Summer days are fun but nights are better.

Our job as kids calls for us to hit the road
after an oatmeal breakfast to swim, bicycle,and skate
under a saffron sun until our mothers summon us home
in voices only the brave could ignore:
“Now! Come home now or else!”

Kick the Can and Red Rover are favorite daytime games,
but Hide ‘n go Seek rules the darkened streets
on hot flypaper-sticky nights. After bolting down
a reviving supper, neighborhood kids assemble
for round two under yellow-orange street lights,
like a platoon of troops gathering for war game practice.
Real war is raging in a faraway place called Europe
but we don’t bother our fun-addled little heads about that.
War is worry for adults along with rising prices
and the rationing of coffee and sugar.

Sometimes in the steamy blackness we chase glimmering
fireflies with empty Mason jars, lids at the ready, all the while
sneaking peeks at the almost grown-up girl sitting with her beau
on a front porch, the swing on which they flirt swaying
to and fro; low murmurs followed by bursts of laughter
drift out onto the humid evening air and phonograph records
crank out Sinatra tunes in the lighted room behind them.
The boys find the scene disgusting, groaning and hooting
as they do at Saturday movies when their favorite cowboy hero
gets sweet on the rancher’s daughter, but we girls find
it all terribly romantic and long for the day
when we will glide with a boy on a squeaky porch swing.

Late into the lengthening hours when the last
Ollie Ollie Ox in Free has sounded and we have run
until we drop from sheer sweaty exhaustion
onto warm sidewalks and cool lawns, we separate
as if by mutual decree, racing toward lit up windows
that spell home. I scramble up three wooden steps
to the porch where my long-haired, cross-eyed cat
waits for me, safe from scuttling feet and screaming kids.
Creaking open the screen door, I stroll confidently
into sanctuary while my bedmate jumps down
from her sentry post on the swing,
stretches her ancient feline limbs,
and fluffs in through the doorway behind me

His Name was Andrew
by Gene Koltvet

The front door opened wide and in he came. “Craazy people!” was his greeting. Andrew was a beloved fixture in town, always jolly, kind and friendly. He lived in a makeshift apartment in a business building a short distance from his job and could be seen early each morning walking slowly, shuffling his shoes on the sand of the gravel road that went through town, past Anderson’s hardware store, Tommy’s beer joint and Ed Wolf’s blacksmith shop on his way to work at the Farmer’s Elevator. His tweed driver cap sat at an angle on his head looking as if he had bumped into something. A half empty pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco pooched out the front of his bib overalls and a red handkerchief peeked out of his back pocket. Andrew Carlson was one of two employees of the Farmer’s Elevator in Holmes, Iowa, the other, manager, John Anderson. The time was 1939.

Andrew unloaded truck and wagon loads of grain brought to the elevator for sale from nearby farms. He loaded railroad cars with grain to be shipped out and managed the stocking of items such as cement blocks, bricks, clay tile, fence posts and rolls of woven and barbed wire fence. The lumber shed contained stacks of new lumber and sacks of cement used in building farm buildings. He unloaded coal from a railroad car by shoveling it into the coal storage shed.

The office was a small building at the bottom of the ramp that lead up to the grain pit in the elevator. A large concrete scale, capable of weighing tractor-trailer trucks, lay just in front of the office window. John could operate the scale and weigh the trucks from inside, then send them up to the elevator pit for Andrew to unload.

John worked at a large roll-top desk in the corner of the office. A black candlestick telephone stood on the edge of the desk with its earpiece hanging from the hook on the side; a brass spittoon sat on the floor next to his right foot.

The dried out, rough wood floors squeaked when we walked on them and a potbelly stove stood in the middle of the office. It was a good place to warm up and dry out our mittens in the winter time after playing in the snow. Andrew kept a good fire in it all day.

“Andrew, get this place cleaned up,” John would growl. After a day of truckers and farmers tracking dirt and snow into the office it took a lot of effort to sweep those worn floor boards clean. After straightening up all the chairs, emptying the sand buckets of cigarette and cigar butts, he cleaned out the ashes from the potbelly stove and carried in more coal. The most important job each morning was to empty, wash out and scrub John’s spittoon clean.

Often unshaven, his face was tanned and rugged emphasizing his bushy eyebrows. His false teeth were left in a glass in his kitchen because they didn’t fit; his mouth was sunken and a trickle of tobacco juice often leaked out of one corner under his mustache. Always happy, he hummed and sang songs learned as a boy in Norway, while he worked.

The elevator and the lumber yard were our playground. Four, sometimes five little boys climbed around and played tag on the stacked lumber knocking some stacks over and creating extra work for Andrew to restack them. He never scolded; he only admonished us to be careful and made sure we didn’t hurt ourselves, even when we became a nuisance.

“Andrew, can we ride up on the truck lift?” We knew it was dangerous, but that’s what made it fun. “As soon as I get the pit empty and shut down the elevator” he would say. We would sit down on the deck of the lift and wait, making sure he didn’t forget. He would raise us clear up to the ceiling and then bounce it up and down to scare us. It usually worked as we would holler with excitement and fear.

Andrew was the face of the elevator, known and loved by every farmer and every trucker in the county; he was unique. He drank a little too much beer on occasion, but when well oiled he was jolly and funny and would often shout, “craazy people!” as he walked away laughing after talking and joking with someone. It was a common expression unique to Andrew and recognized by anyone who heard him. Not understanding what he meant by it, we would laugh along with him, never at him.

A classic Norwegian immigrant of the early 20th century; he was like a favorite uncle; he left indelible memories on all our lives. Even at a very old age, he worked up until the day he died. It was a very sad day for us when we heard that Andrew died of a heart attack the night before

As I race into the house the odor of freshly baked “challah”(bread) mingles with the roast chicken smell invade my nostrils. That will be the high light of my “Shabbas (Sabbath)” dinner. Man, I wish I could put butter on the bread. That would make it really yummy. But, all I can use is “schmaltz (chicken fat)” Mom wont let me mix “milchidik (dairy)” with “fleischdik (meat)” Wish she wasn’t so strict about that kosher business. But, what harm is there in chicken fat?

“Sorry, I’m late, mom. The ball game went into extra innings.”

“Take your bath. Don’t get into your good “Shabbas (Sabbath)”clothes until after dinner. You know how your clothes like my food better than you do. Put a bathrobe on over your underwear.”

“OK mom”.

The bread smell follows me into the bathroom. I fill the bathtub with warm water as I take off my dirty clothes and throw them into the clothes hamper. I moan aloud, Why do I have to go to “Shul (Synagogue)” with my father? I’m only ten I’ve got three more years til I get Bar Mitva’d. Then, I’ll have the rest of my life to go to “Shul”. Gimme a break.

I slide into the warm soapy water. It feels so good and silky- smooth. As I rub my body with the soap I think about school. It is my first week in the fifth grade. I think about the new teacher, Miss Allen. Wow ! She’s so pretty. That black shinny hair tied in a bun and a red ribbon. My thoughts roam as I begin to indulge in a rite of puberty.

“Paul, “mach shnall (make it quick)” My mother’s voice brings me out of my dream.
I finish my bath.

The ritual of the meal is automatic. My father says the blessing over the wine . Grape juice is substituted for my wine. The blessing as the “challah” is being cut is the next order of business followed by chicken soup with matzoth balls, gefilte fish, roast chicken, and string beans. A fruit compote of stewed prunes, apricots and raisins complete the meal

“Why do I have to go to “shul” tonight”? I ask my father in a whining voice. And what about my big brothers.”? “They are sixteen and eighteen years old. I’m just a kid. I don’t understand the prayers. They are all in Hebrew. All the men talk in Yiddish which I also don’t understand and …..”

“Are you finished, Paul? You need to know the prayers for you Bar Mitzvah. Your brothers have to go to their school football game and they already had their Bar Mitzvah. When you reach their age you can go to the football games.”

Reluctantly, I finish supper. Get dressed in my special “shul” clothes and accompany my father to the synagogue.. It is boring and I lip synch the prayers.
There are better things to think about than words that I don’t understand. Might as well as be reading and speaking Latin. Hey, my friend, Buster Troutman says his prayers are all in Latin. Maybe, I haven’t got it so bad.

My mind wanders and almost immediately focuses on my new teacher, Miss Allen. I hope that I can make a good impression on her. That beautiful white skin………

We get home where my mother offers me some Ovaltine and “mundel broit (similar to biscotti)”. There’s no school the next day so I get to listen to some radio shows. Then, it’s bed time to which I eagerly look forward. Maybe, I’ll dream about Miss Allen.. That’s one subject I won’t talk about to my mother or father.

Dave Blodgett

My grandfather’s attic is an irresistible magnet for a nine-year-old boy.

A packed warehouse dimly illuminated by light from two dirty dormer windows that do not deter spiders from making it their exclusive territory. Cobwebs dominate the décor. The air is still and musty. No ventilation. I visit it often.

Filled with old trunks, packing crates, chests of drawers, stacks of science-fiction magazines, bundled newspapers, shelves full of books with browning pages, framed oil paintings, a chiffonier, three ladies’ dress making dummies, a banjo, ukulele, snare drum and most precious of all—my Uncle Winslow’s World War I U. S. Army uniform and equipment: a dress uniform, Sam Browne belt, field boots, canteen in a rotting cotton cover, mess kit with utensils. But it is the peaked, felt hat with a chinstrap that catches my fancy. I can’t resist. I steal it and creep slowly and quietly unseen down the squeaky attic steps and out the front door at 403 Nevada, next door to my home of 22 years.

A group of friends are playing kick the can across the street. I join them. The hat comes down over my ears and attracts the attention of my best buddy’s big brother. Cort is a muscular 15-year-old who takes one look at the oversized, regulation U. S. Army hat and decides to buy it from me. He sets the price: fifteen cents.

The attic at 403 Nevada is suddenly and sadly off limits. Grandpa is not happy about his stupid nine-year-old grandson selling a priceless piece of his son Winslow’s Army uniform for fifteen cents. The hat is promptly retrieved and returned to the attic.

Dave Blodgett

In the middle of the night I am dreaming. I have to pee. I get up, go to the bathroom, take out my tiny penis and pee. I wake up in a puddle of urine that soaks the sheets of my narrow bed.

I burst into tears. My Mother comes running, switches on the light and cradles me in her arms. I feel the warmth and softness of her bosom.

“There, there. Don’t cry. You had an accident.”

She takes the urine soaked, stinky sheets off and tucks me into fresh, clean sheets.

My kid brother, alarmed and rudely awakened is angry. “Davy, did you wet your bed again?” All this ruckus rouses my three older sisters in the adjoining bedroom.

The only person who snores on is Dad. He eschews any responsibility for child rearing or housework of any kind. That’s women’s work.

Primary functional enuresis—bed wetting—is the single most powerful independent variable shaping my lifelong character and behavior, accounts for my extremely low self-esteem, introversion, shyness and self-denigration and cripples me with a multitude of phobias that make life almost unbearable. I don’t dare speak in public (glossophobia), am terrified when I have to put something in writing (graphophobia), know that I am going to fail however hard I try (atychiphoia), am scared to death of Frankenstein’s Monster (bogyphobia), fear going to bed because of recurring nightmares (clinophobia), am really afraid of my desktop computer (cyberphobia), can’t express my opinions on controversial subjects (doxophobia), am tongue-tied and unable to express myself (laliophobia), fear death (necrophobia) and poverty (peniaphobia) and most of all fear all my phobias (phobophobia).

In the 1920s all kinds of myths were associated with bed-wetting. Guilt feelings prevailed. Bed-wetting was seen as punishment for misbehavior. Today we know better. Post nocturnal enuresis (PNE) is caused by physical and physiologic factors, not stress, poor self-esteem or emotional immaturity. Today, some medications help overcome PNE—Imipramine and Desmpressin acetate may help. More effective are retention control training where the child is asked to control urination by postponing it to increase bladder capacity and strengthen the muscle that holds the urine back. Night-lifting is effective. Waking the child periodically throughout the night and walking him to the bathroom many times. Moisture alarms can cure PNE. When the child begins to pee, an alarm is set off, wakes the child, sends him to the bathroom and then back to sleep. Finally, hypnosis is being used to re-program the brain so the child will respond to a full bladder while asleep the same as when awake.

Unfortunately, none of these cures were available in the1920s for poor little me. PNE shattered my dream of becoming a well-integrated, creative person comfortable with himself and phobia free. PNE is a choking albatross I shall carry to my grave.