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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Childhood / Youth
- Published: 06/17/2022
Little boy in Cleveland.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United StatesHe’s just a little boy…red hair, freckles and a quick smile.
He sits by the curb on West 30th Street…watching his brother play baseball.
The streets are brick, red, and rounded to the curbs. A big tree sits beside him.
There is a street lawn, the sidewalk, then a front lawn. The driveway is gravel, grass and mud. The house needs a little paint, but has enough to make it a home. There is a side porch with his Army Men scattered about, puff of cotton balls serve cannon shells. The smell of Ronco Lighter Fluid drifts lightly over the battlefield left behind.
The big white pillars that hold up a thick wire fence, a fence that would trap him one winter in the future as it breaks in the cold with a loud “snap” and pins him in the soft snow. Only chance and a cigarette would find him…just in time before he froze. Nobody on his street really had a “garage”, most had a shed. It would become their secret hideout. Hiding out in plain sight.
Mr. D’s grape vines and trellis prove to much of a temptation for him and his little friends…causing his Father to loosen his belt, and Mr. D to smile. He would take his little legs, even tho he was in second grade, most folks thought he was in Kindergarten- as he walked up to the old Organ Factory at the corner of West 30th and Meyer’s Avenue. He picked up discards out of the wood scraps…making futuristic little cities out of the different shapes.
One city his Father liked, and told him so. His freckles burned away by the blush.
Some days, when he was nine or ten, he would walk all the way to West 14th Street to stand outside the house of the most beautiful girl in the world. Marcina Yourik. He carried her books on school days, even though his other arm was full of his own books. A beat up plaid lunch box and thermos dangling from one hand. Years later he would be older, but not much taller. It was sixth grade now.
He would find himself…again…in front of the house of the most beautiful girl in the world. Except this time…her name was Elaine Washington. And they were both in Fifth grade. He met her in the alley behind her home. Why? Because her house faced West 25th Street, and the downstairs was a Hardware Store her Dad and Uncle owned. The third floor housed said Uncle and his family with her cousin Alice. Alice was also in Fifth grade.
The little red headed boy from West 30th Street would comb his hair with brylcreme until the wave was just right. Then douse himself with Aqua Velva…even tho shaving was a decade away. He would march over to Scranton Avenue to get Nick, also covered in hair creme and aftershave, and their best Sunday shirts…to go…together, to the Alley behind Elaine’s house. Alice liked Nick, Elaine liked the red headed kid she towered over.
Her Mom would let us sit on the picnic table in the backyard. Sometimes she would bring out Ice Tea and a some cookies. Elaine would smile at me with a shy twinkle behind her glasses:
“My Mom says this is puppy love.”
Nick and I would bark and roll on our backs. Elaine and Alice would clap with glee and laugh. Nick kissed Alice on the mouth, in broad daylight, right there on the picnic table. Alice’s Mother came out…and the backyard was made off limits. We were young, the tears dried fast. We left the puppy love days in the alley, stopped greasing our hair and perfuming our skin and headed down to the Zoo and brookside Pool. Swimming and baseball, the smell of chlorine and glove leather replaced the early summer days of the scent of Puppy Love Sick eleven year olds.
I learned to dance watching my older sisters practice the jitterbug in our kitchen. We even had a few of those “footprints” you put on the floor to learn new dances with. We had record player and albums with 45’s, for one song on side “A” and a “B” side too. For LP’s you switched the record player to 33 1/3d. At Weddings and Holidays, everyone would Polka, Waltz, and jitterbug, since back then, all the Generations showed up for everything.
TV was black and white, but with exception of Saturday Morning Cartoons, and the Occasional Disney Sunday Night…or weekday: M..I..C…K..E…Y…M…O…U…S…E, club ( I had a crush on Annette Funicello - but who didn’t?) we didn’t watch much TV. We would much rather be outside making…mischief.
If you saw the Movie: "Christmas Story “ you saw some of the streets and houses where the little red headed kid wandered to, or in. The Steel mills were a playground of sorts. None of knew the real danger of climbing the huge piles of ore and coal stacked next to the Lake Steamers that brought stuff from as far away as Minnesota, or Upper Michigan. We were chased out by concerned Adults, fearing for our safety.
And, just like in the Movie…there were bands and hierarchies among us little inner city kids. And there were a lot of us. We had ten kids in our house, the Sheehans almost doubled that. I only knew two families on the street with less than three kids. Most had at least four. I wouldn’t meet an “Only Child” until Eight Grade. An only child was more rare than a family with no children.
The little red headed kid hung out with his older brothers when he could, sometimes watching his younger brother, and sometimes hung out with his sister as close to him as possible without being twins. He would walk every day. Sometimes down to Brookside Park to the Little League fields, where his brother was a Star…and he was just along to make sure they had enough players. Other times, it was with his best friends: Roddy, Mike, Billy and Nick. We knew all the places to go.
Sometimes we would walk all the way Downtown, and go see the old World War II submarine and the giant Ore Hauler at the Maritime Museum. Or go to Halle’s, Higbees, or the May Company to stare at toys we would never be able to afford…or get. We rode the escalators that got narrower and narrower as you went up to the Seventh Floor Toy Store. At Christmas, Higbee’s Window was a wishing and dreaming harbor for all of us to port our wants.
Sometimes we walked all the way to Clark Recreation Center…or maybe over to the Police Athletic League building on the corner of West 25th and Althen Avenue. One of my Brother’s boxed there. All of us played pool or basketball, or checkers. It was something to do. We hopped from garage to garage and knew every roof in every alley for blocks as far away as 42nd and Sackett Avenue. We knew when we could leap, when we could jump, and when we had to clamber down.
Clark Avenue is where his Sister Kay found him, freezing in a blizzard. He had walked back from downtown in a snowstorm. The snow was blowing so hard that after he made the turn onto Clark Avenue from West 25th Street, he missed West 30th street on the other side of the road. When his sister found him, she wrapped her coat around him and curled him on her lap as she raced to the hospital. (I told you he was small) Still, to this very day, that little red headed kid can remember both the smell of her jacket and the soft song she sang to him to distract him from her fear.
He was warm and safe.
Halloween was marred only one time in eight years…by a bully who stole his candy. When he went home and told his brothers, two things happened: His brothers went out looking for the thief…who they would have pummeled without mercy. The other thing was something only brothers and sisters experience…sharing. Yep. Janie, Mike, John, and even little Timmy shared part of their loot with the little red headed guy. He ended up with quite the haul.
The other Halloweens were so spectacular that Mom had to get us all huge bowls to put our loot into. Full size Candy Bars in one tub, bit sized candies in another. Money, of course, went either to your piggy bank, your savings, or to Mom. We hated money, we wanted Candy. So it wasn’t any big deal to give up pennies, pickles, dimes, and even the occasional quarter. Nobody could eat more than two candied apples, so Mom and Dad got treats too.
Mom liked Heath Bars, so in some sort of unwritten rule among us young ones, Mom got every Heath Bar we ever hauled in. I think we kept her in treats until Easter.
The little boy in Cleveland got the Croup every year around his birthday, worried adults and older children took turns watching outside the oxygen tent to make sure he was still breathing. He got the usual inner-city type black eyes and fat lips, as tiny fists learned it was better to make them laugh. He had three concussions, one at the hands of a bully. No permanent damage …he says.
He saved a kids life as a Crossing Guard for his school, and got a small medal for it. He read a thousand books in a summer, and got a nice note from the Mayor for that one. He found an old pair of Glasses in First Grade and wore them to school with pride. His oldest Sister Sheila was called down out of her Class in the Senior High by Sister Mary Vanita (the School Principal ) when he stubbornly refused to admit they weren’t his. Sheila laughed and smiled as she walked me home with a note from the Nun.
So many memories…it was a childhood that the little red headed kid loved living. He still does.
Little boy in Cleveland.(Kevin Hughes)
He’s just a little boy…red hair, freckles and a quick smile.
He sits by the curb on West 30th Street…watching his brother play baseball.
The streets are brick, red, and rounded to the curbs. A big tree sits beside him.
There is a street lawn, the sidewalk, then a front lawn. The driveway is gravel, grass and mud. The house needs a little paint, but has enough to make it a home. There is a side porch with his Army Men scattered about, puff of cotton balls serve cannon shells. The smell of Ronco Lighter Fluid drifts lightly over the battlefield left behind.
The big white pillars that hold up a thick wire fence, a fence that would trap him one winter in the future as it breaks in the cold with a loud “snap” and pins him in the soft snow. Only chance and a cigarette would find him…just in time before he froze. Nobody on his street really had a “garage”, most had a shed. It would become their secret hideout. Hiding out in plain sight.
Mr. D’s grape vines and trellis prove to much of a temptation for him and his little friends…causing his Father to loosen his belt, and Mr. D to smile. He would take his little legs, even tho he was in second grade, most folks thought he was in Kindergarten- as he walked up to the old Organ Factory at the corner of West 30th and Meyer’s Avenue. He picked up discards out of the wood scraps…making futuristic little cities out of the different shapes.
One city his Father liked, and told him so. His freckles burned away by the blush.
Some days, when he was nine or ten, he would walk all the way to West 14th Street to stand outside the house of the most beautiful girl in the world. Marcina Yourik. He carried her books on school days, even though his other arm was full of his own books. A beat up plaid lunch box and thermos dangling from one hand. Years later he would be older, but not much taller. It was sixth grade now.
He would find himself…again…in front of the house of the most beautiful girl in the world. Except this time…her name was Elaine Washington. And they were both in Fifth grade. He met her in the alley behind her home. Why? Because her house faced West 25th Street, and the downstairs was a Hardware Store her Dad and Uncle owned. The third floor housed said Uncle and his family with her cousin Alice. Alice was also in Fifth grade.
The little red headed boy from West 30th Street would comb his hair with brylcreme until the wave was just right. Then douse himself with Aqua Velva…even tho shaving was a decade away. He would march over to Scranton Avenue to get Nick, also covered in hair creme and aftershave, and their best Sunday shirts…to go…together, to the Alley behind Elaine’s house. Alice liked Nick, Elaine liked the red headed kid she towered over.
Her Mom would let us sit on the picnic table in the backyard. Sometimes she would bring out Ice Tea and a some cookies. Elaine would smile at me with a shy twinkle behind her glasses:
“My Mom says this is puppy love.”
Nick and I would bark and roll on our backs. Elaine and Alice would clap with glee and laugh. Nick kissed Alice on the mouth, in broad daylight, right there on the picnic table. Alice’s Mother came out…and the backyard was made off limits. We were young, the tears dried fast. We left the puppy love days in the alley, stopped greasing our hair and perfuming our skin and headed down to the Zoo and brookside Pool. Swimming and baseball, the smell of chlorine and glove leather replaced the early summer days of the scent of Puppy Love Sick eleven year olds.
I learned to dance watching my older sisters practice the jitterbug in our kitchen. We even had a few of those “footprints” you put on the floor to learn new dances with. We had record player and albums with 45’s, for one song on side “A” and a “B” side too. For LP’s you switched the record player to 33 1/3d. At Weddings and Holidays, everyone would Polka, Waltz, and jitterbug, since back then, all the Generations showed up for everything.
TV was black and white, but with exception of Saturday Morning Cartoons, and the Occasional Disney Sunday Night…or weekday: M..I..C…K..E…Y…M…O…U…S…E, club ( I had a crush on Annette Funicello - but who didn’t?) we didn’t watch much TV. We would much rather be outside making…mischief.
If you saw the Movie: "Christmas Story “ you saw some of the streets and houses where the little red headed kid wandered to, or in. The Steel mills were a playground of sorts. None of knew the real danger of climbing the huge piles of ore and coal stacked next to the Lake Steamers that brought stuff from as far away as Minnesota, or Upper Michigan. We were chased out by concerned Adults, fearing for our safety.
And, just like in the Movie…there were bands and hierarchies among us little inner city kids. And there were a lot of us. We had ten kids in our house, the Sheehans almost doubled that. I only knew two families on the street with less than three kids. Most had at least four. I wouldn’t meet an “Only Child” until Eight Grade. An only child was more rare than a family with no children.
The little red headed kid hung out with his older brothers when he could, sometimes watching his younger brother, and sometimes hung out with his sister as close to him as possible without being twins. He would walk every day. Sometimes down to Brookside Park to the Little League fields, where his brother was a Star…and he was just along to make sure they had enough players. Other times, it was with his best friends: Roddy, Mike, Billy and Nick. We knew all the places to go.
Sometimes we would walk all the way Downtown, and go see the old World War II submarine and the giant Ore Hauler at the Maritime Museum. Or go to Halle’s, Higbees, or the May Company to stare at toys we would never be able to afford…or get. We rode the escalators that got narrower and narrower as you went up to the Seventh Floor Toy Store. At Christmas, Higbee’s Window was a wishing and dreaming harbor for all of us to port our wants.
Sometimes we walked all the way to Clark Recreation Center…or maybe over to the Police Athletic League building on the corner of West 25th and Althen Avenue. One of my Brother’s boxed there. All of us played pool or basketball, or checkers. It was something to do. We hopped from garage to garage and knew every roof in every alley for blocks as far away as 42nd and Sackett Avenue. We knew when we could leap, when we could jump, and when we had to clamber down.
Clark Avenue is where his Sister Kay found him, freezing in a blizzard. He had walked back from downtown in a snowstorm. The snow was blowing so hard that after he made the turn onto Clark Avenue from West 25th Street, he missed West 30th street on the other side of the road. When his sister found him, she wrapped her coat around him and curled him on her lap as she raced to the hospital. (I told you he was small) Still, to this very day, that little red headed kid can remember both the smell of her jacket and the soft song she sang to him to distract him from her fear.
He was warm and safe.
Halloween was marred only one time in eight years…by a bully who stole his candy. When he went home and told his brothers, two things happened: His brothers went out looking for the thief…who they would have pummeled without mercy. The other thing was something only brothers and sisters experience…sharing. Yep. Janie, Mike, John, and even little Timmy shared part of their loot with the little red headed guy. He ended up with quite the haul.
The other Halloweens were so spectacular that Mom had to get us all huge bowls to put our loot into. Full size Candy Bars in one tub, bit sized candies in another. Money, of course, went either to your piggy bank, your savings, or to Mom. We hated money, we wanted Candy. So it wasn’t any big deal to give up pennies, pickles, dimes, and even the occasional quarter. Nobody could eat more than two candied apples, so Mom and Dad got treats too.
Mom liked Heath Bars, so in some sort of unwritten rule among us young ones, Mom got every Heath Bar we ever hauled in. I think we kept her in treats until Easter.
The little boy in Cleveland got the Croup every year around his birthday, worried adults and older children took turns watching outside the oxygen tent to make sure he was still breathing. He got the usual inner-city type black eyes and fat lips, as tiny fists learned it was better to make them laugh. He had three concussions, one at the hands of a bully. No permanent damage …he says.
He saved a kids life as a Crossing Guard for his school, and got a small medal for it. He read a thousand books in a summer, and got a nice note from the Mayor for that one. He found an old pair of Glasses in First Grade and wore them to school with pride. His oldest Sister Sheila was called down out of her Class in the Senior High by Sister Mary Vanita (the School Principal ) when he stubbornly refused to admit they weren’t his. Sheila laughed and smiled as she walked me home with a note from the Nun.
So many memories…it was a childhood that the little red headed kid loved living. He still does.
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