I was a tomboy. Back in the mid -1950’s being a tomboy involved such things as safety-pinning a bath towel to the shoulders of my T-shirt and pretending to be Superman. I played marbles and kick the can. I did girlie things, too, like hopscotch and dress up, jump rope and one-two-three-O’Leary. And then I did things that no one else did, like climb to the top of the swing set in the Haymans back yard and walk across the top like it was a tightrope or climb up the French windows in our living room window like they were a ladder.
It was easy to do these things in my neighborhood. Everything I needed was on our block. It was my world. We lived in the middle of the block in a Georgian-style home. I was young, and the house seemed huge to me. Have you ever been in a 1200 square foot Georgian? I lived there with my parents and big brother. At the time of this story, my Nana was staying with us recovering from something like her fifth heart attack. She ultimately died from her eighth. My Nana was a big woman. She was attractive, but big. And very independent. She didn’t take anything from anybody. In her younger days, she was a singer in a speak easy and carried a Darringer in her garter. You didn’t mess with Adeline.
Anyway, I was told repeatedly not to go to the end of the block. This was said as if creatures from a distant planet lived there. My mother was of the opinion that the people “at the end of the block” were to be avoided. They didn’t keep their homes up. So I didn’t go to “the end of the block” for a very long time. Actually, there really wasn’t any need to. All my friends lived a few houses away in the middle of the block. My partner in tomboyishness was my next-door neighbor, Jerry Hayman. We were best friends. We did everything together. Except this day we were mortal enemies. Jerry had gotten a red and white shiny new bike. It wasn’t just any new bike. It didn’t have the cross bar like the other boy’s bikes. Uh un. This one had a console. It started out under the handlebars wide and rounded and it tapered back in an arc and finished under the seat. But that wasn’t even the best part. The best part was the bell. And it really wasn’t a bell at all. It was a white button in the middle of the console, and when you pressed it, it buzzzzzed. Gone was the shiny round bell that attached after-market to the handlebar you had to ring by pressing the lever on the side. Gone was the wimpy “ring” “ring” that sounded like bells on shop counters customers would ring when they wanted service. This bike had a buzzer, and I wanted to try it.
Jerry was usually very generous. He shared everything. But not his brand-new bike and especially not his bell. He wanted it all to himself. But I wanted to ring the bell. I had wanted to ring the bell from the very first day I saw that bike. I asked him every day. Jerry would not budge. I was getting tired of waiting.
“Aw, come on Jerry. Come on. Let me ring the bell. Just once. I promise it’ll only be just once.”
But to no avail. Jerry held firm in his resolve not to let me ring the bell. I held firm in mine to ring it.
At this point, enter Bobby Grauer, another friend of Jerry’s. He was from “the end of the block.” And you could kind of tell. In the 1950’s children were still like little adults the way children had been for eons. Yes, we were able to play, and roughhouse, but we were not allowed to get dirty. Before going out to play, boys would dress in clean jeans or shorts and a t-shirt, their hair would be combed and maybe even have some Brill Cream on it to keep those pesky cowlicks down. Only then were boys allowed to emerge from their homes to play with the admonishment “Don’t Get dirty” drifting out the door behind them just as the door closed. It wasn’t any different for a girl. I always had to be “tidy.” My hair, my clothes, my shoes, my socks. And if I came home untidy for lunch or my nap, I had to change clothes, rebrush my hair, and sometimes even take a bath before I could go outside again. But not Bobby. First of all he was chubby. There weren’t any chubby kids in the middle of the block. Bobby’s T-shirt was too small and his stomach stuck out underneath the hem. His hair wasn’t clean. Actually his T-shirt wasn’t clean either. But the most important thing about Bobby was that he lived “at the end of the block. I was a little afraid of him. Bobby had been standing there the whole time Jerry and I verbally sparred. But Bobby wasn’t heard from until now. He joined in, taking Jerry’s side.
“No, you can’t ring the bell. Jerry doesn’t want you to”
That did it. Right there in front of both of them, I rang the bell. Jerry started to cry and ran up the sidewalk. He ran up the front steps to tell his mom. Bobby ran after me, yelling over and over “I’m gonna get you, I’m gonna get you.” No one besides my brother ever said that to me before. Especially while running after me. I had no idea where to go, so I began running around the tree in the middle of Jerry’s front yard. As I was running, I became aware of three things. The first was that Bobby was a pretty fast runner for a chubby kid. The second thing was I noticed something bright pink out of the corner of my eye in my parents’ open bedroom window. The third thing was Mrs. Hayman and all the neighbor ladies who had probably gotten together to play mahjong at her house were all standing inside the screen door yelling, “Get her bobby! Get her!” I had known Mrs. Hayman all my life. I was best friends with her son. I was at their house a lot – to play, for lunch, sometimes even for dinner if my parents were out. The realization that these women, especially Mrs. Hayman, didn’t like me and wanted Bobby to hurt me in some way slowed me down just enough for Bobby to catch me and bite me on the shoulder. I was crying and bleeding. Now it was my turn to run home and cry to my mother. I ran up our hedge-lined sidewalk, up the steps and into the kitchen where mom was making dinner. I told her what happened. She ripped off her apron, grabbed me by the hand, charged out the front door and down the steps with me in tow, I guessed to yell at Bobby. But Bobby’s mother was at the bottom of the steps waiting to defend her son. She must have been one of the ladies in Mrs. Hayman’s house. And she was from “the end of the block”. My mother started yelling at Mrs. Grauer. Anger was an emotion not expressed in my house. My brother, 8 years older and more aware than me, told me not so long ago that when our parents needed to argue, they would go out to the car. I was shocked that my mother was yelling at Mrs. Grauer. She was always telling me to keep my voice down. I stood there with my mouth agape watching the scene in front of me like a bobble head doll. The yelling seemed to go on forever. The next thing I knew, Mrs. Grauer slapped my mother’s face. Oh My Goodness! My mother grabbed her cheek and started crying. Mrs. Grauer continued to yell at my mother. Out of nowhere, Nana came barreling out the front door wearing a bright pink chenille bathrobe. That’s what I saw out of the corner of my eye in my parent’s bedroom window! She was smoking a cigarette. She charged down the steps like a raging bull, brushed my mother out of the way, then grabbed Mrs. Grauer by the front of her shirt. Nana raised her right arm so it looked like the arm in the WWII Rosie the Riveter poster and gave Mrs. Grauer a right hook that landed Mrs. Grauer on her back in the middle of our hedge, arms and legs flailing away like a turtle on its back. She couldn’t get up. She really couldn’t get up.
My grandmother transformed then and very calmly put her arms around my mother and me and ushered us into the house. My Nana has always been my hero.
*****
Holly Schaefer has been writing and telling stories for years at storytelling events. Ms. Schaefer has written an historical novel, currently with an editor. Holly is also a painter of oils and watercolors specializing in photo-realistic paintings. This is a debut.