerleader and very athletic. I got her note just after the school play that I had a lead part in. Apparently, she liked my performance. For nearly half the year, our relationship was propped-up by notes and shy glances. I was too bashful to be in a real relationship with her and I am sure she had no idea how to approach this shy kid! I really wanted to be with her and get to know her better, but didn't have a clue how.

Around Christmas, we met at a big school dance and danced every song together. After one song, she kissed me on the cheek and that is the first time I felt my knees buckle and become weak. I still remember the song that was played. "How Deep is Your Love," by the Bee Gees.

Later that year, I had my eye on this beautiful seventh grade woman named Sara who always seemed to have another boy hanging around. However, near the end of that school year, I saw my chance to make a move. There was a small window of opportunity when she broke up with her boyfriend. I mustered all the courage I could and sat next to her on the bus.

In those Junior High School days, it was customary to "ask a girl to go with you." I tried it once. I wrote a note to the one who was the girl of my dreams for that particular month. I folded it in a complicated, but unique way, and handed it to her in the hallway between class. My note read something like this. "You are cool. I really like you. Will you go with me? Yes...No..."

Every kid knew after the note was delivered, it was up to the girl to respond. Proper decorum involved the requirement for the girl to check one of the boxes next to either the 'Yes' answer or the 'No' answer and return the note. If the answer was NO, then the whole deal was off. It was rejection and it was humiliating!

However, if the girl responded with a 'Yes" then things were really official! It meant we could hold hands, sit by each other, and exchange gifts at Christmas. Also, if some other boy flirted with my girl or even talked nicely to her, I could act furious and threaten to "break-up with her!" It was just the natural order of things.

Sara was a smart girl. She was a year behind me in school and I started liking her at the beginning of my 8th grade year. It seems she transformed into a woman overnight. I don’t know if it was her new hair style, different wardrobe,  or the fact that she moved in closer to my circle of friends. But I fell so hard for her that year, I couldn't think of anything or anyone else. She had everything going for her like perfect hair, a perfect figure, and a bubbly personality that made me so happy every time I was with her. Even though I felt like a fish-out-of-water when I was around her, I just smiled and hoped for the best...or for a miracle. I never wrote her a note asking her to "go with me."