Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 8

Today we are going to talk about pets. During my time on Suffolk we only had a handful of critters living around the house, but there was one in particular that was a veritable psycho.

But we'll get to him in a little bit.

First, let's talk about hamsters.

You see, my buddy Kerry had what one might call a 'zoo' under his care. That is to say, his room was lined top to bottom with terrariums and tanks, cages and aquariums, from floor to ceiling. Literally. The boy had some animals (and these aren't even including his yellow lab -why I remember that is beyond me- and his super irritating cat. I hate cats). His menagerie was complete with lizards, Cichlids (semi-tropical fish. This is where I gained a certain appreciation), a tarantula, rats, snakes, and a parrot. All of which were located in the confines of his bedroom. With all of this and his impressive collection of LEGO sets, I'm still surprised he found anywhere to sleep... but I digress. I used to watch him feed his pets, and I'd even get to hold the lizards and snakes (no spiders for me, thanks) and watch his parrot do some tricks and vocalize all the bizarre stuff Kerry taught him over the years. It was cool, but it made me long for a little animal of my own.

Up to that point all my brother ever had were goldfish in simple bowls. Nothing even slightly more difficult or time consuming than that. And even then we had to be reminded to change the water ever so often, and even to feed the boring little boogers. But one day I pleaded to my mom for something a bit more active; something I could really hold and play with and watch do... anything. She and my dad talked and they agreed that, though they were more high-maintenance, we could either get a hamster or a gerbil a piece. Well, that decision was ridiculously simple: My brother got a tan gerbil, and I got a black and white Teddy Bear hamster. Even the names came easy, as I recall already having them picked out the minute we got to the car from the Mall Pet Store: Mine was to be Gizmo (after the Mogwai, of course) and Brandon's was Cosmo. Couldn't have been better choices. Oh, and we even got really nice round cages with the plastic bottoms, a ton of bedding, boxed food, chew sticks, wheels, clear plastic balls, and a big HabiTrail we could set up in my room for the little guys to play around in! It was awesome!

Well, we finally had our pets. We played with those rodents constantly, so much so that they became likely the two tamest hamsters and gerbils in town. Gizmo would would sit on my shoulder and let me play without having to even worry about him (especially if he had a hunk of food to gnaw on), and Cosmo loved to make little singing sounds that Brandon could induce just by rubbing his belly. The gerbil's I mean, not his own. The pets were great and we had them in perfect health and activity for a year or so. Until tragedy struck in a big bad way. First, Cosmo escaped. I don't know how it happened, or when, but I think it was on a day Brandon decided to take him outside for some reason, and he just bolted, never to be seen again. As for Gizmo, he lasted a few more months until the winter hit. You see, I used to (and still do) sleep with my window open a crack even in the dead of winter. I used to put Gizmo's cage under my desk near the heat register where he stayed nice and warm. I think you can see where this is going. Let's just say one night I forgot and we went away for the weekend. I came home to a Giz-Cicle. So sad.

But these were not to be our last two pets. Oh no. We also got a dog. Quite possibly the most high-energy, wacky, mentally unstable dog in all the canine world. And his name was Sonny. It was a Lhasa Apso we got from a breeder I believe, because I remember that damn thing being really expensive, and completely untrained/untrainable. He was little and squat, and he might have been a runt because its memory capacity barely rivaled Gizmo's... and I'd like to believe Gizmo wasn't only smarter, but had a far better personality. What I'm saying is this dog was hyperactive to the N'th degree, and as dumb as you read about. And trust me, it wasn't for a lack of trying! My parents put in the effort the were able, and so did my brother and I. But eventually we had to try obedience school. Yeah, fat lot of good that did. It served only to make him angrier and prove that some dogs are just naturally idiotic.

On the long list of things this demonic dog used to do were things like hiding under the good couch in the living room (before we gated it off) and chewing the lining off, pooping all over the place, peeing in our beds, destroying our shoes and toys, and plain and simply becoming so enraged that he was all but impossible to deal with. And yet, we kept the little bastard for a good long time. Oh that dog will haunt me for the rest of my life.

In a little epilogue, we ended up giving Sonny away to some family my grandparents knew shortly after my parents divorced. I feel sorry who ever that was that had to deal with him in the prime of his life. He probably caused their divorce, too. I kid... probably.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 7

As I mentioned a few stories ago, I was a very avid little Scout. I started Cubs some time around 1980, and I went all the way through to Eagle Scout in 1989. At first, my dad was a huge part of my troop, and even went so far as to be Den Leader when we'd have our meetings at the United Methodist Church and eventually Haverhill Elementary School. Sadly, I don't remember many of my friends from Scouts in those days, save for my buddies Andrew Mautz, Kenny Aldritch, and Timmy Baldwin (the son of our future Boy Scout Troop Leader). Other than that, it's very much a blur. But a good blur, because there are a few camping trips I remember over others, a few Jamborees I can pretty readily piece together, and certainly a decent slew of other Scouting activities I can definitely coalesce into remembrances. The following tale will cover one of our camping excursions that we went on over a weekend when I was working to become a WeBeLo Scout.

Our standard camping locale was Camp Rota Kiwan off the Appledorn Trail just behind Kalamazoo Valley in Texas Township. It was easy to get to -still is- and far enough into the woods to have that feel of distance and lack of civilization, even though it was less than five miles in either direction from... stuff. But, it was a favorite and we planned trips on as many weekends as we could; setting up games for badge earning, and scheduling hikes for nature experiences. Those trips were always so wonderful and it didn't take much to walk away with a sash full of new advancement fodder and even little adornments signifying your achievements in hiking, swimming, teamsmanship, and gamesmanship. It was, at its most basic essence, what Scouts were all about.

But below the surface of what Scouts do to be Scouts, was the seedy underbelly of what makes kids, kids. And when night fell and the bonfires were lit, it was time to attempt to out-scare your fellow campers with the most nightmare-inducing tales we could come up with. Fortunately, I was friends with one Kerry Frieben, and he told me all about the Pin Man. No, not the be-studded demon from Hellraiser, this was an entirely different story... and apparently a pretty damn frightening one, too.

The story goes like this: Years ago, Kalamazoo Valley wasn't a college, but an insane asylum. It harbored the most diabolical and insipid criminals in the state who were deemed to 'crazy' to be placed in prison. Some were people who heard voices, some were people who worshiped the Devil, and still others were so twisted and evil that they just had to be kept in padded rooms far away from anyone else. One man in particular was a serial killer with one calling card to his profession: when he was about to kill you, he left a pin on your pillow as a symbol of what was to come. You see, he wasn't called the Pin Man only because of his gruesome ritual, he was dubbed the Pin Man because that's what he jabbed into your eyes and ears while you slept. And not those little sewing pins, but those giant hat pins that are several inches long! 
A few years before he was scheduled for a rehabilitation program, he escaped the asylum and fled to the huge woods that encompassed the many acres behind it. In fact, it was the very woods we are in right now. You see, after they gave up attempting to find the Pin Man, and eventually assuming him dead, the asylum closed and a college was built in and over its remains. But soon, stories of locals being murdered with gigantic pins began appearing on news casts and in papers. The community was once again under the fear of being killed by the Pin Man. 
The murders came (maybe a dozen over a few years) and finally ebbed, and the Pin Man was once again forgotten. But some still say he haunts these very woods even today, seeking out campers and leaving pins in their beds...

Now, this story was scary enough. It would definitely get many Scouts looking behind them and scooting closer to the older Den Leaders. But it was made all the more frightening by the fact that I would choose one camper at random and put two pins on his pillow as he slept. Yeah, that caused a few screams and bed-wettings, I don't mind telling you. I think maybe once some boy was so scared he had to have a parent come pick him up. I suppose if this didn't all go down in the 80's when 'Friday the 13th' was in full swing, it might not have been as bad. And yes, I would let everyone in on the joke the next morning and either win applause and accolades, or else a private scolding from my dad. I think he secretly thought it was funny, but he couldn't let on.

Just be careful if you're ever camping Rota Kiwan... Pin Man might still be out there. Or maybe he's dead. One can never be too sure.

Ha ha ha ha ha...

* 

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 6

I think it's time for another spooky tale, don't you? And yes, as always, it's 100% true.

This little story takes place on Halloween I believe in 1985. Halloweens were always the best in our neighborhood because it was (and is) just so sprawling and inviting. Everyone participated; the yards were decorated, Jack O' Lanterns were lit and set on porches, Haunted Houses were set up in people's lawns, and hundreds of kids marched from house to house barking their Halloween mantra and getting their requisite treats. It was definitely one time of year where the whole neighborhood came together and enjoyed the evening.

This particular year was to be a bit different, though. It would become one of the most frightening Halloweens I have ever experienced both before and since. And maybe it was because I was only 11, and likely because I had yet to fully and truly embrace horror and fear as more of an exciting feeling and less of a stomach-churning terror. Either way, the events that unfolded that night are very hard to forget.

As was per the norm, regardless of how old the kids got (as I said, I was 11 and my brother was 8 and 1/2), the dads from all over the little community took them out Trick-Or-Treating. In our case, my little sister (5) stayed at home with my mom and handed out candy. It wouldn't be till the next year that she would join us on our annual pilgrimages. Sadly, however, I don't remember what our costumes were that year. I have pictures of various outfits we wore over the course of those years on Suffolk, and it might be safe to say that that particular year I was a werewolf (gee, maybe I kind of did dig just enough of the creepy to pick out a cool costume) and my brother was a giant spider. What ever the case, it was time to fill our pillow cases with the delicious treats of the season.

Unlike the Trick-Or-Treats of today (it's amazing what a difference 27 years make) we always waited until it was dark out... like fully dark, none of this 'sunset' nonsense of today. Sure, we had flashlights because hey, no one wanted to trip and everyone wanted to see each other's costumes; it was never because we feared weirdos walking around or creepy people with evil intentions. Well, maybe we should have, in this case.

This particular year, we walked with Matt and Rich Durian and their dad. Our fathers had gotten close enough to partner up for Halloween, and they seemed like they had a good time, anyway. We met up at the edge of our yards on the sidewalk, and took off on our merry way stopping at every house we could. Now, our house was (and still is) only a few houses from the west end of Suffolk, and by the time we got there, a few other groups of dads and kids had made their way to our six-person party and had slowed enough to chat up my pop, as well as Mr. Durian. The conversation was slightly muffled, and we were excited to move on, but we clearly heard 'stranger' and 'Frankenstein'... and no, I am not making that up. My brother and I surmised that there was a 'stranger' in the neighborhood dressed as 'Frankenstein', and we were right.

My dad gathered the Durian boys and us together, and told us to stay close because there might be something weird going on, but there was nothing to worry about. A father telling his kids something 'weird' was happening and not to 'worry' immediately caused the opposite reaction. I was instantly scared, and my brother basically had one foot heading toward home. But the dads calmed us down, and said we needed to remember the fun we were about to have and to just stick close rather than wander too far ahead. It must have worked because we went on about our business, only a little more wary and a lot more paranoid.

It seemed the further we worked our way into the neighborhood, there were more and more dads informed of the potential situation. Soon, it seemed so many people knew, that even some of the older kids we walked past were talking about some huge guy stumbling around who either looked like, or, in fact was, Frankenstein. Our fears were piqued and we were on high alert as we weaved up and down driveways and walks, and in and out of lawns getting our gains and trying to maintain a level of fun at the same time. But it was difficult as the evening progressed, and we couldn't help but check over our shoulders just to make sure we weren't being pursued by some giant creature. We got our candy supply, and gradually Trick-Or-Treated around the connecting streets to the east end of Suffolk.

It was a melancholic mix of happiness to finally be close to home, and exhaustion from being on monster watch all night, as we finished up the last few houses and prepared to end our evening.

And then we saw him.

Walking with a perfect hitch and a stuttering gait coming up the west-end of our street was Frankenstein's Monster. His echoing wails could be heard over the terrified caterwauling of the kids that were fleeing in all directions into the arms of their collective fathers. We stopped dead about fifty yards away, still too far from our house to simply make a run for it and slam the door behind us. My level of panic was so far in the red a could literally feel my legs getting weak and that tell-tale buzz arcing through my head that attempted to trigger my Fight-Or-Flight response. But my dad was right behind me only pressurizing the situation by asking us what we thought it was, and if we were scared.
Scared?
I was petrified and if I, for one second, thought that dropping my candy and careening through people's yards just to get back to the safety of my house would get me there faster, I would gladly have done it. But just then, he turned, and began working his way to the other side of the street and moving away from us toward where ever else he could frighten the Hell out of some more kids. That was enough for us, and I'm pretty sure my brother was in sobbing hysterics at that point.

Once inside, it was all we could do not to jump into our mother's arms and rapidly attempt to regale the events of the evening. She was soothing, but a large smile played on her face and there was just something not quite right about it. My dad just hung back and laughed, admitting that whomever it was definitely look an awful lot like Frankenstein's Monster. And the more I think about it now, the more I have to assume it was all set up by someone on the neighborhood and just trickled to every father's ear throughout the night.

Ironically, any piece of candy I got that night that featured Frankenstein was immediately discarded. Cuz ya never know what might have brought him back...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 5

Writing the sentence I'm about to write is literally something I'd never thought I'd ever put to paper. I watched a guy attempt suicide inside a power transformer. Now let me explain, because chances are it's as bizarre as you can imagine.

At one time, there was a pretty wide trail that led from the west side of Suffolk to Oakland, and then it was just a quick hop from that point of Oakland (which is, by the way, now one of Portage's Fire Stations) to Kerry Frieben's house in the adjacent neighborhood. This path sort of became like our little Adventure Area and reminds me now of something out of a Stephen King novel. It just had some kind of eerie quality, and we always managed to find one odd thing or another. Now on this trail was the entrance to a pretty massive power transformer that provided electricity to our neighborhood. I'm assuming its still there, but I honestly don't know since I haven't looked closely in a while, as the Fire Station is now directly in front of it. This path was ours; no one else was ever on it, and the more I think about it, it might have been a private drive due to the fact that id had such a close proximity to the power station.

It was summer, and I only remember because it was incredibly hot, and the outfit on the guy we were abut to meet seemed a little out of the ordinary. We were cutting through the path coming back from Kerry's and heading to our neighborhood; it was Chad, Kerry, and I and we were planning on swimming. As we passed the transformer we noticed something pretty out of the ordinary in the form of a guy inside the guard fence dressed in a dark coat and pants messing around with some kind of tool. Now we weren't overly familiar with how workers did what they did inside one of these powerful structures, and we definitely had no knowledge of anyone having been in there before wen we walked by, but how the guy was dressed and what he said to us triggered more than a few alarms. As we stopped and just looked at what he was doing, he turned to us and said, "I'm just working in here, but don't tell anyone, okay?"

Don't tell anyone? Why would a worker care if we said anything to anybody? Well, we sort of nodded in false agreement, and quickly covered the distance between the transformer and the end of the path planning on absolutely telling someone. We got about  a yard onto the actual street wen we heard a deafening BOOM echo over the treeline coming from where we had just been. We turned on our heels and sprinted back to where we saw the man, all of us just knowing that 'boom' could not be the result of something good. Little did we know that the power in or neighborhood had completely gone out, something we'd become aware of all too soon. 

 We arrived in a panic back to where the transformer was, and were met with the acrid smell of burning metal and singed wires mingled with the wretched odor of cooked flesh. Lying in a heap exactly where he stood was the man, covered in charred skin and bubbling blood. He looked like a shocked and cooked corpse from a bad horror movie. Smoke rolled off his clothes as dying flames fluttered out, and most of the hair on his head was replaced by roasted scalp. We stood there awestruck as the guy slowly rolled in agony and pleaded for us to get help. We didn't need to be asked twice, and we took off for my house. When we arrived, we bolted through the door and immediately told my mother. Though our power was out, and she'd heard the explosion, the phone was still operable and she quickly dialed the police. We wanted to go back to make sure the guy wasn't dead, but my mom insisted she go with us. We ran back to the transformer and found the man writhing in agony exactly as we'd left him.

As it turned out, the police were already on their way, as was a cadre of fire fighters, EMT's, and even a few power trucks; they'd all heard the explosion, and, presumably, the electric company got some kind of warning, as well. So we stood there and watched in rapt fascination as the man -clinging to life- was taken care of. We were interviewed by police as well as a reporter from a TV Van that arrived, it might have been WWMT, but I don't remember. Our regaling was in the Kalamazoo Gazette the next day, and as far as I know, my mom has the article somewhere. As for the man, I'm not sure how that ended or whether he lived or died.

Now I've seen thousands of horror movies and repulsive make-up jobs, but nothing can ever prepare you for someone burnt and bloody in the real world. It doesn't even compare. Also, I might be some kind of hero, but I'm not going to dwell on that.   

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 4

So let's talk about my friend Matt Durian. I don't think the Durians lived there on Suffolk when we moved in, the more I think about it. In fact it was maybe a year later when they arrived, but either way, Matt and I became fast friends. It was nice having a neighbor right next door who really appreciated G.I. Joe as much as I did. I think of all the toy action figures I owned, I owned the largest number of Joes. I watched the cartoon religiously, and to this day I'm not convinced they were using guns with bullets in that show. I'm pretty sure they were lasers and that's what we adapted when Matt and I played. Just sayin'.

We got together a lot and gathered our figures and prepared for really strategic and intense battles, and the best part was the fact that his dad built him a giant table (much like a train table without the trains) for his G.I. Joes with the USS Flag -that massive aircraft carrier- right in the middle. It was such an impressive set-up and we had so much room for both of us to move around, set up our troops, and just go nuts.

But one time they had a fire. It wasn't much of a fire -if you can say that- inasmuch as it didn't burn the house down, or really even at all. But what did result was basement damage. Where our G.I. Joe table was. I'm not sure how the blaze began, but it destroyed much of their stuff in the basement before they got it under control to the point where they could put it out. Yeah, the Fire Department was called out and we all stood around at like 3 in the morning watching them make sure it was all out. We had a fire hydrant right at the end of our yard, so that was convenient. But, as I said, the table burned and a lot of his G.I. Joes. It was a sad day.

Well, over the next week or so I told my mom just what burned in their basement, and it was some of our favorite toys. My mom suggested I help and I could use my allowance. So, rather than go to the store, I perused our neighborhood garage sales... and there were a ton, I managed to get about a dozen Joe figures for about 10 bucks, and I gave them to Matt. He was very happy and we were back in business. I felt damn good about myself.

Oh, and his dad rebuilt the table. Awesome.    

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 3

How about a ghost story?
You like spooky ghost stories, right?

Especially when they're true?

Yeah. I thought so...

Kerry Frieben and I enjoyed riding our bikes at night. I can't actually remember what the reason for it was, other than heading the mile from his house to the once-called Stop N Go for candy and pop. I'm assuming that was probably it... I mean it wasn't like we were hooligans or anything. Well, for the most part...

You see, on Milham Road, just off Oakland right outside of both of our neighborhoods was the Stop N Go party store, and directly across the street was a cemetery and a church. Both the hallowed grounds still stand, but the Stop N Go has gone through several changes to become what it is today: a Circle K. And let me tell you, strange things were afoot at the would-be Circle K that night... if I may paraphrase Bill and Ted.

For some reason Kerry got the idea to go into the cemetery. Fortunately for me, the back of the grave yard butted up to a dead end street that literally ran right into my street, so rather than leave from his house on this fateful night, we'd leave from mine. As far as my parents were concerned, I was going to Kerry's house. So we gathered our wits about us (or should I say I gathered them, because as far as I was concerned, Kerry was just about the bravest guy I knew), and pedaled to a destination neither of us had ever been.

As we arrived through the back entrance -which really was nothing more than where the gate ended, since there really was no need to block the back side from harm, apparently- we left our bikes at the edge of the woods (a small strip of wooded land separated the church grounds from where the dead-end met the foliage) and walked the rest of the way. By this point it was pushing ten, and in mid-summer that meant that the sun was just snatching away the remainder of the day's light. But we hesitated. Before we went in it was decided that it would be best if it were dark. So we hung back and discussed not only our strategy, but what exactly we were doing there in the first place. As it turned out, Kerry had a plan.

For some odd reason, Kerry wanted to push over a tomb stone. I didn't ask (I didn't really want to know) and as an easily persuaded kid, I just went along with it. In fact, some part of me -deep down that had never been tapped into before- really thought it was just about the coolest idea of all time. So we twiddled our thumbs in pregnant anticipation until the final bits of light faded away and night draped the sky. It was time to do a little damage. Minor as it might have been.

As we slowly crept into the grave yard, it occurred to just how tantalizingly frightening it was being in a place I knew damn well housed corpses and, likely, roaming spirits. It sent a flurry of shuddering chills down my spine and I fought the battle between wanting to run back to the woods like a baby, and wanting nothing more than to explore this land of the dead. Curiosity won, and we moved deeper into the Cemetery. Fortunately, it wasn't very big and we spotted our target almost immediately: a tall grave marker in the shape of a person with a head on a flowing cloak of some kind. I'd seen it from the road a hundred times. This was to be the target of our mischief, and I began shivering with a mix of excitement and outright fear.

Smartly, before we did the dirty deed, we looked out across Milham just to ensure that no one was watching or driving by. As far as we could tell it was clear. So we stood like two stolid strong men, positioned our hands on the stone, and gave a great shove. Even with what we thought was all of our might, the statue barely budged. We felt it give, but it just settled right back into the ground like nothing happened. We'd have to push even harder. But something was amiss...
A car had parked on our side of the road directly across from the Stop N Go, and it's lights were on and the engine was running.
Uh Oh...

Kerry told me to stay hidden behind the stone and he's go check out what was up with the car. I was in no position to argue, especially considering I was now scared almost to the piss-pants point, and Kerry was older and, therefor (presumably) wiser. I crouched down and watched him sprint back to the fence line and around the outside. I lost sight of him in the shadows and just kept my eyes stuck to the running car just to make sure no one got out and came after us. It wasn't a cop, that much was obvious, but you never know; it might have been someone who worked at the church, ya know? I sat there hugging my knees to my chest fighting off the nearly overwhelming urge to just leave Kerry and hightail it back to my bike. But then I sighted him rounding the gate on his return run. He made it back to me, and between breaths explained that yes, there was someone in the car (UH OH), but the dude was asleep or passed out or something... even with his car running and the headlights on! What? Well, I felt a bit better, but that was still weird. Did we still want to risk the reason we came here in the first place?

Kerry said he did, since there was no reason to believe the guy even had any idea anyone was in the cemetery and was likely drunk. I supposed I saw the logic, but I still questioned our actions. Regardless, we set ourselves against the head stone and prepared for a huge push. With every ounce of strength I could muster -based a lot on the ever rising scale of fear I was measuring the event against- we leaned into it and with a surprisingly soundless fall, the statue hit the ground with a muffled thud. My ears were prepared for a much more resounding smack, but since none actually came, the instant quiet was painfully deafening. We exhaled deeply, and shared a high-5 as we surveyed our little bit of deviousness.
And then we saw the real extent of the damage.

What we assumed was just a fairly innocent tomb stone tipping had instantly turned into something far worse. As we looked toward the end with the head, the dull glow of the fluorescent flood lights from the church itself illuminated the real issue: the head had broken off. This was definitely not in the cards.

We scrambled in a flurry of panic. I grabbed for the head as Kerry took off in a run to check the car again. We knew right then that someone had to have seen us, if not heard us. As quiet as it was, a breaking piece of stone is still pretty audible when you were as close to us as that car was. Immediately I picked up the head -it was about the size, shape, and weight of a standard bowling ball- and cradled it under my arm. We had to fix this somehow, and we had to do it fast. But then Kerry called to me from the other side of the gate and told me to meet him by the car. Was he kidding? What could possibly be that important? I set the head down by the little mound of sod the tipped statue had pulled up, and ran to meet him.

I arrived panting at the car and looked at Kerry as he stood there with his hands cupped to the closed, slightly-tinted windows. He motioned for me to look, and I did. The car was empty. The engine still ran, the seat was reclined just as Kerry had described it when he saw the guy sleeping, and the lights were still on. We exchanged a glance that was both quizzical and terrified, and we took off back the grave. The few seconds it took to return, Kerry had a wide-eyed look and he swore that there was a person in that car, and neither one of us had heard a door open or shut. This was just plain nuts.

We arrived at the tipped stone, and it was immediately obvious what we had to do. With a heave, we righted it and walked it up as straightly as we could. We stamped the ground back to true, grabbed the head, and ran like timid rabbits back to our bikes. Once we got there, it became all too obvious that we had to do something with the stone head. And so we came to the decision to bury it, right there in the woods, using two sticks. And there it stayed. We biked back to his house, cutting through or neighborhood just so we could have that feeling of being back in some kind of sane civilization. It was only 11:15. The whole ordeal took less than an hour. Our adventure was over for that night.

Fast forward to the future: our current time. Yes, the statue is still there and you can see it even now, still at that skewed angle we left it some 28 years ago. Maybe folks just figured it fell on its own and no one bothered to worry about it. However, the woods that were the separation point have since been dug out and replaced with more houses. Can you imagine being the guy operating the machine that unearthed the head we buried? I bet that was a sight. As for the car with the ghost... well, a ghost to us, anyway... we never did figure that out. But it remains as a really interesting tale I like to regale every now and again. And yes, it is all true... save for a few... shall we say 'Writer's Embelishments' just to hold the audience. But the facts are all facts. I just wish I knew what was up with that car...

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 2

Strangely, I don't really remember how I met many of my friends from the tail-end of my Elementary School years; those same friends who would go on to follow me to Junior High at Portage North Middle. I'm sure a few were just from class itself, and I do know some were met in Cub Scouts, but the recollection is hazy at best. But what I do know is that the three main kids I hung out with were Chad Mickel (my backyard neighbor), Jayesh Mehta (who lived just a few houses down from Chad on Belaire), and Kerry Frieben (whom I mentioned not only lived a bit of a hike away, but was also the kid I really looked up to in terms of age and experience). We were pretty inseparable. We had sleep overs, birthday parties, and just hung out all the time. These were my friends outside of Scouts, but we all went to school together, and we were best pals to be sure.

We were all very big into Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and, of course, Transformers. In fact, Chad owned quite a few more of the toys than I did, so between his collection and my slightly more meager supply, we had quite a lot of good times running through our yards and having boy-typical battles. Thanks to these times, I'd imagine, I'm still a bit of a toy, cartoon, and Sci-Fi nerd to this day.

Kerry, on the other hand, wasn't much of a toy guy. But what he did do was build my love for Horror Movies thanks to one fateful occasion I will never forget. It was sometime in 1985, because A Nightmare on Elm Street had been released to the theaters a year before and had just hit the home VHS market. We were having a sleep-over at Kerry's house in his none-too-innocent looking basement. That is to say: it was dark, it was rife with tools and the eponymous older looking water boiler, and it had spooky back rooms. So, we settled in to watch a few movies. One of which was some Sci-Fi thing, maybe Krull, that he kind of greased my palms with, and the other was A Nightmare on Elm Street. I was not about to watch that, thank you very much. At that point I was pretty much a chicken and a half, and I would do everything I could not to watch horror since my freaky behind-the-couch viewing of my parents viewing of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer a few months earlier. That movie was bad enough, and there was no way Kerry was gonna get me to watch Freddy Krueger and his nightmares. Ah, but that was all about to change.

Kerry made me both a deal and a threat somehow wrapped in a promise. First of all, you have to understand that I was an avid MAD Magazine collector. I had a big pile of them, but none that were really old at the time. I began collecting in 1983, and Kerry had a bunch from the 70's that I really wanted. And so this would be the first part of the deal: he would give me five of his older MAD's. Okay, so far I was falling into this little snare. Secondly, and this was the kicker, Kerry said that I couldn't feign sleep during the movie's run or else he'd punch me in the balls. Yup: he promised NOT to punch me if I stayed awake and watched the flick. Um... I guess I couldn't lose and what choice did I have? I was trapped. But ya know what? I can't thank him enough...

And so we watched. And yes, I was pretty uneasy. But ya know what? I loved every gory second of it. I was on the edge of my seat more for the great movie itself than for the horror. We had a ball, and from that moment forward, I was hooked. My interests turned a little bit toward horror; horror I was only able to really get at Kerry's house since my parents both didn't know and likely wouldn't have allowed it for an eleven-year old. That night was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between horror and I, and to this day it takes an awful lot to scare me. Maybe I'm still worried about being hit in the balls.

Oh, and he gave me TEN MAD's that day. Kerry was a cool kid.

Pages From The Memory Vault Book II Part 1

We moved to 1712 Suffolk in the Summer of 1983. I was almost nine and was preparing to leave the comforting confines of Central Elementary to the new hallowed halls of Haverhill. Sometime between 1981 and '83, I joined the Boy Scouts of America as a tenderfoot Cub Scout, and for a time we had meetings at the Portage United Methodist Church, but our base of operations was about to be relocated to my new Elementary School under a new troop number. And this would become the troop where I would spend a large part of my childhood doing those wonderful things that Scouts do: camping, hiking, Pine Wood derby car building, and, eventually, attaining Eagle Scout granted by our once Governor, James Blanchard. But, once again, that's getting a little ahead of myself. Let's begin with the new house.

Just so you understand, I actually only lived under this roof for the better part of four years, but it was definitely some of the greatest years of my life. They were adventurous, exciting, and just rife with maturity. Yeah, I really felt like I grew up over this time, and part of that thanks goes to a friend of mine who was at least three years my junior named Kerry. But again, we'll get to him later. Before I go off on another tangent, lets remember the house, shall we?

Our new house was quite a bit bigger than our little Liszt ranch. First off, it was a 2-story with two bathrooms and three bedrooms. The family room and the kitchen were connected by a hallway that led to the stairs. Off the kitchen was a wrap-around dining room that led to a 'living room' (kind of a misnomer since we never went in there except for Christmas and special occasions... I hate rooms like that) and eventually to the front door landing and met up with the hall that connected to the stairs. In that little hall way was bathroom one and the little laundry nook. Upstairs we had two room on the right (the first was my brother's and mine, and the second was my parents) and two other rooms on the left (a bathroom and my sister's room at the end). It was a great house and, best of all, we had an amazing in-ground-pool! Oh it had a diving board, a really cool slide (that never really worked) and even (drum roll) a HOT TUB! It was dope! Sadly, there wasn't much of a back yard since it was so full of watery goodness, but the front yard made up for that and we played much of outdoor shenanigans there. Well, shenanigans that weren't water oriented. Anyway, to wrap up this little thought (little?) it was a great place in which to live.

My street was Suffolk, as I said, and it was a fair bit longer than Liszt. That is to say; more neighbors, which, once a year, also equaled more places to Trick or Treat! Anyway, right next door, on our right if you were facing it, were the Durians. Matt was my age, and we often played G.I. Joe's and Transformers. More on that another day, too. A few houses down but on the opposite side of the street were the Cosby's. Yeah... they were white. Just sayin'. Anyway, Bob was my age as well and we used to play toy guns and ride bikes a lot. To our left, there was a path that ran between our house and our neighbors (The Himillers who were a wonderful elderly couple) and led to the Mickel's back yard. That was the house of my very good friend, Chad. Boy oh boy did we get into a ton of adventures. But, once again, those stories are for another day. Now across from Chad and on the corner were the Fords and my friend, Mike. It was -and is- a sprawling neighborhood and I loved every second of it. Oh, and as for Kerry, he lived in another neighborhood just a bike ride away across from Oakland Drive.

So there's your lead up. Isn't it amazing -especially after reading my past 14 entries of scattershot memories- just how much I can dig out so readily? Yeah, I don't get it either. But, there are a ton of stories in my head about my four-year tenure on Suffolk, and I can't wait to regale them all to ya. So stick around!

Pages From the Memory Vault Part 14

Well, readers, I think this is going to be the last bits of memories from my life on Liszt, and it once again comes in the form of small nuggets that are primarily unfinished thoughts and littler chunks of malformed pieces of my life. I often wonder what it would be like to do this little blog had I not gone through about a 4-year period where I'm relatively sure I became an alcoholic. Oh well, such is life. Now, on with things I do recall...

For the first one, it's actually not even a memory that I personally remember, but one my mom does because apparently I was only like 3 or so. I've been told this a number of times, and it's definitely a testament to 'A Sign of the Times', because I can only imagine the events that led up to this being totally frowned upon in this day and age. Anyway, it seems that my mom had put me down for a nap in my crib and had gone next door to a friend's house for coffee or something. Literally (before anyone tilts a brow at how irresponsible) RIGHT next door... like you could spit to the house from our front porch. Anyway, my mom went over there while I supposedly slept. Well as you might be assuming, I awoke to find no mommy in sight, and rather than just shrug it off and go back to sleep, I climbed out of my crib with a mission. Much like Stewie Griffin from Family Guy, this particular Stewie was bent on vindication. I wandered to the family room and proceeded to destroy all of the potted plants that were hanging out in the house. Ones on little pedestals, ones that just sat on the floor, some on the window sills... all were fare game for my mellifluous rampaging. Fortunately, my mom did have the wherewithal to come back home rather rapidly -likely hearing her motherly alarm blaring- and discovered the mess. I'd like to think I shrugged and wandered off in my diaper, but she only says she couldn't spank me because it was her own fault. Moral: never leave plants out when you decide to ditch your kid for a few hours.

I've mentioned the Motyckas many times in this blog thus far, and it stands to reason since we always hung out with them. But there were times in particular when we often played the same game over and over, and those times always fell on Jenny's birthday parties. We'd go over there, play a few games of Pin-The-Tail and Red Rover and such, but they always led to one game that I had a devil of a time remembering. In fact, I'm starting to assume this was just a made up game by Mrs. Motycka herself because even the Internet hasn't heard of it, and that's borderline impossible. Either way it featured a character, probably the birthday party recipient, going on a trip and she had to remember to pack a bunch of stuff, including a pair of special Patent Leather Shoes. I don't remember why these were special, only that she (Jenny) had to have them. As for the rules of the game or how it went... I have no Earthly idea. Funny enough, this little tidbit came to me in a dream. And no, I don't remember why.

I vaguely remember getting really sick when I was in Kindergarten. According to my mom it was due to a really nasty staff infection. Evidently I got staff infections quite a few times when I was a kid, but it was this initial case where the doctors at the hospital figured out I was allergic to Penicillin. They dosed me up with it, which in turn made me sicker, and viola: longer hospital stay. I really have almost no recollection of my term in ward there, other than the fact that my teacher, Mrs. Fulton, had all my classmates sign a giant card for me, a card that my mom says she actually still has. That's like an artifact now, or something! And also they got me a Mickey Mouse stuffed animal that became a best buddy to me. And that's honestly all I can remember.

Well, folks, I think that's about it. Beginning with the next entry we will be following my memories to my life on 1712 Suffolk. That's right: all new adventures, and a fare bit more of them, too. See ya soon!

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 13

As the well begins to dry up a bit more and the memories either fade or don't really form themselves into anything coherent or useful, it seems it's almost time to move on from my life on Liszt. This doesn't mean I won't be revisiting when necessity calls and when I can conjure up something with a bit more substance, but it seems that I have a whole lot more vivid past life experiences from when we moved and I, consequently, got a little bit older. In fact, you even get to hear my real-life ghost story which did, eventually, lead to a few others as well. So you're likely going to have to suspend disbelief a little there, unless you already believe... in which case, good for you. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to tie up a loose end before moseying on to greener pastures. And so, I give you: The Blizzard of '78.

I was four. Well, I wasn't even four yet, actually. I would be four in July of that year and the blizzard hit in January. And, from what I'm reading while I write this, just for historical accuracy, it hit on the 25th, 26th, and 27th of that month, just before my brother's first birthday. Hm, I didn't realize that. Anyway... on to what I do remember!

From what I can tell by re-reading, we suffered through roughly 20 inches of snow, and that doesn't account for the blowing and drifting. I do remember some of the drifts reached the roofs of many of the houses in our neighborhood, but weather or not our house was one of them, I can't be sure. If I remember correctly -since my parents speak pretty knowingly about the event- we were likely buried since they had to dig out the front door and actually tunnel to the road. I think all I cared about was just going out and playing in it, and since we had no power and my dad was stuck home from work, we ventures outside and attempted to mole our way to anywhere else.

One thing I do remember is that the corner store (the very store I spoke about when I used to go on candy runs) was open and we needed to go there just to get basic necessities since every major road out into the city was shut down. So we walked what typically would have been a half-mile or so -roughly a block I guess- and under normal circumstances would have taken all of ten minutes, in an hour. I might be exaggerating, but I don't think so. I do remember my dad bringing the shovel and just moving snow as we went. And, since I was in tow and not especially useful as a 3.5 year old, it was a trek. And for some odd reason I remember -among all the other things we got just to get by like milk and bread- getting Mountain Dew in a glass bottle. This was of course back when parents cared a lot less about the acres of sugar that soda offered. It was just a reward for being there, I guess. Anyway, we went back home and watched as other people did the same thing: trudging to the store and returning with bare essentials.

The more I think about it I can't shake the thought that our house was, in fact, buried under a drift because I seem to remember sledding off the roof with... someone. Likely a parent and maybe a friend... I can't be sure but I do remember the sledding part. Our house was a ranch style, so just one level, and I can imagine climbing the drift wouldn't have been too difficult. Hm... anyway... sledding.

Well, if you want to read about the storm, here's the WIKI ENTRY. I'm glad I can remember these things just enough to find most of the info online. It looks like we'll have one more entry from the Liszt years as I'm suddenly recalling a few more little tidbits. So, see ya next time!

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 12

It was brought to my attention yesterday, as I sat in my back yard chatting with my mom and sister, that I had overlooked a few decent hunks of memory from my life on Liszt. Ya see, there was a reason I used the caveat that my remberer was full of holes way back at the beginning... because it is. But, I think worst of all, was the simple fact that, up until this point, I really haven't mentioned my sister, Kristy, very much. Why? Believe me me it's not because of any sinister or vindictive reason... its just because I simply don't remember doing an awful lot with here as a kid as young as I was. You see, she was born in 1979, and we only lived on Liszt until 1981. So, my memories of her really don't blossom until we moved, and I'll get to those years soon, I promise.

Now the other thing I had forgotten -well, inasmuch as the details- was the farm that sat just beyond the swampy area past the end of our street. I mentioned playing out there and having forts and whatnot, but my friends and I used to also go to the pig farm and just hang out. As far as I remember, the owners of the farm were pretty nice and were okay with us loitering about so long as we didn't mess anything up. But besides the pigs that were milling about, this farm also featured the best thing ever: chickens!

Why were chickens the best thing ever? Well, and at least in the case of these particular poultry, they were friendly and enjoyed being picked up and played with! They were like... uh, cats with beaks. Anyway, as I was recalling this fun little farm yesterday, it occurred to me that I bore witness to one particular bit of tragedy involving those chickens as a youth. And I finally remember just how horrific and repugnant it really was.

It was hatching time down on the farm, and my friends and I were hanging around snuggling the chicks like the little balls of fluffedy fluff fluff they were. Hey, when you're 7, chicks still means baby birds, ya know? Anyway, we were playing with the chicks when out of the shadows we hear this God-awful cacophonous crow that sounded like someone kicking a clarinet player in the crotch. We ran over to investigate and saw a gigantic chicken -presumably a pregnant female- sitting right on top of another, smaller chicken. No, not a chick, but a full grown bird. This fat-ass fowl just plopped right on top of it! She obviously broke its neck and then, adding insult to injury, smothered it under her massive bulk. We shooed her off in a flurry of protest and feathers, and stared dumbly at the flat mess that was once another chicken. It was definitely dead. We prodded it with a stick, even though we all knew what had happened. It was kind of sad, really.

Well, that was the story. Nothing particularly earth-shattering, I know. But, it happened none the less. We still visited the farm regularly, and we still hung out with the chickens, but we learned that day that a fat, angry hen is nothing to be trifled with. A lesson I've carried with me my whole life... 

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 11

We'll subtitle this one, "Bits and Pieces" mostly because I thought of a few memories that don't really make up a full story. But they're pretty cool anyway, so here goes...

1) I don't really remember when cable was made readily available in Portage and, subsequently, in our neighborhood, but it must have been pretty early on in the first part of the 80's because I remember watching Fraggle Rock on HBO on or TV in the basement. Why do I remember this so vividly? Well, for some reason, watching Fraggle Rock was, apparently, un-cool to my friends. They'd come over and make me switch to re-reuns of Happy Days. The more I think about it, there was definitely a valid argument for both shows. Potsy or Boober? Tough choice.

2) My brother, Brandon, and I used to have giant, steel trucks from TONKA that we'd ride down our driveway. One time, as we caromed down toward the road, I was nearly obliterated by my neighbor's truck. I'm trying to remember if his last name was Ort or something, but he was definitely not what one might consider... normal. I do know that he had a dog that was super old and used to bark at everything, but all low and painful-like as though he were yapping at death's door. That man was spooky and didn't even look twice when he nearly killed me.

3) Speaking of dogs, we had two on Liszt, and then another that came later, but we'll get into that one soon. Anyway, we had a Scottish Terrier named -unimaginatively- Scotty, and an Irish Setter named -equally unimaginatively- Dublin. I really don't remember much about either dog other than the fact that we had them and I guess they were friendly. Oh no, it was the dog we got later that was the epitome of sadistic and insane... but that's another story for another time.

4) I am remembering more and more vividly the layout of our house, and I'm going to tell you right now because this is my blog and I feel like it. When you walked in from the garage door, which was on the north end of the house (far right) you entered into the kitchen. We had a nice table at the south end of the kitchen right in front of the sliding door that led to the back yard. Looking left from the table was the entryway that led to the family room. Looking into the family room and at the front door, to your right was the hall way that led to the bathroom on the right, and at the end of the hallway was the kids' bedroom on the left and my parent's on the right. And that was the main floor. We also had a finished basement with a den and the laundry room that also included the main room that ran the length of the house. My toys were down there and so was a possible ghost. But I'm not sure, I was awfully young.

5) One Fall when my dad and I were raking leaves in the front yard, the pile had gotten enormous. Of course I jumped it it several times, but, eventually, it was time to burn it. You see, back then Portage didn't care if you burned leaves... ya can't do it anymore... stupid city ordinances. Anyway, the leaves were kind of wet and were going to be really tough to get lit, so my dad decided he needed some fuel. Well, what better way to light wet leaves than with some old gasoline? Old gasoline that was hanging around in an old boat motor, to be precise. Well, he dumped it out onto the pile (all the while dribbling a bunch of it on his pant leg and sock), hit it with a match, and POOF! His pants burst into flames. I ran to the house and turned on the hose, but my dad managed to roll out the flames, just after the fire completely burned through his sock. I sprayed him anyway, if only just to douse his incredible stupidity.

6) I was just thinking about the Cardinal nest we have outside our door and remembering the time I was brutally attacked by a bird. We had a hedge that ran the length of the front of the house just under the picture window. Anyway, one Spring we had a nest of Blue Jays right in the middle of the hedge. At this point I think I was 5 or 6, so this little beauty of nature was just incredible to me, and all I wanted to do was look at it and poke my nose in as close as I could. Yes, my mom warned me not to get too close or to touch the nest for various reasons... but I didn't listen. One day, as I was getting just a bit too intimate with the chicks (yeah, baby), I was dive-bombed and attacked by the mother Jay! She viciously pecked the hell out of my head and flapped in my face! That was the last time I messed with that nest. Stupid nature. 

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 10

Being adventurous as kids is a force of nature. You just can't help but be precocious. Everything is a new excitement, and everywhere can present an opportunity for a lasting memory. And speaking of which, though I do admit that most of my memories are incomplete at best, there are those that are as whole as a fresh apple. And one such memory involves my once innate curiosity, and a place in which I'd experience my first real moment of panic.

Where we lived on list, our house was situated mere yards from a very large storm drain. Well, it was large to me as a little kid. I'm quite sure it was -and is- standard size. But when you're a seven-year old, it's roughly the size of a small cavern and deep enough to spark thoughts of hidden treasure and high adventure only read about in Jules Verne novels. It quickly became a source of fascination for my friends and I. We knew that any one of us individually was never going to get into it. The grate was solid iron and weighed more than the three of us put together. But, if we had a fourth... if only Jeff, Kurt, and I could find a kid with more strength, more leverage; possibly older and smarter about these things, we just might be able to crack the seal and climb in. Fortunately for us, we knew of someone. Jamie Chenery. Yep, the brother of the girl I'd kissed for my very first time. He was still a great friend, and was the real influence on my love of all things Star Wars. But that's another story, too.

 So, on one particularly steamy summer afternoon, I gathered the wrecking crew. And we discovered right away that Jamie had one brilliant idea after another. The first of which was to dig out the seam of the storm grate where it met the iron frame. We all knew that somehow this thing had be opened when workers needed to get into it, we'd seen it done a few times when it got too clogged with leaves and yard debris. So Jeff, Kurt, and I gathered tools that could easily fit in the half-inch gap that ran the length of the iron. I borrowed an old butter knife, even going so far as to tell my parents what I was up to. Oddly, they only laughed knowing full well that I was going to get that grate up as much as I was going to grow up to be Superman. I'd show them...

We spent the better part of three full afternoons excavating that impermeable rectangle, until we finally had every grain of dirt cleaned from its perimeter. It was beautiful; not only did it look like it had just been laid into place for the first time, but it actually jiggled when we shook it like some kind of misshaped molar of some mythical, metal beast. The time had come for it to separate from its mooring. We gathered around it, each of us wondering if even with our combined strength we'd be able to even budge it... but waiting around wasn't accomplishing anything. So we each curled our fingers under a section of the grate, and put our backs into it.

Surprisingly, it came away a little easier than we'd imagined. With a cacophonous grind, the lid to the storm drain pulled free. Don't let the description fool you: it was definitely heavy. And immediately we could feel the full weight on our fingers; it felt like they were being yanked out by the knuckles. So we only shifted it far enough off the actual drain for us to push it the rest of the way. We slid it free from the lip, and set it right next to it. And then we all gazed into the gaping maw like we had just uncovered the secret tomb of some long-forgotten Pharaoh.

It was pretty dry down there, since it hadn't rained in a week or so, so it was easy to spot leaves, bits of dandelions and sticks, and little toys we'd all lost down there a time or two: action figures attached to parachutes, Matchbox cars, jacks, part of a foam airplane... it was treasure and it was ours. But, we were at a loss because it became very obvious really quickly that someone was going to have to go down there and retrieve them. Fortunately, the one real inarguable test for four boys to determine who was going to drop six feet into a hole was Rock/Paper/Scissors. We played... I lost.

It was time for me to test my mettle. Oh, I was scared. I was even trying to back out of it by staring at my house in the feeble attempt to draw one of my parents out just with the power of my mind. It didn't work. I was stuck and locked into an agreement bestowed upon me by a stupid game of chance. So, I sucked it up, and let my three friends slowly lower me in by my arms. And down I went into a cave a child was never meant to explore.

At first, everything seemed alright. I grabbed the little toy treasures and tossed them up out of the drain. I even discovered a few other bits of detritus that had collected under the leaves and twigs. But eventually, it got overwhelmingly and oppressively hot. I began to sweat like I'd committed a crime, and I wanted nothing more than to be lifted right back out. So I yelled up at my friends that Id had enough and the fun was no longer fun. But all I got in return was deafening silence. Apparently, my 'friends' had run off, probably laughing like lunatics as they did so. It was then that I really decided it was high time to panic hysterically and scream my terrified head off. and that's exactly what I did.

What was likely only a few minutes felt like hours as I stood in that sweltering tomb bellowing till I was horse. Finally, my dad came running out and followed the sound of my voice to the storm drain. The look on his face was an amalgam of both utter surprise and confused anger. It took him all of two minutes to kneel, extend his arms, and pluck me out, but it was long enough for him to express his concern, ire, and fear that any number of horrible things could have happened to me. Although he was weirdly impressed that we were able to get the lid off in the first place. The two of us spent another minute resealing the drain, and went inside. And even though the story got a burst of shock from my mom, I didn't really get into trouble. Well, other than not being able to play with any of the three boys for a week. I'd say that was punishment enough for the anguish I had to go through.

Later, my friends admitted that they were just down the street laughing and would have returned in a few minutes after I'd suffered sufficiently, but they'd run off when my dad came outside. Did I learn a lesson? Well, I never went into another storm drain, if that's what you mean. But by no means did that little adventure stop me from doing vastly stupider things. Luckily, you'll eventually hear about them, too.

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 9

So I hinted at a time when I did something incredibly stupid one winter, a few articles ago... ya know, as opposed to those days when I didn't do something incredibly stupid. Sadly, much of the details leading up to exactly why I chose to perform the ridiculous act remain shrouded in my memories, but I suspect it had something to do with a silly dare, a possible double dare, and even the dreaded double Dog dare. You see, arguing with peer pressure when a double Dog dare is in play is futile at best. So I'm assuming this was the case, but I can't be entirely sure.

But here's what went down, regardless of the hows and -most importantly- the why's. It was definitely the dead of an incredibly cold winter, I guess it could have been 1978, but I was only four and likely not on a bus. So, I'm guessing it was '80 or so. Anyway, as you likely know, the windows of buses are framed by steel. Cold, hard, unforgiving steel... I think you can maybe see where this is going.

The day was cold; frigid even. We were on our way home from school, and it was definitely cold enough that the heaters on the bus couldn't keep up, and we could see our breath huffing out like thirty little steam engines. I noticed that the metal window frames weren't just cold, but completely frozen over with a layer of white frost. I looked around -possibly bowing to a dare, as I said- wet my lips, and stuck my tongue right to it. Yeah, yeah, I know: germs. Do you really think I was even remotely concerned with germs? I wanted to taste that metal! Oh, but guess what?

If you said my tongue stuck, much like that kid from Christmas Story... you'd be right. And it did a shade more than just stick, fellow readers: it stuck FAST. Now, normally, just letting your tongue warm for a second is enough to detach it from whatever it's adhered to. But I panicked. And rather than relax and just let it come to mouth temperature... I yanked it right off. Can you guess what happened next?

Gore. Oodles and oodles of red, gushing, gore. Yup, I removed the entire top of my tongue. Well, the layer that has all those useful taste buds, anyway. Yeah, I left a nice juicy piece of myself all over that bus window frame, that's for sure. I was bleeding pretty profusely, as you can imagine- especially if you've ever bitten your tongue. I ran off the bus, down the street, and into my house drooling and hemorrhaging all over my coat. The only thing I remember next is my mom mopping out my mouth.

Oh, and yes, taste buds do grow back and the tongue -as the strongest muscle in the body- heals pretty quickly. And I've only licked two or three bus windows since. I swear.

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 8

I don't know what surfaced this bizarre memory, but at one point in my youth while living on Liszt, I met a kid I'd never seen before on an odd day in summer.

I was walking around outside on my street probably talking to myself or playing some weird game inside my own head, when I saw this kid playing with something in a mud puddle. I walked over to investigate and saw the boy dipping something in the water. At first I thought it was a dead animal, but it turned out to be a soggy eye-glasses case. Weird. Anyway, the boy told me he was soaking it in muddy water so he could toss it at car windows as they drove by. What? This sounded both stupid and, somehow, highly intriguing.

So I asked if I could try, not even considering the skapegoat position I was putting myself in. He said sure, no problem. So when the next car came by, I let fly with all the childlike intensity of a kid performing his first real crime.

SPLAT!!

The car screeched to a stop and perhaps the angriest woman I have ever seen leapt from the car and proceeded to chase us. Luckily I lived just a few yards from where the action took place, and ducked into my garage. Well, she must have missed me as I scrambled along side our car in the driveway because she ran past in hot pursuit of whoever that kid was.

Well I was scared enough to run inside and tell my dad in a flurry of tears what I had done, and by the time we got back outside to apologize, she was gone.

I wonder what ever became of that boy? I never did see him again.

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 7

Or: "The Pool of Love"

Okay, first off this isn't going to be as steamy as the title might imply. I am trying to keep this thing roughly PG-13. However, that doesn't mean that there won't be graphic depictions of 8-year olds awkwardly kissing. I'm also kidding there, too. That kind of stuff is grounds for lawsuits and FCC issues. So, I'll do my best to inform, while entertaining, and certainly not being overly gross.

So as I mentioned a few 'memories' ago, I had a pretty sloppy kid-crush on Jenny Motycka. And it wasn't a secret, either. Even as a wee lad (and no, I was never that 'wee'), I knew it was cool to go around bragging about how we were boy-friend/girl-friend even if it wasn't necessarily an actual fact. I'd tell people on the playground, ya know, my dude friends, and we'd do what any red-blooded American young boys would do to prove how much we dug those sassy girls: push them to the ground and laugh at them. It's real love when you dirty up a little lady's new sun dress during recess. It's deep, man. But, alas, we never officially became an 'item'. Even when we played house with my brother and her sister; it was all just a fantasy and my heart ached knowing that a true life together was but a dreamer's dream. Sad, isn't it?

Yet, there was another.
Yes, another girl in my life, and her name was Sarah. She was a member of the questionable Chenery Family who just so happened to live right next door to the Motyckas. This was particularly inconvenient when I decided that I'd go after Sarah since Jenny was brushing away my manly advances such as childish stalking and the ever popular amorous hair-pulling. Sure, Sarah was a few years younger than me, I think in between the Motycka sisters... so younger, but not incriminatingly so. Oh, and she had two brothers: her elder, by several years, and therefor two or three older than me, Jamie, and her younger who, at the time of this story, was producing the yearly supply of snot for the entire Great Lakes region. That is to say, he Ryan, was a lot younger and a lot more disgusting. The mother, Julie, was friends with my mom, so we'd have them over or hang out over there every so often and I'd do my best to woo Sarah. And by 'woo' I obviously mean hang out with Jamie and point out just how big of a smelly doofus she was. Man was I awesome at attracting chicks.

Anyway, as it turned out I was pretty groovy and spectacular to Sarah, and she actually fed off my advances rather than snub me and make me feel like a turd. And so, I decided at that point, that she was going to be the recipient of my 'First Kiss'. So one day, while I guess everyone else was either inside or not around, we sneaked into her garage, knelt across from one another, and puckered up like two exceptionally ridiculous fish. Only we looked far stupider, I'm sure. I can't honestly say since my eyes were jammed shut like steel traps. We inched ever closer until we could feel each others huffing and breathing like the overly excited snorts of freshly ran horses. Hot, isn't it? At this point I remember something so vividly that it has stayed with me since this moment some thirty-odd years ago: Sarah was chewing orange bubble gum.
And we kissed.

Now, before you get any ideas, remember that you were all children once, too. Two kissing 8-year olds has as much pulsating passion as freezing your tongue to an icy bus window (which I also did, and we'll talk about later). Sure, we kissed, and we held our lips together for a few seconds, and maybe we pursed them a few times, but then we uncomfortably separated, giggled a few times, and... and that was it. Anyone who tells you otherwise -that as an 8-year old they got into it and knecked and tongued- is a filthy liar. Kids have no clue as to what they're doing and it's mostly just emulating either TV or their parents. Either way, it was magical. Simply magical. In a 'what the hell just happened' kind of way, of course.

So at this point you're probably wondering where this 'Pool Love' comes in, right? Well, it's now. So relax.
You see, Jenny found out about me messing around with another dame and wasn't too thrilled about it. I just made that sound all pulpy and noir, didn't I? I guess it wasn't like that, but she did hear of it. Basically because I couldn't keep my big mouth shut. I said something like, "Look, doll, if I can't get no smoochy-smoochy from you, I know other kittens who'll purr..." Just like that. Probably. Well, I convinced her that if we kissed, she'd love it. And she finally caved.

Now the Motyckas also had a pool. Theirs was above-ground, too, but unlike our round one, theirs was a really big oval and like twice the size. We swam there quite a bit because it just fit more people. Well one day it was just the two of us swimming, and it was right after I blabbed that Sarah and I made out like two... really inexperienced and frightened 8-year olds and, apparently, Jenny discovered she wanted some of that sweet, sweet awkwardness in her life, too. So, to dissuade any onlookers from getting an eyeful of two kids being gross, she propped up a raft like a weird tent against the edge of the pool and we hid underneath.
This was it! I was finally going to get the lips of my crush! I was sweating with either anticipation or because it was 80 degrees out! Wow!

And so it went. She pinned me against the side of the pool, and laid one on me like she'd been practicing with her pillow or something. There was little doubt that Jenny had just a bit more experience than Sarah... and I say that really trying not to turn this into some bizarre Penthouse Forum letter. More or less, the kiss was the same. Only without the benefit of orange bubble gum. And she was in a hot one-piece bathing suit with a frilly skirt. Meow!

And that's the story. Obviously I was the man as a youth. Fighting off two ladies who wanted a real... boy. Ah, sweet, sweet childhood.

Oh, and as I said, I haven't talked to Jenny in the better part of twenty-five years. I'd like to think my kisses kept her away from men her entire adult life... wait, what?  

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 6

We were very fortunate growing up in that, as a kid, both of the houses I 'grew up in' had pools. The one on Liszt -a house I now realize has spawned a good chunk of memories that have lately come burbling to the surface- had an above-ground pool and I honestly don't remember if it was already there when we moved in, or if we had it built at some point. I'm assuming the latter since we moved in when I was two or three, and that would have been the late 70's and I don't know if the previous inhabitants had a pool then. Either way, we had a pool and it was pretty cool.

Now, as I stated a few 'memories' ago, our back-yard neighbor (or one of them) was my buddy Jeff Hanson and his family. And, as it turned out, he, too had a pool. It was roughly the size of ours and round like ours, too.  Now his yard (very dissimilar to our primarily treeless one) had some pretty impressive and gnarly (by which I mean twisted and old, not awesome... but I guess they were that, too) pines that would cast spooky shadows over most of his yard, including the pool. So on particularly hot days, his yard and, by proxy, his pool would always stay like fifteen degrees cooler than our yard. That had its drawbacks, as you might imagine. Either get hot and swim in a regularly-temperatured pool, or chill your ass off, but still swim, in the other pool. Well, needless to say, we found a happy medium by leaping each other's fences and just going back and forth between yards and pools. Fun!

Well, mostly fun, until one fateful day... a day that will forever be etched in my mind as one of the most gruesome and tragic occurrences I have ever bore witness to. There we were, Jeff and I, just about to take our first dip in his pool after what seemed like and endless parade of seasons too cool for swimming. I climbed up the aluminum ladder that dangled from the side and peered in, ready to take the plunge- when I had to stop dead in my tracks. What I saw was terrifying; the sight froze me, paralyzed me with fear. There were gigantic bugs lying dead all over the ground of the pool! Giant, bloated insect carcasses strewn across the bottom of the water like the tragic victims of some kind of horrific war. I couldn't move. Jeff asked why I'd stopped at the top of the ladder when he wanted in. I turned, my face, ashen and stunted in a rictus of horror. His eyes widened and he glanced into the water, too.
And then he laughed.

Okay, look. Maybe it was a trick of the water, like, refraction or something, but to me (maybe seven at the time) those dead bugs were monstrous! Jeff just shook his head and grabbed the skimmer thing and swept them out. Basically it just had not gotten a good cleaning yet that season and there was some detritus issues. Turns out there were quite a few bugs, but they were all regular size. And why that should adhere to my brain folds so precisely is beyond me. But it did.

Next: The pool of Love...



But not with Jeff. I swear.

Pages From The Memory Vault Part 5

Looking outside today at the incredibly cruddy weather reminds me of one such 'cruddy weather' occasion from my youth. Granted, there were lots of them -sadly, only a few I really remember, mostly for their impact on my life in one way or another. I'll have to get to the year of the big blizzard at some point... if I could only remember which year it was. I'll have to ask my dad since he was directly involved.

As for this moment in time, it has everything to do with the big tornado of 1980 that nailed downtown Kalamazoo. It was on a Wednesday, May 13th (and yeah, I had to look that up. I knew the May part, but I have long since forgotten the day). I was in Kindergarten in Central Elementary and I don't really remember the hubbub actually leading up to the hall-way gathering; ya know, where the kids all neatly sit against the walls with books over their heads? I'm not the only one who remembers this, am I? We would all gather out in the hall attempting valiantly, yet pretty unsuccessfully, to quell the abject terror and sobbing wails of the children amid the palpable and poorly-hidden panic of the teaching staff... and put big books over our heads. Because it's books that save lives, ya know. It was like a horror movie where weather was the antagonist and there was far less gore.

Well we gathered, since, as it turns out (and again I had to check the records) that the N.W.S. issued the tornado warning around 2:30. Now, back then Kindergarten was full days, not halves as it is today. I know this because I remember taking naps in school on little floor mats. I'm not attempting to justify my memory of this auspicious occasion for your benefit, reader, I'm doing it for my own. As I've said: Swiss Cheese is this memory of mine. There we were, lined up like passengers on a boat bound for nowhere; waiting out the warning and each secretly hoping that our school wasn't about to be yanked off terra firma and tossed around a-la Dorothy's farmhouse.

Well, as we all know, it didn't. In fact, the tornado itself manifested miles away over the city of Kalamazoo, so we were in no danger at all. Preparedness aside (and man were we prepared) it was all for naught. However -and this is the part I really remember- I was apparently so scared out of my 6-year old wits... that I yacked in the trash can. One of those big, cold, gray models that used to hang out in schools. Yup, I just barfed right in it. I'm not sure if I was the only one who spewed, but I'd sure like to believe that my actions caused a severe chain reaction much like Chunk's tail in the Goonies and everyone within sight distance began harfing all over the place. But I kind of doubt it. But that's how it goes during a tornado warning, I guess.

Oh, and that officially brings the number of tales that eventually involve puking up to 2! Wow... that's quite an achievement.