Blake revisited

In reading what I wrote on the newest addition to our family, Blake Allen, I cannot help but think about how I must have pestered our neighbors. One reason I go out of my way (though it might not seem like it from my previous post) to visit with and get to know Blake is simple: it is what Dad would have done. Dad was the neighborhood father. He often loaded up his old Chevy pickup with us kids and took us out to the farm. Dad knew, as I am now discovering as a step-father, the importance of teaching kids the value of work and the freedom offered by farmland.

Kristie is worried about Blake's home life. And so am I. He seems to have an inordinate amount of freedom to roam the neighborhood. I too had this as a child. But it really didn't extend beyond Mom's vocal range. For if she yelled that supper was ready and I didn't come, there was trouble. So I quickly learned to stay within ear shot.

I think too that part of Blake's neediness is that Kristie, KoKo, Casey, and I are pretty normal family. I am always home around 4:30 or so. Kristie follows about an hour later. KoKo and Casey are home too - sports permitting. We have dinner together and usually do something as a family in the evenings. I wonder if Blake doesn't crave some of this normality. Again, I know nothing of his home life - other than his parents seem to let him wander freely and attach himself to strangers.

I did the same thing as a child. But the world in the late 70's and early 80's was quite different than our world today.

If I hounded anyone, it had to be Mr. and Mrs. Curry. They were an elderly couple who lived in a large green house at the west end of our block. I remember her in a constant state of skirts and aprons while Mr. Curry seemed to favor green coveralls and work boots.

My relationship didn't start off too well. Mrs. Curry had a huge garden. In fact, it was pretty much her entire yard. This fascinated me since Mom didn't have a garden. So I, along with several neighbor boys, would often stray into it. Well, you can just imagine how well that went over. Plus it didn't help matters that our alley ran right by her garden, and we were always playing around back there.

Inevitably one day I innocently got caught up in a game involving the garden. The Schultz boys, one who was my age and one who was two years older, and several other older boys began chucking vegetables at each other. I was probably five that the time. I don't remember throwing anything, but I do remember Mrs. Curry yelling at us to get out of her garden and that she was calling the cops.

Instantly the other boys scattered. I too ran - home. Now I know I was the only one she probably recognized. But I was terrified back then. I know this because I remember hiding in my special hiding spot - reserved for particularly evil deeds - underneath our couch (we had one of those vintage ones that was brown with the embroidered lines and ripples in it. I don't know that it technically was a couch or sofa - Mom always referred to it as a davenport. It stood on four wooden legs that were screwed into the frame.) I quickly slid under there and awaited my doom.

I don't remember the rest. But Mom loved to tell the remaining events from her point of view.

Apparently, there was a knock on our front door. She opened it to see a police officer. He said hi and asked if Kurt was home.

Mom asked him matter of factly if he didn't mean Kevin (my older brother who was always in and out of trouble).

But the officer insisted that he was there for Kurt.

So Mom ushered him into the living room. She called out for me. I waited for three calls before crawling out right beneath their legs. I don't remember their reactions.

I just know Mom said that once the officer saw how old I was and from where I came, he just said, "Never mind" and walked back out.

I'm sure she asked me for the details, and I'm sure I squealed. Then I'm sure Mom marched me over to Mrs. Curry's to apologize. After that we became good friends. I remember being invited in to her house quite regularly for cookies and milk. And I never once remember declining the invitation.

But my hi jinx with the Curry's didn't end there. I was fascinated too by her husband. He had a little garage to the west of the garden. This too bordered the alley. Several things fascinated me about his garage. First, he had a garage. All we had was a driveway and some lilac bushes (that's where I tended to park my bike and wagon). Second, he always was working in it. Third, it felt good - unlike our other neighbor at the east end of the alley who had a dirty calendar that we all tried to peak at and that he tried to protect with an angry fury every time we tried to peak in there. Finally, it was neatly organized and had a couch. I imagine he spent most of his time in there doing little fix 'em up odds and ends and listening to the Twins. At least that's how I remember it. But what seemed so ingenious to me then - and so frustrating - was that he had his tools hanging on one side wall. Now I was tempted to 'borrow' a tool, for he had an incredible assortment of tools. But what prevented me from 'borrowing' one was that he had painted or traced an outline in white around each tool. So if one were to turn up missing, there would be its outline up there on the wall - like the body outline of a murder victim.

The other thing that stands out most vividly to me about Mr. Curry was his odd jar on top of their refrigerator. It was one of those large canning jars and it was packed with tiny gold chunks. One day I stopped by for a visit and Mrs. Curry wasn't home. So Mr. Curry invited me in and we visited for awhile. Finally, I got around to asking him about his jar.

He took it down and let me hold it and shake it.

Then he explained that he had been a flame thrower in WWII. The gold pieces were fillings from the Nazis he'd torched. Once an area was secure, they'd go around and bash out the gold from the fried corpses.

Well, to a six year old that was about the coolest damn thing ever. I remember looking at all those little pieces and thinking how each one was a human life. There was not only something morbidly fascinating by that, but also something horribly wrong. I put the jar down and never touched it again.

Years later I would learn that many veterans said that they measured a flame throwers life in seconds - they were the top targets of snipers - especially when they were involved in Island hopping. I thought of Mr. Curry's jar right away.