A Few More Stories about my Neighborhood

It seems I've forgotten a few salient points. Or, maybe I wrote about them and have simply forgotten that I did so. Either way, here we go.

It's important to reiterate how much freedom I felt I had as a kid. Oh, sure, I whined to my parents about how they never let me do stuff, but, in fact, they let me do an awful lot. Even at an early age I could get on my bike and be gone for hours. Or walk. We'd walk or ride east on Michigan Avenue to Pat's Party Store. Pat's little store had comic books, ice cream, candy, Coke, Sunny Boy Pumpkin Seeds, and even rotisserie chickens. There were Pixie Stix, baseball cards, string licorice, and, oh man, I could go on and on. You could take a dime to Pat's Party story, buy a Coke for eight cents and a box of Sunny Boy Pumpkin Seeds for two cents. Take 'em outside, sit on the stoop, and you had yourself a sweet summer day.

When I was really little, maybe three or four, my sister Mike walked me even further, all the way to Wilson's Dairy Bar (which later became Gabe's Party Store--the "party store" is a Detroit area thing; a small shop that sells pop, beer, snacks, etc.). We walked all the way to Wilsons and bumped into a punk by the name of Jimmy Yeagley. I didn't know him that well, but I guess my sister did because she kept me away from him. Jimmy Yeagley was about four years older than me, which would have made him about eight at the time (my sister Mike was 11 or 12) and had just been kicked out of Wilson's Dairy Bar. The woman working inside Wilson's literally pushed him out the door shouting something like, "don't you come in here for water! You go home and get your own water!"

I say Jimmy was a punk, which means he was a bully who would instantly back down as soon as any kid his size stood up to him. But the one time I tried to stand up to him when I was about 8 9 years old, he starting spitting on me and spit on me almost all the way from the little island where Whittier met Riverdale to my back fence. Part of me believes in forgiveness, but part of me hopes he's very unhappy now.

As an aside, for a long time when I was little, I kept having a nightmare about my sister and I walking along Michigan Avenue. She would say, "C'mon Roger! Let's go to the movies!" The Dearborn Theater was across Michigan Avenue from Wilson's/Gabe's, right where Michigan Avenue intersected Telegraph Road (the great intersection of highways US 12 and US 24--I love US highways). Anyhow, in the dream I would say, "No, Michael, no!" because I knew that between our house and Telegraph Road, Michigan Avenue was a bridge that crossed a terrible river, terrible because its water would turn you to stone. And because I'd had the dream before, I knew that my sister would fall into the river and suffer that fate.

So, I'd beg her, "No, Michael, no!" But "C'mon Roger!" she'd insist. We'd cross the bridge, you know the rest.

But I digress. (Oh, Mike actually did take me to my first movie at the Dearborn--it was The Shaggy Dog.)

Later on, when I was maybe eight, my brother and I began bringing fireworks back from Alabama. My grandma lived in Lillian, just across Perdido Bay from Florida. While down there, we'd get dad to stop at various roadside stands and stock up on Dixie Boys, Texas Twisters, Buzz Bombs, Cherry Bombs, and whatever else we could afford. Gradually, our neighborhood friends would give us money to buy fireworks for them and we'd bring 'em back and deliver 'em for no profit of any kind. From summer to fall we'd shoot off fireworks with no more concern than for shooting a basketball.

One day, Dennis Korloff (I'm not sure that's how to spell his last name) and I were lighting some Dixie Boys behind his garage, tossing them into the alley behind Amy Joy Donuts. Imagine--having the gall -- no, actually it was a sense of innocence -- to light firecrackers within a stone's throw of the police cars parked there! As we lit the eighth or tenth firecracker, I noticed a guy in a uniform walking slowly toward us. You won' t believe this, but my first thought was, "that's odd! What's a forest ranger doing here?"

I quickly realized my error. The officer made us empty our pockets and told us to go home. I don't remember if I told my parents, but they must have looked at my face and wormed the information out of me. My dad laughed and my mom tisked. I'm sure that by evening I was lighting bottle rockets.

Ok, enough for now. No wait, very quickly, three things that happened at the Shader's house.

1. I once stayed in the Shader's basement watching TV so long that nearly all of them had left the house and my mom had to come in and get me.

2. One summer day standing in the Shader's yard when I was maybe 7, Jerry Shader suddenly shouts, "let's have a water fight!" I excitedly ran home to change into my bathing suit, then ran back to the Shader's yard. All the Shader kids looked at me and laughed, "Roger! Where's your bathing suit?" I had forgotten to put it on and was standing there in my underwear.

3. They had a rooster. I walked over there one day and it met me in their front yard. It pecked my foot and I backed up. It pecked me again and I started running home. The damned rooster chased me all the way home. Big Tom Shader witnessed all this, laughed his head off, and told everyone in the neighborhood.

Oh, the Shader stories!

Next time: For sure Devil's Night. For sure Mrs. Shay. I know, I know, I keep promising...