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The bomb incident
My fascination with things that go “BANG” probably started with my introduction to movies. At any rate, by the time I was eight years old I was well on my way. That was the year I earned the nickname “boomer” for the rest of that school year of 1948.
From one source or another I had acquired a toy metal cap bomb. The kind that you loaded with a paper cap pistol cap. When thrown, the fins and weighted head would guide it to a nose first landing, exploding the cap with a “bang”. Just minutes before our noon hour recess, I loaded my bomb with several caps for a louder bang and placed the bomb on my desk. HORRORS! The bomb rolled off my desk, hit the floor nose first with a most satisfying “KABAM”.
Never before nor since have I seen a nun jump and squeal so high and loud. I’ll wager she wet herself at least a little. She looked over the class, summoned Nancy, a classmate, and the both of them stepped out into the hall. Nun returned, dismissed for noon everyone, but hop.
I was made to sit at my desk and write on a sheet of paper, “I will not explode things in class”, until noon hour was over. Worse, she sat there and watched the whole time, so I had to write constantly. And I never saw my cap bomb again.  | |
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No one knew what the future held for my family on that Christmas day in 1997 as we all assembled at my parent’s home. There was the usual tree, gifts piled underneath, grandkids anxious to have at them, parents holding them at bay while we ate and visited. Finally, the awaited moment arrived. Younger kids all seated themselves on the floor near the tree. Mom passed out the gifts while kids excitedly tore the wrappings off the get at the treasures inside. When all the gifts were handed out, mom gave me my gift, an envelope with a card, the kind that contain cash or a check. I opened it and found.....nothing. No cash, no check, no note, nothing.
I put the card in my pocket as several emotions hit me. Confusion, disappointment and lastly, understanding. Later, mom said to use the money to buy what I wanted. I had watched as my parents slowly deteriorated, both physically and mentally. I understood and said nothing about the empty card but gave her a big hug.
My dad died the next summer. I had to move in and take care of mom until she had to go to a nursing home, where she died suddenly and alone.
My family was fortunate though, to have had many happy holidays together. I find it best to dwell on those during this season. | |
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What boy didn’t go through his dad’s “stuff” whenever he got a chance? I certainly was no exception. One day during my parents absence, I found myself in dad’s workshop, wondering what was in the many wooden boxes stacked along the wall, or under his workbench, and under his lathe. I’d best get started before they return.
There was the usual workshop stuff. Boxes with containers of nuts, bolts, screws and nails. One big box of pressure and temperature gauges of all sizes, and fittings. Several boxes of assorted gun parts, and several with small electrical parts. It’s in this mass of electrical parts I found my treasure. First was several very strong magnets. They came from a pinball machine, I learned. My next most valuable find were a number of metal toggle switches of several sizes. Selecting one of the larger ones, I noted that it made a satisfying and very audible “Click” each time the toggle was moved. The switch and one of the magnets were pocketed for later use.
Fast forward to my 5th grade classroom at dear old St. Mary’s. Armed with my toggle switch, I would wait until the nun was writing on the blackboard. Click-click, click-click. Nun turned around, glaring at the class.
“What’s that clicking noise? Who’s doing that”?
Silence. Nun writes more on the blackboard while talking.
Click-click.
“There it is again. Stop that”.
A pal a few rows over knew about the switch. He was looking at me laughing. I tossed him the switch. Click-click.
“Now it’s over there. Stop that, you hear”?
That switch moved about the classroom, stopping only when the nun threatened to keep us all in detention at the end of the day. By then she probably had a migraine. | |
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When I was a first grader at good old St. mary’s, I never lacked for ways to make myself look dumb. One day in class, the nun asked a question. No one raised their hands to answer. I couldn’t believe it. I knew the answer. Why didn’t everyone else? This would be my shining moment.
I nervously raised my hand.
“Yes Hop”?
I stood up beside my desk and gave the correct answer. Nun had a surprised look on her face.
“That’s right Hop. Go to the head of the class”, then she turned to write my answer on the blackboard.
Well, I had never heard that expression before. When she turned back to face the class, there I was, standing in front of her. She had a surprised look on her face, then said, “I didn’t mean to really come up here, it’s just an expression”.
So, for some time the other kids would see me walk by and say, “Hop’s on his way to the head of the class”, then laugh. I hated those little jackasses. | |
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Here it is, another Sunday morning. Seems we just had a Sunday, and now another already. These days Sunday, or I should say the whole weekend, just means lousy TV for two days, unless you are a sports fan.
The Sunday's of my childhood had a whole different meaning. Being brought up as a catholic kid and going through the catholic school system meant I logged lots of church time. From first grade through eighth grade it was mass every morning except Saturdays, religion classes five days a week, novena services every Friday afternoon and more church on Sunday. As a kid, I once joked about changing my mailing address to our church. That earned me a shut up, less you want to go to hell when you die from my mom.
So, I learned to amuse myself in different ways, while enduring the torture of being forced to sit on a hard bench listening to some old guy in a dress drone on and on. For example, on Sunday my family always occupied the last pew on the left at the back of the church. Another couple, with only one boy sat in front of us. The kid was near my age and had black, slicked down hair and black bug eyes, like a cockroach. For some reason, dad had a dislike for these people. On learning this, I hatched a plan.
I have always had the ability to fart almost whenever I wanted. All I had to do was eat breakfast before we went to church. Best yet, I mastered the art of the silent fart. So, one fine Sunday morning, I put my plan into action. As soon as this couple and the cockroach kid arrived, I starting farting, in complete silence. It worked like a charm. As soon as we got in the car to go home dad started his comments.
Did you smell that stinking jerk sitting ahead of us? What the h**l he been eating? I could barely conceal my laughter.
It went that way every Sunday. My parents blamed that family and I never did tell them otherwise.
After I got my drivers license I quit attending church, except for an occasional attack of holiness. I kind of miss those days. At this time, I live a half block from two churches and within range of four more. I have no excuse for not attending except to say I dont crave fellowship or togetherness. My church now is within me. Have a great Sunday everyone. | |
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By about my twelfth year, I was devouring every outdoor publication I could get my hands on. Magazines like Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and Sports Afield littered my room. The more I read about about duck hunting, the more I pestered dad to take me duck hunting. We already got a boat and motor, I mentioned. All we need is a bunch of decoys, and a dog to retrieve all the shot ducks. We should get started building our blind.
Dad patiently pointed out that he couldnt afford the dozens of decoys or the dog and had no time for blind building. He must have seen the disappointment on my face, because he quickly replied with, Ill ask your uncle John. He hunts everything that fly's. Hell take you, I bet.
So, dad took me to town and made me buy a duck stamp and some heavy shotgun loads, with my own money. My savings were wiped out, but I didnt care. My first duck hunt was scheduled for the next weekend.
When the appointed Saturday morning arrived, I was up, fed, dressed and sitting on the front porch in the early morning darkness when uncle John drove up. I climbed into the back of the station wagon with my gun and with Yugo the retriever wagging and sniffing all over the place. Uncle John introduced me to Bill, his longtime hunting partner.
As we approached the river, it was still dark. The river was a spooky place in the dark to a kid, but we boarded an aluminum boat and shoved off. The long boat ride was over when uncle John turned into a shallow pond and expertly slid the boat under a brush covered blind.
On climbing into the blind, I thought out loud, wow, a guy could live here. The front part was the shooting platform and the back part could be closed to the weather. Inside the little room was a bunk with some blankets, a couple stools and a small table with a camp stove and coffee pot. The decoys had been set out earlier so we settled down to watch the sun come up and wait for the ducks to leisurely fly by and fall from the sky as we shot them.
That morning I learned many things. The first was, when ducks were low and viewed against the backdrop of trees, I couldnt see them. this became apparent when uncle John excitedly pointed in a direction and said, there, shoot. I pointed there and fired, at what I didnt know. Not there, I meant there said uncle John, pointing in a slightly different direction. I pointed my gun there and was about to shoot, not wanting to just stand there like a dumb kid. Not now, theyre gone. Bill had turned his back to us and his shoulders were shaking and he was making funny noises. I didnt know if it was from sobbing, laughing or the cold. Uncle John then asked, You cant see em, can you? Look at those trees over there. Can you see the branches, or just a blur? I admitted, everything was a blur.
Uncle John and Bill got their limit that morning. We loaded back into the boat and headed home. As we came up to the river bank, uncle John stepped over the side of the boat, standing in knee deep water. He told me to get out the other side and help slide the boat up the bank a bit. I stepped out the other side, right into water over my waist. Uncle John and Bill couldnt stand upright for all the laughing, as I thrashed about in the icy water. Turned out, Uncle John was standing on a huge sunken log.
Both men offered me a duck but I declined. I had to shoot em myself, I said. Uncle John told dad I was near blind and the next week I had my first of many, pair of glasses, or cheaters, as some people called them. I never went duck hunting again. | |
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School was one giant struggle for me, starting with Kindergarten at a public school two blocks from our home. Seems I wouldnt stop talking. So much so that the teacher lost her patience with me and put tape across my mouth. Well, it made my parents furious but had an effect on me. From then on I was reluctant to speak in class. About anything.
My parents yanked me from the public school system and sent me to a catholic school nearly a mile away, for my first grade. Worse yet, I had to walk to and from school. My first week there a nun asked me a question. I had to stand, even though I had no idea what she was talking about. She walked up to me and repeated the question. No answer. Repeat. No answer. WHAM! She slapped me across the chops while yelling something about paying attention. WTF? In one school I learned to keep my mouth shut. In this school, I just learned, when asked a question of which I had no idea of the answer, just say anything. It would keep me from getting hit.
Later that same nun went around the classroom asking each pupil what their middle name was. Now, I didnt even know if I had one, and I sure as hell wasnt going to sound like a dumb kid and say nothing. When my turn came, I stood up and said the only thing I ever heard myself called, besides my name. Butch I said. She looked at me with a frown as I thought, oh-oh, here it comes. Your name isnt Butch. Ill ask you again tomorrow and you better know. Well, my middle name is John and I told her so. Thats better, she says.
It was only a few days later this same nun was asking what nationality we were. Whats she doing, writing a book? My dad asked. But, I was told mom was German, dad was Czech and my first name was Irish. Well, the next day when this nun asked, me being a dumb kid, told her I was Irish.
Youre not Irish. Your last name is Polish or Russian maybe, but youre not Irish. Sit down and shut up.
The old two story brick schoolhouse had the boys restroom in the basement. Next to the restroom was the janitors shop. It was kept padlocked unless the janitor was in there. One janitor we had was named Wendell. He was a yeller. He yelled at us kids, he yelled at the nuns and even yelled at the priests. He was retired and worked cheap, was the only reason the school put up with him, my dad said. A lot of the congregation didnt like him either.
One day during noon recess, I visited the restroom. No one else was there but on passing the workshop, I saw Wendell standing at a workbench with his back to the door. The padlock was just hanging there open. The temptation was too great. With lightning speed, I pulled the door closed and snapped the padlock closed, then got out of there without being seen, as fast as my fat little legs would carry me.
Wendell yelled and pounded up a storm, until someone released him. It took awhile because noon hour the playground was full of screaming, yelling kids and no one paid any attention to Wendell's yells. He continued his tirade about what he would do when he found out who did it. He never found out. The next year Wendell was replaced by a much more pleasant and friendly old man.
And thats how it went, all through grade school and into high school.
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My pappy came home from WW2 in 1945, when I was 5 years old. I have no memory of him before then. He enlisted before my memory kicked in, I guess. Anyway, one of his first big purchases on his return was an old Ford model A truck. I remember it had a flat bed. Later he bought a second one just like it. I loved playing on that truck. My neighbor friend and I would climb in the wood bed and pretend it was the deck of our ship. Other times, we mounted the front fenders and rode our trusty steeds into battles with the dangerous Jesse James gang, our cap pistols blazing. Other days, we were in the cab piloting our bomber on missions or winning big races on a track.
One fine afternoon dad parked the truck in the yard to do some work on it. On finishing that, he told me, get a coffee can, fill it with water and fill the radiator. The cap is easy to unscrew. Fill it to the top, and went in the house to clean up and change clothes, promising to take me to town with him later. That dad would entrust such an important job to me, a mere 5 1/2 year old kid, made me feel all grown up. I picked an empty coffee can from our can stash, (we saved everything in those days) and filled it with water from our outside tap. This is where the trouble began.
Those of you familiar with Ford As know that there are 2 caps. The front one for the radiator, the one in front of the windshield for the gas tank. In my defense, let me explain that at 5 1/2 years of age, I didnt know squat about cars, or much of anything. No one in my close family had a car until then and the few neighbors that did seldom drove them because of wartime rationing.
So, Me being a dumb kid, confused by such a choice, I chose the wrong cap. Can after can of water and it still wasnt full. A yell from the back door so startled me, I dropped the can of water and slid off the fender I was standing on. I heard mom say, Les, dont hit him now. Dad didnt hit me. He didn't even yell at me anymore. He commenced draining the tank, gave me fifty cents and told me to see if I could take my wagon and a five gallon gas can over to the station three blocks away and have them give me some gas. Needless to say, there was no trip to town that day. | |
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A short walk from our place was a railroad line. A great place for young boys to wile away idle hours. A short cut through ol man Smiths pasture and we were at the tracks just before they crossed a bridge over a slough, to the West. To the East was a siding where cars were sometimes parked. Being kids, we looked on it as the greatest ever playground. When boxcars were parked on the siding, we would climb on top and run along the roofs, jumping from car to car, just like in the movies. Other times we just fished off the bridge.
One day I was wandering the tracks solo and came upon a strange looking device. It was round, like a snuff can, with two straps on opposite sides. I was used to finding flares but this baffled me so I picked it up and put it in my pocket. As I passed the Hooker place on my way home, I showed it to one of the boys. Thats a torpedo. Ya puts it on the tracks an when a train runs over it, Itll explode an warn em about somethin. I stuffed it in my pocket and continued on home, trying to think of a way to put it to use.
The only plan I could come up with was to slip it under a wheel of my dads old Buick that evening and wait for the fun. Next morning dad left and there was no bang. On investigating, I found the torpedo had been run over but didnt go off. So, I put it on my dresser until I thought of another plan.
Well, mom found it and come out to the kitchen holding it up and asking, Whats this? Dad looked up, went pale, jumped up and took it from her asking where she found that. I knew I was in deep s**t. So, when dad got back from throwing it in the pond, he gave me a yellin at about how I could have had my leg blowed off or something from handling that and He better not catch me around the tracks again or hed kick my butt so hard Id be lookin out of it.
I went on to build pipe bombs, blow up junk guns tied to a post and fired with a string, with overloaded ammo and make napalm with soap flakes and gasoline. You know, the usual kid stuff. | |
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The bomb incident
