Pure Dirt

by Francis Adams

  “What book did you choose?” he asked.

  “Harriet Beecher Stowe. You?”

  “Frederick Douglass,” he replied.

  They exchanged comments regarding classmates, the nuns, and television shows. As dinner approached, Hank walked Linda to her front door.

  “See you in school tomorrow,” Hank said.

  “OK,” she replied.

  Moving closer, Hank planted a kiss on Linda’s lips, trying to navigate a slightly wet, uncontrolled, lip-lock, mimicking the couples he had watched on the television soap operas. Linda gasped, and coming up for air, stared him square in the eyes, “I’ve got to go!” she said pushing the front door open and closing it behind her in a hurry. Hank glided home with a bundle of mixed thoughts and feelings oblivious to the street noise.

  At the end of the week, the eighth-grade dance was held in the basement hall, adjacent to the men’s club. Collapsible wooden chairs lined the length of opposite walls. The boys huddled on one side in their casual wear, and the girls sat along the opposite side in their neatly pressed dresses. A record player sounded radio hits or big band oldies from a different era. Chaperones prodded the boys to ask the girls to dance. Mothers eagerly guided their sweethearts across the floor to the shy lovelies waiting to be asked. A few eager moms ushered the boys onto the floor teaching them the box step. As they danced, the chaperone hinted that the girls were hoping to be asked. “It’s only a dance, it’s nothing to worry about,” she whispered into her victim’s ear. Hank and Danny were standing next to the refreshment table, sipping Coca-Cola and nibbling on pretzels, relieved that the table was their first line of defense against the onslaught of scouting chaperones. They watched the casualties give the box step a go.

  Cynthia approached Hank and Danny at the table.

  “Hank, I need to speak to you for a moment,” she said.

  “Sure,” Hank replied.

  They moved away from the table and stepped into the hall outside. “Linda asked me to tell you she is breaking up with you. She’s Tom’s girlfriend now. Oh, she asked me to give you this.”

  Cynthia handed Hank the box containing the ring. “She said it turned her finger green.” As she moved away, Hank’s heart sank. His body frozen; his mind fogged.

  Not even a week! When did she talk to Tom? Who am I going to dance with? Does everyone know? Hank stood frozen in a quandary.

  He wanted to disappear. Walking to the end of the hall, he slipped through a door leading to the boiler room. He sat on top of the mountain of bundled newspapers and stared blindly into the dark. The whole girlfriend escapade had left him filled with regret. He heard the voice of a woman drawing near, one of the chaperones, her voice was familiar.

  “Here you are, Hank. We were wondering where you were,” Mrs. Santini said, “What’s wrong?”

  Hank glanced at the woman and his heart swelled. “Linda broke up with me!” He burst into tears. Mrs. Santini moved closer, “That’s alright, Hank. Those girls are silly. You shouldn’t get upset over a fickle girl like Linda. Come here.” She embraced Hank stroking his head, “Look, go to the boy’s room and fix yourself up, then come back to the dance. No one will know, just brush it off, but come back. I’ll leave you alone.” She released him and slipped out the door. I had a girlfriend, and lost a girlfriend, all in the same week. That’s crazy, Hank pondered his loss, I could sure use a slice of pizza. He washed his face with cold water and went back to the dance drowning his woes in shots of Coca-Cola and chain-munching potato chips until the dance evening ended.

  Hank tossed and turned to the sound of empty steel milk containers being dragged from the back of milk trucks. The Abbott household was located next door to the Burg dairy. Every morning, six days a week, the milkmen would pull their trucks into the asphalt driveway next to the house. The heavy metal containers were dragged and thrown onto the concrete platform. The platform was raised three feet from the ground, and a large overhang covered the platform, allowing the men to load and unload their crates during bad weather. The roof was slightly angled. Every working day, the trucks arrived one after the other. Occasionally, Hank would hear his father march down the steps and shout out the back door, “Keep it down! People are sleeping!”

  The dairy also operated a homemade ice cream shop at the storefront on the street. Hank spent most of his paperboy money during the summer months licking huge scoops of chocolate ice cream off the top of sugar cones. During times of complete boredom, Hank sprung for the banana split served with fresh bananas, strawberry topping, chocolate syrup, huge dollops of fresh whipped cream, and maraschino cherries crowning the top. The owner, Sid, always saw to it that the neighbor’s boys were well served with mounds of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream. Hank felt that this was more than a generous appeasement for the raucous banging that took place in the driveway every morning.

  Hank and Jeremy were in the narrow backyard playing pee-wee basketball. Small plastic toy baskets with stringed nets were fixed on each end of the two laundry posts. The plastic basketball was the size of a grapefruit. Competing in a one on one confrontation, the joy of this challenge was that you were tall enough to slam-dunk the ball like an NBA pro.

  “Hey! Can I come over?” a voice called from the other side of the fence.

  Chestnut playground was located on the opposite side of the Abbott backyard fence. Hank looked. Jake bent over leaning forward, clutching the chain-links with both hands. “Hi Jake. Sure. There’s a hole in the fence on the side. Jump through.”

  Jake grabbed the top bar of the fence and swung through the hole feet first.

  “What’s up?” Hank inquired.

  “Are your parents home?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  Jake pulled a square red package with Chinese writing on it from his pocket. “Do you want to shoot off fireworks?”

  “Where did you get them?” Jeremy’s eyes grew wide, “can we get some?”

  “No,” Jake replied, “I got these from my cousin.”

  Jake tore open the pack. The firecrackers were neatly braided at the fuses into two neat rows. “You need to untangle them,” Hank remarked. “No, watch this,” Jake said, wrapping the firecrackers in the basketball net. He pulled a butane lighter out of the other pocket and lit the fuses on one end. Orange sparks fell to the ground as the fuses burned down to the gunpowder. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” the firecrackers popped in a burst of smoke. Hank squinted and Jeremy put his hands over his ears. An acrid odor mixed with smoke floated through the air. Jake burst into laughter as the two brothers looked at each other in total amusement.

  “Did you see that? It tore the net!” Jake whooped.

  “Yeah, now we have to fix it!” Jeremy complained.

  “I have something better than that,” Jake boasted.

  “What?” Hank followed.

  “I have an M80; it’s a quarter-stick of dynamite.” Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a grey cylinder with a thick fuse sticking out of the middle. “Let’s light this off,” he bubbled.

  “I don’t know,” Hank cautioned.

  “Come on,” Jake pleaded, “it’s just one.”

  Jake looked around the yard and spotted the metal garbage pail in the corner by the back door. He walked over and lifted the aluminum lid by the handle. “Look, we can put it under this.”

  Hank thought about it, “Alright.”

  Jake carried the lid to the center of the yard and placed it on the ground. “Stand back,” he ordered, “we have to do this fast.” Jake lit the fuse and threw the M80 on the ground quickly covering it with the lid. He ran back. The boys waited.

  “BOOM!”

  The explosion reverberated off the brick row homes across the playground. The boys stared at the empty lawn, lifted their eyes, and spotted the trash can lid ascending into the sky. Peaking at one-hundred feet, the lid initiated its descent, and
landed on the roof of the dairy’s loading dock, hanging halfway off the edge, partially exposed to view.

  The boys laughed hysterically.

  “I’ll bet that blew the wig off of old lady Larson’s head,” Jeremy howled.

  Sid, the owner of the dairy, came rushing around the back of the building. “What the hell was that?” he asked stunned and shaken. The boys grew solemn and with an innocent sincerity answered him.

  “I don’t know?” Hank lied.

  “It came from the playground behind the garage,” Jake said pointing at the playground.

  “I’m going to call the cops. That was an explosion.” Sid said. He turned and walked back to his house on the other side of the dairy.

  Hank looked at the lid hanging halfway over the edge of the platform roof.

  “We have to get that down somehow,” Hank said worried.

  Jake grabbed a broom, jumped up on the platform, and flung the lid forward with the end of the broomstick. It hit the asphalt spinning with a rolling metallic sound. It came to rest. The boys ran over to pick it up.

  The lid was now a dome.

  “Creeping Moses!” Hank said dumbfounded.

  “Hey, Apollo 8 is orbiting the moon!” Jeremy noted.

  “Yeah, they’re probably chasing the cow that jumped over it,” Jake snapped.

  Later that evening, Hank sat at the kitchen table filling in the blanks of his vocabulary book, when his father rushed through the front door. “Hurry! Turn on the radio.” He turned the knob on the stereo console and spun the tuning dial. “They’re rioting in town,” he exclaimed. The family gathered in the living room while the speakers squawked from the scanning of the tuner dial. When Joe reached the Trenton frequency, the announcer broke through the noise; “Mayor Carmen has issued a 7 p.m. curfew for all citizens to shelter in place in their homes. There is no need to panic. The State police and the National Guard have the situation contained. There are several businesses on North Broad street currently ablaze, but the fires are being controlled. All citizens are asked to remain in their homes and to report any activity deemed unlawful. Again, the number is 396-1111. Now for a station break. This is WTTM the radio voice of Trenton.”

  “Why are they starting fires?” Jeremy asked.

  “Because of the shooting,”

  “Are we safe?” Hank asked.

  Jeremey ran to his room and returned with two Louisville sluggers. “I’ve got baseball bats!” he said, “I’ll hide them behind the chair.”

  “It’s around the Battle Monument area, “ Joe said.

  The announcer’s voice broke in again. “There are several reported fires raging on Broad street. Several buildings have been reportedly firebombed by the angry mob;” the voice continued, “Please stay indoors. The National Guard is in transit. All entrances to the city have been barricaded.”

  “They’re like animals!” Willow uttered, “They’re burning down their own neighborhood.” Willow blurted out. “I hope they don’t smash the windows at the gas station. I’m not insured,” Joe added. The voice interrupted once more, “There’s been a report that a police officer has been run over, and one looter has been reportedly shot on the street. Stay tuned for further details. We’re pausing for a brief intermission.” Soft music filled the room.

  The Trenton Central High School students began protesting because the school did not close to honor the fallen civil rights leader, Martin Luther King Junior. Droves of students gathered downtown while music blared in streets. What started as a peaceful gathering soon turned violent when a rock was thrown at a store display. The youths snatched diamond rings out of the Jeweler’s window display, carried mattresses out of the furniture stores, and looted the food markets. The shopping district became a magnet for young students taking advantage of the confusion. Firebombs were hurled into the store’s broken window displays. By nightfall, Trenton was burning in an orange glow. Looters stole golf balls from the sporting goods store and used clubs to propel the projectiles at the police. The police requisitioned Little League batting helmets and welding masks to protect themselves. This was the rioting of April 1968. After the racial tension had settled, no longer were there department stores, furniture salons, sporting goods shops and meat markets. The riots killed Trenton. Three hundred people were arrested. Any plans to rebuild downtown were thwarted by insurance companies that dropped business coverage within hours of the chaos. Downtown Trenton’s days as a commercial center had ended.

  Jeremy loaded the back of the station wagon with two baseball gloves, a hardball, a whiffle ball, and a bat. Willow carried out an apple cake covered in plastic wrap.

  “Where are we going again?” Hank asked.

  “Your Aunt Dot and Uncle Charlie invited us to their friend’s farm,” his mother answered, “I want you two to be on your best behavior. No arguing. No rough housing.”

  Joe turned the ignition key and the engine turned over. The family left the city. They headed out on the freeway that ran alongside the abandoned potteries on the East State street. The station wagon pulled into the driveway of Willow’s sister’s ranch house. The front lawn was perfectly manicured. Across the street, up the hill, a large open field of grass belonging to the junior high school stretched the length of the road.

  “Hello there!” Charlie greeted in a boisterous tone, “Dorothy! Your sister is here.” Dorothy appeared the from patio and moved toward her nephews. She embraced Hank, and then Jeremey, “Ah…my boys came to see me,” she beamed, “come into the patio.” Aunt Dot loved flowers. The perimeter of the house was lined with rose bushes, snap dragons, petunias, begonias, and pansies. She was passionate about growing things. Uncle Charlie was raised on a farm, and he was an exceptional grower of produce; his friends called him ‘Rube.’ The couple had no children.

  They piled into the station wagon and continued their journey to Newtown, Pennsylvania. The wagon pulled off a rural road lined with corn stalks into the driveway next to an old Victorian house. A row of tall wooden rocking chairs lined the front porch. In the back of the house, a red barn with open doors, and a stable that sheltered horses, fenced in by a coral lined the perimeter. The screen door slammed, and a woman walked into the driveway.

  “Hi, Charlie. Hi, Dotty. You brought your sister. How nice,” Betty greeted, dressed in a checkered blouse, and worn blue jeans. Her brown eyes were framed by tortoise shell cat spectacles. “Doc is in the stable feeding the horses; he’ll be out soon. Would you like a beverage? Please sit.” A brown and white collie wandered over and sniffed Jeremy’s ankles. Jeremy let out a yelp, “Does he bite?” Betty spoke to the dog, “Mamie! Leave the boy alone.” She looked up at Jeremy, “She’s just being friendly.” Jeremy kneeled and began petting the dog’s head.

  Dotty introduced her sister’s family, “That’s Jeremy and the other boy is Hank. This is my sister Willow and her husband, Joe.” “Nice meeting you,” Betty said, “Dotty has told me nice things about you.” The adults moved to the lawn chairs spread out on the grass. Betty disappeared and returned carrying iced tea with fresh lemons bobbing in the pitcher.

  “Hi there,” Doc bellowed moving across the driveway, “You made it. Nice to see you.” Doc was a thin muscular man who wore a grey cap. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he wore rubber boots that were muddied. “I was grooming the horses. I’m glad to take a break,” he said. He sat down next to Charlie. “I hear the natives were restless down there across the river.” Charlie glanced at Doc. “Yeah, the rabble burned down the town. Now they have to live in it. Smart move.”

  “I hear they ran over a cop,” Doc inquired.

  “That’s right, but he only hit his head on that round ball on the drive shaft. He’s going to recover.”

  Betty returned from the kitchen with snacks. Doc glanced over at Hank and Jeremy. “You boys ever ride a horse?” Hank shook his head. Jeremy made no remark. “Well, would you like to
ride a horse?” The boys followed Doc to the fencepost. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared into the stable. He came out leading an old mare by the halter. He threw on a saddle and wrapped the strap around the underbelly of the mare.

  “Who’s first?” Doc asked.

  Jeremy looked at Hank, “You go.” Hank bent down and climbed under the bar of the fence. He walked over to Doc. “Don’t worry. It’s safe. I want you to put your left foot in this stirrup and push up with your leg, reach up and grab this here pommel with your right hand. Pull yourself up, now throw your right leg over the saddle. That’s it. Ready?” Hank pushed on his left leg, He felt Doc’s helping hand on his butt. Sitting atop the horse, he smiled. Doc stood in the center of the corral holding a rope attached to the mare’s halter. The horse walked in a circle along the perimeter. Jeremy, seeing that nothing had happened to his brother, decided to give it a try himself.

  “How’s Lady Ace doing?” Dot asked Doc.

  “I’ve been working her. We may run her in a few weeks. She’s clocking good time,” Doc replied. “Let me get her.” Doc disappeared into the stable and returned leading a beautiful slender black horse. The horse was spirited and moved with sleek grace, her coat shining in the afternoon sun.

  Hank wandered around the yard, peered into the barn, inspected the large tractor resting idly inside. Betty called to Hank from the back porch. “Hank! Would you go into the chicken coop and bring me some eggs? I want to make deviled eggs for lunch. Just reach into the nest. They won’t hurt you.” Hank looked at the chicken coop; it was lined on every side with wire mesh. The slanted roof was only four feet above the ground. He walked over and opened the side door. Bending at the waist, he entered the coop. Six chickens rested in their nests elevated above the floor. The coop stank. He slowly reached into a nest. The hens began wildly flapping their wings, squawking in loud protest, and pecking at his forearm. Hank withdrew his hand. Betty called from the lawn chair, “Just grab ‘em, Hank. Don’t think about it.” He quickly grabbed three eggs and hurried out of the coop. The adults laughed. “Now you’re a man,” Uncle Charlie shouted from the lawn, “you know what’s it’s like to be hen-pecked.”